Chapter 47: Flight Pattern
Giuly clapped once, sharp and clean, and the ball rolled his way. This time, someone chased it—legs pumping, voices rising, a quick flick through the cones before the rhythm reset. Demien stayed by the sideline, arms folded and coat open at the chest. He didn’t speak; he didn’t need to.
The moment passed like a breath. Then Michel appeared behind him, phone in one hand and a small nod already half-formed.
"He’s landed," he said.
Demien didn’t look away from the pitch. "Good."
"He’s with Stone now."
Still no response—just a slow blink and a quiet exhale through his nose. Not indifference—just the rhythm of knowing things were in motion now, that they’d arrive when they were meant to.
Michel hesitated, then added, "He looks tired. Flight was delayed."
Demien finally turned, just slightly. "He’ll wake up," he said. "They always do."
Nice Côte d’Azur Airport wasn’t crowded that afternoon—just the usual shuffle of delayed tourists and businessmen with loosened ties. Xabi stepped through the terminal with one bag slung over his shoulder and his coat folded neatly in the other hand. He wore a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled and collar open. No logo, no agents trailing behind him. The only thing that gave him away was his face—focused, unreadable, the kind that didn’t look for signs, only exits.
Stone was waiting near the glass doors with a press assistant beside him and a discreet club photographer balancing a camera strap across his neck. No flash—just posture and patience.
Xabi walked straight up. They shook hands once, firmly. No grip games, no chest pats.