Saturday, December 3, 2022

Demien's Apartment, Bergamo

9:47 AM

The days had blended into each other since the injury, and Demien sat at the small kitchen table with his right leg elevated on a chair while morning light came through the window, and Isabella moved between the stove and the counter preparing breakfast the same way she'd done it every morning for three weeks straight.

Sophia was still asleep in the bedroom and the apartment was quiet except for the sounds of cooking and the traffic noise from the street below, and Demien's eyes tracked his mother's movements without seeing them because his mind was elsewhere.

The rehab had become routine weeks ago—morning physio at the training complex where he worked through stretches and exercises while teammates prepared for matches, then ice and compression afterward, then home to elevate his leg while the afternoon passed slowly, and the pattern repeated daily without change.

Progress existed but he couldn't see it because improvements were measured in stiffness easing rather than strength returning, and the physio kept saying healing happened slowly while patience was the only strategy that worked, though patience had never been his strength.

The World Cup had taken over everything outside his apartment and filled every broadcast and dominated every conversation, and on match nights the streets got louder while bars overflowed with supporters wearing national colors, and football was everywhere again just not for him.

Isabella set a plate in front of him—scrambled eggs with toast and sliced tomatoes—and she squeezed his shoulder once before sitting across from him with her own breakfast, and they ate together in silence that came from weeks of spending mornings this way.

"You're feeling better?" she asked after several minutes, and her eyes searched his face.

"Leg feels less tight," Demien replied, and it was honest without being optimistic, "but still can't push it yet."

She nodded while reaching for her coffee, and the concern on her face was clear though she didn't press further because they'd had this conversation enough times to know that recovery couldn't be rushed.

10:23 AM

The television was on in the living room but the volume was low, and Demien had moved to the couch with his leg elevated on pillows while Isabella cleaned the kitchen, and the screen showed studio coverage where pundits sat around a desk discussing the World Cup final with graphics and highlight reels playing on loop.

News coverage had been shifting toward the final for days as the tournament narrowed from groups to knockouts to semifinals and finally to this—Argentina versus France, Messi versus Mbappé, the clash of generations that every analyst framed as destiny meeting legacy, and the buildup carried weight that even casual observers could feel.

Italy and England had both been eliminated weeks ago and were long forgotten in the narrative, and studio panels filled hours debating tactics and comparing player profiles and predicting outcomes, and the graphics showed Messi and Mbappé side by side with statistics flowing beneath their faces while commentators spoke about what the final might mean for football history.

Demien watched some of it and skipped most of it because the games reminded him more of what he was missing than what he loved, and every time the broadcast cut to training footage or team preparations his chest tightened with the awareness that he should be preparing for matches instead of sitting on a couch with his leg elevated.

He reached for the remote and switched to a different channel where an old match was playing—Juventus versus Inter from several seasons ago—and the footage was grainy and the commentary outdated but at least it wasn't the World Cup, and he left it playing while his mind drifted.

Sophia emerged from the bedroom around eleven wearing comfortable clothes with her hair pulled back, and she kissed him briefly before joining Isabella in the kitchen where quiet conversation started between them in Italian that Demien didn't try to follow.

The morning passed this way—television murmuring, occasional laughter from the kitchen, his leg elevated and his mind restless—and by noon the apartment felt smaller than usual despite nothing having changed except his perception of time.

Tuesday, December 6, 2022

Demien's Apartment, Bergamo

7:34 PM

Luca and Sophia showed up together without warning a week before the final, and Demien heard them in the hallway before the knock came—Luca's voice making some joke while Sophia laughed—and when he opened the door they were both grinning in a way that suggested they'd been planning this.

"We're going to Qatar," Sophia said immediately, and she walked past him into the apartment while Luca followed behind carrying a folder.

"What?" Demien stood in the doorway.

"The World Cup final," Luca said while setting the folder on the kitchen table, "and we already booked everything—flights, hotel, tickets—so you're coming with us."

Demien closed the door slowly and moved to the table where Luca was opening the folder to show printed confirmations and itineraries, and his first instinct was resistance because traveling to watch a match he should be preparing for felt wrong.

"I can watch it here," he said, and his tone was flat, "and there's no need to make it a thing."

Sophia turned from where she'd been greeting Isabella and her expression shifted from playful to serious, and she crossed her arms while studying him.

"It's already done," she said, "and we're not asking permission."

Luca tapped the folder and his voice carried confidence, "You need air, not walls, and sitting here watching the final on television when you could be there isn't helping anything."

"Rehab protocol—" Demien started.

"Doesn't say you can't travel," Luca interrupted, "because we already checked with your physio, and he said light activity and keeping your leg elevated during the flight is fine, so that excuse doesn't work."

Demien looked between them—Sophia standing with her arms crossed, Luca leaning against the table with that easy smile—and Isabella was watching from the kitchen with approval on her face.

The conversation shifted as they sat around the table and Sophia pulled up images of the stadium on her phone while explaining the logistics, and Luca talked about how strange this World Cup felt with its mid-season timing and the constant injuries, and even the media coverage sounded tired according to him.

"But the final will be different," Sophia said while scrolling through her phone, "because it's Argentina and France, Messi's probably last chance, Mbappé trying to win his second, and everyone agrees this one matters more than the rest of the tournament combined."

Luca nodded and added that regardless of the group stage chaos or the knockout drama the final would be clean and massive and the kind of moment football paused for, and the way he described it made Demien's resistance soften because they weren't wrong that watching it live would be different than watching it from his couch.

They talked for another hour about the tournament and about how players were dropping from exhaustion and about whether Messi could actually win the one trophy that had eluded him, and eventually Demien found himself nodding though he wasn't entirely convinced—just trusting them enough to stop arguing.

"Alright," he said finally, "but only because you already booked everything."

Sophia smiled and reached across the table to squeeze his hand, and Luca grinned while saying he'd known Demien would come around eventually, and Isabella brought tea to the table while mentioning she'd been in on the planning from the beginning.

Friday, December 9, 2022

Demien's Apartment, Bergamo

9:15 PM

That night Sophia helped him pack while Luca had gone home to prepare his own luggage, and the bag sitting open on the bed was lighter than usual because this trip carried different requirements than match preparation.

No boots designed for ninety minutes of running went into the bag, and no match kit or training gear took up space, but the rehab bands were folded into one corner alongside compression sleeves and comfortable clothes, and the difference made the packing process feel strange.

Sophia moved between the closet and the bag while pulling items and checking them against a mental list, and occasionally she'd hold something up for his approval before adding it to the pile.

"This feels weird," Demien said while watching her fold a sweater, "because I'm packing for a tournament I'm not playing in."

"You're packing to watch history," Sophia said without looking up, "and that's different."

Luca had joked earlier about how strange it felt packing for a World Cup final when none of them were playing, and the comment had been light but accurate because the difference was real—going to Qatar as spectators rather than participants shifted the entire purpose of the trip.

The bag filled slowly, and by the time they finished the contents looked manageable, and Sophia zipped it closed before setting it near the door for tomorrow's early departure.

They got into bed around ten and the apartment settled into quiet, and Demien lay on his back with his leg elevated slightly on an extra pillow while Sophia curled beside him, and sleep should have come easily but his mind wouldn't settle.

The system activated without warning around ten-thirty, and the blue interface materialized in his peripheral vision while text appeared in clean lines.

「SYSTEM STATUS UPDATE」

「Overall Rating: 81 → 78」

「Physical Stats: Adjusted During Rehabilitation Period」

「Acceleration: 91 → 88」

「Sprint Speed: 88 → 85」

「Stamina: 88 → 85」

「Strength: 86 → 84」

「Note: Ratings will recover with training resumption」

「Current Balance: 95 TP | 102 SP | 199 MP」

Demien exhaled slowly and his jaw tightened while the numbers glowed in his vision, and the drop wasn't surprising because inactivity always caused deterioration—even the system recognized that muscles weakened without use—but seeing it confirmed still stung.

He shook his head once while dismissing the window with a thought, and the interface faded while leaving him alone in the darkness with Sophia's breathing steady beside him, and February felt both far away and real because that's when full training would resume and the numbers could climb again.

His eyes closed and he thought about movement—about accelerating past a defender, about completing a difficult pass, about what it would be like to run freely without restriction—and eventually exhaustion pulled him toward sleep while those images cycled through his mind.

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