Chapter 6
The Jugendzentrum appeared behind iron gates, lined with CCTV and sponsor flags. It wasn't just an academy—it looked like a fortified football compound.
They drove past the dormitories, nutrition centers, and full-size grass pitches where a group of players—kids his age—ran passing drills in choreographed perfection. No coach had to yell. They all just moved, like chess pieces guided by muscle memory.
Mira pulled up to a side entrance and handed Scott a keycard.
"Room 112. Orientation at 6. Don't be late."
The door clicked shut. Just like that, Scott Mason was in.
The room was clean and cold, like a hotel with no soul. His side of the bunk was bare. A desk, a closet, a small screen mounted on the wall cycling through schedules.
He unpacked slowly. Cleats. Training kits. A photo of his parents at Heathrow. He tucked it into the desk drawer. Then his boots—he placed them carefully at the foot of his bed.
: He changed into the tracksuit laid out for him—black and red with the Bastion crest stitched above the heart. It fit tighter than the kits back home. Every thread screamed professionalism.
As he made his way to Hall C2, the hallways were filled with echoes. Other players passed—some nodded, others barely noticed him. No cliques. No noise. Just routine. Bastion wasn't about personality. It was about performance.
In the hall, a dozen other youth players sat, spaced like strangers on a train. They didn't speak, just eyed each other briefly. Two of them wore Bundesliga-branded boots. Another had a French U-17 patch sewn onto his bag.
The session began when a woman stepped up to the projector. Mira Lenz—same scout from the airport. She clicked a remote.
"Welcome to Bastion Munich. Jugendzentrum," she began. "Some of you are here on trial. Some for full contracts. All of you are replaceable."
That word—replaceable—hung heavy in the air.
"We produce professionals here. Not promises. Our success rate is 32%. That's not a typo. Most of you won't make the A team. Some won't make football at all."
She looked directly at Scott as if she knew why he was here. Maybe she did.
"Three months. That's your window. Medicals start tomorrow. Tactical assessments begin Monday. The hierarchy is clear: Perform or leave."
The lights turned back on. Players stood. No chatter, just tension.
Back in his room, Scott lay on the bunk staring at the ceiling. He felt the weight of silence—not from fear, but focus. The Shadow was gone. Or dormant. Maybe it had always been just pressure, anxiety dressed as a voice.
But the numbers from the PLAYER screen stuck with him.
74 overall. A sub. Fringe quality. Bastion's midfield probably had kids sitting at 76, 78, maybe even pushing 80. But this wasn't FDFC. Games weren't won in menus. They were taken on the grass.
From tomorrow, every pass would count. Every duel would be watched. Every jog measured. But that's where he thrived. Under eyes. Under pressure. In silence.
He rolled over and whispered to himself, "Little steps."
There was no need to shout. No need to dream out loud.
The challenge was clear.
Three months to reach their level.
Because everything he wanted was finally within reach.