Chapter 4: Arrival at Stade Louis II
Monaco’s sleek black sedan stopped in Stade Louis II’s underbelly, engine quieting to a purr before dying. The parking bay gleamed unnaturally – no oil stains, yellow lines crisp as if painted yesterday. A perfection too rigid to trust.
Demien gripped the wheel, motionless. Each breath came measured and tight. The leather felt wrong beneath his fingers – too smooth, balanced differently, crafted for hands accustomed to finer things. The walls of reality pressed closer with each second.
The rearview mirror showed a stranger’s face. Not Demien Walter who ran six-man drills at QPR. Not the midfielder who limped through Ipswich’s muddy pitches. This face wore tension like tailored armor – strong jawline, designer sunglasses, navy blazer he’d never chosen.
He stepped out, shutting the door harder than intended. The sound cracked through the concrete corridor like a gunshot. His polished shoes clicked against the floor – too deliberate, too precise – as he walked toward the elevator. Each step echoed like he was marching into someone else’s life without warning.
"Morning, Laurent."
The voice materialized before the man – lean and angular, leaning casually beside the elevator shaft. Black tracksuit fitted precisely, clipboard clutched in one hand, arms crossed with quiet authority.
Michel.
The name slotted into place from Yves’ memories without effort. Assistant manager. Tactical purist. Loyal only to results.
"Morning." His voice emerged clipped and controlled – too controlled.