Upstairs, the view opened completely.

The harbor stretched behind them, Monaco rising in layers up the hillside, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow over everything. The water below reflected the sky in shifting colors, moving gently beneath the yacht.

Lukas leaned lightly against the railing, his hands resting on the cool metal as he looked out.

Musiala joined him a moment later, standing beside him without saying anything at first.

They stayed like that for a few seconds, just looking out over the water.

Then Musiala spoke.

"So... I’ll ask you one last time."

Lukas didn’t look at him immediately, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"Yeah?"

"You sure you don’t want to come to Bayern?" Musiala said, his tone casual, but direct.

That made Lukas turn.

He looked at him for a second, then shook his head, a quiet smile forming.

"I knew something was up when you invited me."

Musiala laughed immediately, shaking his head. "I had to try."

Lukas leaned back slightly against the railing. "You flew me out to Monaco for that?"

"Not just for that," Musiala said, still smiling. "But I wasn’t going to miss the chance."

Lukas exhaled softly, then shook his head again. "Nah. Not now."

Musiala nodded once, accepting it without pushing further. "Fair enough."

There was no tension in it. No awkwardness. Just an answer given and taken as it was.

After a moment, Musiala added, "Don’t worry though. Even if you don’t come... we’ve got someone coming through."

Lukas raised an eyebrow slightly. "Yeah?"

"There’s a kid training with us now," Musiala said. "Around your age. He’ll probably break out next season."

Lukas turned his head slightly toward him. "Oh?"

Musiala shrugged lightly. "You’re still ahead of him. No question. But he’s good. Really good. It’ll be... interesting."

Lukas let that sit for a second, then nodded once.

"Good," he said simply.

Musiala glanced at him. "You like that?"

"Yeah," Lukas replied. "Competition’s not a bad thing."

Musiala smiled faintly. "Thought you’d say that."

The yacht began to move not long after, pulling away from the harbor with smooth, steady motion. The city slowly drifted further behind them as the open water stretched ahead.

Conversations continued around them, the mood staying relaxed, easy. No one rushed anything. No one forced anything. It all flowed naturally, carried by the movement of the sea and the quiet rhythm of the evening.

Lukas stayed near the railing for a while longer, his eyes following the horizon as the light softened and the sky shifted toward evening.

For once, there was nothing pulling at him.

No expectations.

No pressure.

Just space.

And for that moment—

that was enough.

* * *

The mood inside the conference room at the ProfiCamp didn’t match the rest of the building.

A week ago, every corridor had been loud, full of laughter, full of movement. Even in the days that followed, the celebrations had carried on in waves—interviews, appearances, the parade, the constant replay of that night in Bilbao.

But now, that energy had faded.

Not completely—but enough.

The attention had begun to shift elsewhere. The talk online had already moved on, drifting toward the upcoming Champions League final between PSG and Inter Milan in a couple of days. The Europa League win still meant everything in Frankfurt, but outside of it, the world was already looking ahead.

Inside this room, though—

there was no celebration at all.

Just tension.

Marco sat at the table, a file resting in front of him, his fingers lightly pressed against the cover as he tried to process what he had just heard. Across from him sat Timo Hardung and Christoph Preuß, both composed, both quiet in a way that suggested this wasn’t a discussion—they were delivering a decision.

Carla sat slightly to Marco’s side, her notebook open, though she hadn’t written anything for the last few seconds.

Marco finally spoke.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice controlled but edged with confusion. "I don’t understand."

He looked directly at Hardung.

"What do you mean you’ve decided to accept a bid for Lukas?"

Hardung held his gaze for a moment before answering, his tone measured.

"The board has made the decision," he said. "We’ve received two formal offers—Manchester City and Atlético Madrid. Both are of comparable value."

Marco didn’t interrupt.

Hardung continued.

"The club is prepared to accept a transfer. Whichever club Lukas reaches a personal agreement with... that will be the one we proceed with."

For a second, Marco didn’t react.

Then his eyes dropped slowly to the file in front of him.

The words on the cover felt almost out of place now.

Contract Renegotiation.

That was what he had come here for.

That was what this meeting was supposed to be about.

He reached forward, closing the file quietly, his fingers lingering on it for just a moment before he leaned back in his chair.

He knew about the offers.

Of course he did.

Manchester City.

Atlético Madrid.

Both serious.

Both aggressive.

Both already trying to establish contact through different channels.

He had deliberately kept them at a distance.

Because Lukas had been clear.

He didn’t want to leave.

Not this summer at least.

Not after everything that had just happened.

And yet—

here they were.

The club had already moved.

Marco looked back up, his expression still controlled, but the confusion hadn’t left completely.

"He’s been in the first team for five months," he said, almost as if he was trying to anchor the situation in something logical. "Five months."

No one responded.

The silence said enough.

Marco exhaled slowly, then nodded once.

"Alright," he said.

It wasn’t agreement.

It was acceptance of the situation.

"I’ll speak with my client."

His tone remained professional, steady, even.

"I’ll discuss everything with him, and I’ll get back to you."

He pushed his chair back and stood up, gathering the papers in front of him. There was no smile, no attempt to soften anything. Just movement—efficient, deliberate.

Hardung stood as well.

For a brief second, there was hesitation in his posture before he extended his hand.

Marco took it.

A firm handshake.

Nothing more.

"I’m sorry," Hardung said quietly. "This part... it’s out of my hands."

Marco didn’t respond.

He held the handshake for a fraction of a second longer, then released it, turning away immediately as he picked up his file.

Carla was already on her feet, falling into step beside him as they headed for the door.

No words.

No backward glance.

The door opened.

Then closed behind them.

And just like that—

the room felt even quieter than before.