The room was silent.Only the ticking of the wall clock and the soft breath of a young man filled the air. He sat, uncertain, across from Reinhart. The chair seemed too big for his slender frame. His jet-bck hair obscured part of his face, and his eyes never truly looked straight ahead.

  Lucien Ito.

  "Your name is Lucien, right?" Reinhart asked ftly.

  Lucien gave a slight nod.

  "What do you want to be?" Reinhart continued.

  Lucien lifted his face just a little. "S-Striker," he said, hesitantly. "I want to score goals. Like… my idol."

  "Who's your idol?"

  Lucien clenched his fists tightly. "Aurele Marin. He scored a hat-trick in the Champions League final two years ago. I rewatch that match every night."

  Reinhart paused for a moment. The name was familiar—Aurele, the fmboyant striker with a killer instinct inside the box. But Reinhart knew something most didn’t.

  "Lucien," he said, his tone softer now. "You know… Aurele started his career in a different position. He used to py as an attacking midfielder, not a striker."

  Lucien looked shocked. "But he’s… a legendary striker."

  Reinhart leaned back in his chair, eyes steady. “True. But do you know why he became a striker? Because he failed in his previous position. He couldn’t see the game widely enough. He cked the vision to unlock the field. But you…”

  Reinhart slid a tablet onto the table. On the screen, training footage from Lorient pyed—Lucien’s movement analyzed in slow motion. Quiet. Slipping between shadows. Finding spaces no defender noticed, delivering piercing passes impossible to anticipate.

  "Look at this. These are not the movements of a striker. These are the movements of a mind. You py between shadows, in the cracks of the game. You're a connector. You’re not a goal machine, Lucien… you’re the architect."

  Lucien stared at the repy with a mixed expression. As if seeing himself for the first time.

  "Then why..." he murmured, "why have I never succeeded?"

  "Because you’ve been chasing a form that isn’t yours," Reinhart said sharply. "And because no one’s been smart enough to understand your vision."

  Silence.

  Then Reinhart leaned forward, his cold gaze now holding a deeper meaning.

  "You don’t need to be Aurele Marin. Be something more. You weren’t made to score like him. You were made to create miracles."

  Lucien lowered his head. His hands trembled as they gripped his pants. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes, but he held them back.

  "Why do you care...?" he asked softly. "No one’s ever really seen me on the pitch..."

  Reinhart stood. “I saw you.”

  He pced a contract folder on the table. "Just sign. Starting next month, you'll py in Engnd."

  Lucien stared at the folder like it wasn’t real.

  Reinhart turned and walked toward the door. He had said enough.

  But before leaving, he spoke once more—his voice softer than usual.

  “Football is not about becoming someone else. It’s about finding your own shape in a constantly shifting field. And I know—you haven’t truly started pying.

  But soon… you will.”

  He left Lucien still frozen in his seat.

  But for the first time, on the quiet boy’s face—there was a faint glimmer of light.