[Sofia: "Also… Leon? I think you should come home. Soon. Like... right now. I just took a test. And... well... it looks like our little 'Apex FC' is about to get a new, very, very small mascot."]

Leon's brain, a supercomputer of tactical analysis and footballing genius, did the only thing it could: it crashed. Blue screen of death.

Mascot? he thought, his mind latching onto the one word it could process. She wants... a dog? A puppy? That's what this is? She wants us to get a team dog? That's a great idea, actually. Good for morale. A little 'tactical good boy' to chase squirrels during training.

He was in the middle of a very serious, very focused mental calculation about the potential "dribbling" stats of a Golden Retriever when the other part of the message finally, belatedly, slammed into his consciousness. A test. A... oh.

"Oh," he whispered out loud, to the empty, chaotic, celebratory dressing room. He sank onto a wooden bench, his hard-won trophy still clutched in his hand, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated, and utterly joyous panic.

A father. He was going to be a father. He, an eighteen-year-old (okay, nineteen now, his birthday had passed in a blur of muddy pitches and tactical diagrams) manager of a sixth-tier football club, was about to have a baby. With the daughter of his old coach/mortal enemy/current rival, Cristian Chivu.

His phone buzzed again, a frantic, immediate follow-up call from Sofia. He answered it, his hand trembling slightly.

"A mascot?" he squeaked, his voice an octave higher than usual.

He heard her laugh on the other end, a sound of pure, beautiful, relieved joy. "Yeah, footballer," she said softly. "A very, very small one. With... hopefully... your brain, and my good looks."

The drive home was a blur. He didn't remember a single second of it. He burst through the door of their Liverpool apartment to find Sofia waiting for him, a small, nervous, and absolutely radiant smile on her face. He didn't say anything. He just dropped his keys, crossed the room in two strides, and lifted her off the ground in a hug so tight it nearly cracked a rib.

"I'm terrified," he whispered into her hair.

"Me too," she whispered back. "Isn't it wonderful?"

The joyous, terrifying bubble of their new reality was interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock. His mother, Elena, back from a trip to Milan, walked in, her arms laden with bags of contraband cheese and pasta.

"Ah, my champions!" she beamed. "You are home! I have brought..." She stopped, taking in the scene. The tears in her son's eyes. The slightly panicked, glowing smile on Sofia's face. The electric, world-altering energy in the room.

Elena's eyes went wide. Her hands flew to her mouth. She didn't say a word. She just dropped the cheese. The expensive wheel of parmesan crashed to the floor and rolled, unnoticed, under the kitchen table.

"Mamma mia," she finally whispered, her voice trembling with a new, profound, and utterly ecstatic realization. "Nonna. I am going to be a Nonna!"

The next few days at the Apex FC training ground were… strange. Leon was floating. He was a man walking on a cloud of pure, terrified, giddy joy. His tactical briefings became a beautiful, chaotic mess.

"Okay, lads," he began, standing in front of the tactics board, a look of dreamy, unfocused bliss on his face. "This weekend... we are playing... someone. And they are... a team. Of footballers. So," he pointed vaguely at the board, "we must... score more goals. And... not let them score goals. Yes. Good. Any questions?"

His team, his beautiful, loyal, and deeply confused team, just stared at him.

"Gaffer?" Liam Doyle, the 'Badger', asked slowly. "Are you... okay? You've been trying to draw a 4-4-2 formation for ten minutes, but it just looks like a... a very happy-looking baby."

Leon looked down. The tactical diagram he had drawn was, indeed, less a formation and more a perfect, smiling, angelic stick-figure baby.

"Ah," he said, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "Yes. A... a 'compact' formation. Very tight. Very... swaddled."

Dave the baker leaned over to 'The Mountain', Samuel Adebayo. "The gaffer's finally lost it," he whispered, not unkindly. "The stress of the promotion has finally cracked his beautiful, tactical brain."

Leon knew he had to tell someone. He needed advice. He needed a fellow philosopher. He needed the one man in the world whose brain was uniquely equipped to handle this level of beautiful, chaotic, life-altering news. He called Julián Álvarez.

"LEO! MY CHAMPION! MY BROTHER! MY CO-STUDENT IN THE UPCOMING SWISS TACTICAL ENLIGHTENMENT!" Julián's voice roared down the line. "WHAT IS THE NEWS? HAVE YOU DISCOVERED A NEW, CHEESE-BASED FORMATION?!"

"Julián," Leon said, a slightly hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest. "I... I'm going to be a dad."

The silence on the other end of the phone was absolute. A profound, beautiful, and slightly terrifying void. Leon could practically hear Julián's brain processing the information, running it through a thousand different philosophical algorithms.

"...a dad?" Julián finally whispered, his voice filled with a sudden, profound awe. "A... a baby? Leo... this is... this is the ultimate 'Homegrown Player'!"

He suddenly exploded with a new, frantic, tactical energy. "A NEW PLAYER! BUT LEO! WE MUST KNOW! Have you checked his 'Potential'?! Does the system work on a fetus?! What if his 'Potential' is 99?! What if his 'Current Ability' is already 10?! You have not just had a baby, compadre! YOU HAVE CREATED A TACTICAL NUKE! A DEMI-GOD! This is a very big responsibility! We must start his training immediately! Does he like pasta or tactical biscuits?! We must know!"

Leon just laughed, a deep, relieved, happy sound. The panic was gone. The fear was gone. It was just... joy. Pure, simple, and slightly insane.

Life settled into a new, beautiful, and slightly frantic rhythm. Leon was juggling the demands of being a promotion-winning manager, a European tactical consultant for a terrified club in Liechtenstein, an expectant father, and a man who was now officially "in a relationship with the professor's daughter."

He and Sofia spent their evenings in a happy, chaotic mess of baby-name books and tactical diagrams, arguing over whether "Alessandro" was a strong name for a future Champions League winner, or if "Wissam" had a more 'creative flair'.

He was in his office one night, analyzing Farsley Celtic's defensive shape (again), a quiet, happy smile on his face, when a thought, a single, cold, and utterly terrifying thought, struck him like a physical blow.

He had told his mother. He had told his best friend. He had, in his own, confusing way, told his team. He was going to be a father.

But he had forgotten to tell one person.

The most important, most terrifying, and most... volatile person in this entire, beautiful, chaotic equation.

He had forgotten to tell Cristian Chivu.

He looked at his phone, his hand trembling slightly. He had to make the call. He had to tell the 'Guardian', the man who had threatened to break his legs for just dating his daughter, that he was about to make him a... grandfather.

His phone buzzed in his hand, as if sensing his fear. It was a text. From Sofia.

Sofia: "So... good news! I told my dad."

Leon let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding, a wave of pure, unadulterated relief washing over him.

Leon: "Oh thank god! How did he take it?! Was he angry? Did he threaten to break my legs again?! Did he mention a 'tragic training ground accident'?!

He waited, his heart pounding, for her reply. A minute passed. Then two. Finally, the little "..." bubbles appeared.

Sofia: "He... didn't say anything, actually."

Leon: "Nothing?! That's... worse. That's somehow so much worse. What did he do?!"

Sofia: "Well... he was very quiet. Then he hung up. And then, about five minutes later, he sent me this. I... I think it's for you."

A second message appeared. It was a forwarded image from Chivu. It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a picture of a tactical board. It was a single, grainy, and deeply unsettling satellite image of a very small, very remote, and very, very isolated island in the middle of the North Atlantic.

Below the image was a single, cryptic, and utterly terrifying line of text.

[Chivu_C: I have found the perfect place for your first managerial job... after you retire from Apex, of course. Plenty of... privacy. Population: 6. (Soon to be 7).]

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