The Sunday morning air in Berlin was sharp, carrying the scent of damp leaves and the faint, metallic tang of the nearby U-Bahn tracks.
Leon Fischer stood on the touchline of a municipal pitch in Kreuzberg. The grass was patchy, more mud than green, and the goalposts leaned drunkenly to one side. It was a far cry from the Emirates, from the Bernabeu, from the manicured lawns of his past life.
But it was football.
He was fifteen now. In this life, anyway.
His legs were longer, his shoulders broader. He had grown into the body of a teenager, but his mind... his mind was still an encyclopedia of tactics, a library of losses and wins.
He looked around his team. The Berlin Bears U16s.
They were a ragtag group.
Markus (Mark) was doing high knees by the corner flag. He was wearing a headband that said SPEED DEMON in glitter glue. He had also taped two small cardboard wings to his ankles.
"AERODYNAMICS!" Mark shouted to no one in particular. "I AM A JET PLANE!"
