The Allianz Arena looked different at night.

Not just full—alive.

Lights wrapped around the stadium in shifting colors, the glow visible from far outside Munich, pulling people in like gravity. By the time Lukas and the others made their way into the VIP section, the atmosphere had already built into something electric. Every seat filled, every level buzzing, the sound rising and falling in waves as both sets of fans made themselves heard.

From the glass-fronted VIP booth, the view was perfect.

The pitch stretched out below, flawless, bright under the floodlights, players already moving through their warm-ups. PSG in one half, Inter Milan in the other. Two teams preparing for the biggest night of their season.

Lukas stood near the glass at first, hands in his pockets, watching.

João dropped into one of the seats behind him, leaning forward slightly as he looked down at the pitch. "So," he said, "who’ve you got?"

Lukas didn’t answer immediately.

Joanna sat to the side, relaxed, while Javi stood with his arms folded, observing everything quietly. Marco was on his phone for a second before slipping it back into his pocket, his attention shifting to the game.

João continued, "I don’t know... I feel like Inter could surprise them, you know? The way they fought against Barcelona... they can scrap something out of this."

That made Lukas glance back slightly.

Then he turned his attention to the pitch again.

"It’s going to be a humiliation," he said simply.

João frowned. "That bad?"

"PSG’s attack is too good," Lukas replied. "If they get going... it’s over."

João leaned back in his seat, shaking his head. "We’ll see."

* * *

The whistle blew.

And the game began.

At first, it looked balanced.

Inter tried to stay compact, disciplined, their defensive lines tight, pressing in moments, dropping in others. PSG moved the ball quickly, probing, testing, waiting for gaps to appear.

From above, Lukas could see everything.

The spaces.

The movement.

The intent.

It didn’t take long.

The first goal came early enough to settle PSG into the game, and from that moment, something shifted. Their confidence grew with every pass, every movement sharper, every run more dangerous.

Inter tried to respond.

Tried to hold shape.

But it wasn’t sticking.

By the time the second goal went in, João leaned forward again, his elbows on his knees now.

"...okay," he muttered.

Lukas didn’t say anything.

He just watched.

The third goal came before halftime.

Clean.

Clinical.

And by the time the referee blew for the break, Inter were already down 3–0.

The stadium roared, PSG fans in full voice, while the Inter side of the crowd had gone noticeably quieter.

João sat back slowly, staring at the pitch.

"Three?" he said under his breath. "Three?"

He looked at Lukas. "Where is the Inter that played Barcelona?"

No answer came.

Because there wasn’t one.

The second half didn’t change the story.

If anything, it made it worse.

PSG didn’t slow down.

They didn’t sit back.

They kept going.

Another goal.

Then another.

Each one cutting deeper into what was already a one-sided game.

By the time the fifth went in, even the neutral sections of the crowd reacted—not just with excitement, but with disbelief at what they were watching.

João let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair.

"This is a disgrace," he said. "Where is Inter? Where is that team? This is not the same team."

Javi remained silent, his expression firm, while Joanna glanced briefly at Lukas.

Lukas didn’t react much.

He already knew what would happen before the match started.

Now he was just watching it unfold.

Exactly how he expected.

* * *

Full time.

5–0.

PSG had done it.

Their first Champions League title.

The stadium erupted as the final whistle went, players collapsing onto the pitch, some running, some dropping to their knees, staff flooding onto the field. The PSG fans turned the arena into a wall of sound, flags waving, voices rising in unison.

On the other side, Inter stood scattered.

Still.

Defeated.

João shook his head again. "I can’t believe this," he said. "Five."

Lukas finally stepped back from the glass.

"That’s football," he said quietly.

They didn’t stay long after that.

As PSG celebrated below, Lukas turned, already heading for the exit. The others followed, the noise of the stadium fading slightly as they moved through the corridors behind the VIP section.

Just outside the suite, as they stepped into the hallway—

"Lukas."

He turned.

Musiala was there again, walking toward him with a small smile.

"Game, huh?" Musiala said.

Lukas nodded. "Yeah."

They shook hands.

"Didn’t expect that," Musiala added.

"No," Lukas said. "But once it started... you could see it."

Musiala nodded, then glanced toward Javi.

Lukas followed his gaze. "My father," he said, gesturing.

Musiala stepped forward slightly, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you."

Javi shook it firmly. "You too."

They exchanged a few words—brief, polite—about the game, about the result, about how one-sided it had turned.

Then—

a voice cut in.

"Excuse me."

All of them turned.

A man in a sharp suit approached, composed, professional, his posture straight, his presence deliberate. He stopped in front of Lukas, offering a polite nod before extending a business card.

"My name is Khalid Al-Nuaimi," he said. "I represent a group that would like to speak with you."

Lukas didn’t take the card.

Marco did.

He stepped forward slightly, accepting it, his eyes already scanning the name.

"Who is your boss?" Marco asked.

The man answered without hesitation.

"Khaldoon Al Mubarak."

There was a brief pause.

Marco’s eyes lifted slightly.

The name carried weight.

"He is waiting for you," Khalid continued. "At Mandarin Oriental."

Lukas glanced at Marco.

Marco looked at him.

Held his gaze for a second.

Then nodded.

That was enough.

"Alright," Lukas said.

He turned briefly back toward Musiala. "I’ll see you."

Musiala nodded slightly, clearly caught off guard by the sudden approach from the stranger. But once he heard the name of the person asking to meet Lukas, he could already guess what it was about. "Yeah... Go take care of business, I’ll see you soon."

Lukas turned back.

"Lead the way," Marco said.

Khalid nodded once and began walking.

Lukas followed.

With Joanna, Javi, and Marco right behind him.

And just like that—

the night wasn’t over yet.

The car waiting outside the Allianz Arena didn’t look like something you questioned.

It looked like something you entered.

A long, black luxury sedan, polished to a mirror finish, engine already running, driver standing by the door with quiet professionalism. Khalid opened the rear door himself, stepping slightly aside as Lukas approached.

No one spoke.

Lukas slid in first with Joanna right behind him.

Then Marco, João, and Javi followed.

The door shut softly, sealing them into a space that felt insulated from everything outside—the noise, the lights, the aftermath of the final still echoing in the city.

Khalid took the front passenger seat.

The car moved.

The drive wasn’t long.

Munich at night passed by in clean streaks of light through the tinted windows, the city still alive with post-match energy. People in jerseys, scarves, small groups walking, talking, celebrating or dissecting what they had just witnessed.

Inside the car, it was quiet.

Lukas sat back, one arm resting lightly against the door, his gaze fixed ahead but not really focused on anything in particular. Marco occasionally glanced down at the card still in his hand. Javi remained composed, but his posture was attentive, observant.

No one asked questions.

Not yet.

A few minutes later, the car slowed.

Then stopped.

They had arrived at the Mandarin Oriental Munich.

The entrance alone set the tone—discreet but unmistakably elite. Soft lighting, polished stone, staff already positioned, already aware. Khalid stepped out first, opening the door for them again.

"This way," he said.

They followed.

Inside, everything was controlled.

The lobby was quiet despite the late hour, the kind of quiet that didn’t come from emptiness but from design. Every detail—from the lighting to the arrangement of furniture—felt deliberate, precise.

They didn’t stop.

Khalid led them straight toward a private elevator, key access already granted. The doors opened immediately, and they stepped inside.

Up.

No one spoke during the ride.

The numbers climbed steadily.

Then—

the doors opened.

The top floor was different.

More private.

More secure.

A short hallway stretched ahead, lined with muted lighting and thick carpeting that absorbed every footstep. A couple of men in suits stood at a distance, not intrusive, but clearly present, their attention sharp without being obvious.

They approached the door at the end.

Khalid knocked once.

The door opened almost immediately.

Another man stood there, dressed similarly, composed, professional.

"Good evening," he said. "The chairman is waiting."

His gaze shifted briefly to Joanna and João.

"I’m sorry," he added politely, "this is a private meeting."

There was no tension in the statement, just clarity.

Lukas nodded slightly.

He turned to Joanna and João.

"Wait for me downstairs," he said. "At the café."

João looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.