He tapped his pen twice against the desk, eyes drifting to the framed photo on the shelf behind him — him with Guardiola, Soriano, and the Premier League trophy last year.
Now, the trophy for the season was gone, and even runner up was gone. The pressure was heavier. The transition period looming.
"If I'm leaving this summer…" he muttered quietly to himself, "…I need a legacy signing."
He leaned back in his chair.
The pen stopped tapping.
"And Lukas Brandt," he whispered, "is a signing a director is remembered for."
* * *
It was early evening, barely past six, and Frankfurt was wrapped in that soft, orange glow that made the skyline look gentler than it actually felt.
Lukas sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, phone in hand, staring at Javi's contact name longer than necessary.
He took a breath.
Then he pressed "call."
The line rang twice before Javi answered, his voice warm and calm.
"Hey, Luke. Everything okay?"
