Reinhart leaned back in his chair.

  The ticking of the wall clock sounded incredibly slow, as if time itself was hesitant to move forward.

  The phone in his hand was still on, and the voice on the other end was still waiting for an answer.

  "Reinn?" The soft voice called again, uncertain, as if afraid it was just an echo of a dream. "Are you there?"

  Reinhart gripped the phone tightly. That voice... he could never mistake it. The gentle tone that always brought peace. Cassandra.

  But this couldn't be. This... couldn't be.

  His eyes scanned the room—and only then did he truly realize it. The old Bradford City poster he hung up as a teenager was still on the wall. The bookshelf still held his collection of football strategy books from the 2020s. No trophies. No medals. No jewels from Santiago Bernabéu.

  He reached for the small mirror on the desk and stared at his reflection.

  His face—younger. No wrinkles. No gray hairs. This was not the body he st remembered. This was... his body from 25 years ago. When he was 23.

  “Damn…” he muttered. His breath was irregur, not from panic, but disbelief. “I’m back…”

  Cassandra’s voice on the phone was growing quieter, as though she was about to give up. “If you can’t... it’s okay. I just wanted to try once more before I give up…”

  “No!” Reinhart interrupted, almost shouting. “I... I will come, Cassandra. This time, I will come.”

  There was a brief moment. Cassandra sounded stunned on the other end.

  “What do you mean?”

  “More than anything, I will be with you this time.”

  Reinhart closed his eyes, feeling the pulse of life flowing through his veins again. “More than before.”

  The next morning, as the sun rose, Reinhart stood in front of the management office of AS Saint-étienne—the club where he worked as an assistant coach. Thanks to his efforts, the club had been promoted to France’s top league.

  With steady steps, he made his way toward the head coach’s office. Lorient—the bald, stubborn coach with a reputation for being unyielding—was flipping through formation notes when Reinhart knocked and stepped inside.

  “Reinhart?” Lorient turned, raising an eyebrow. “Talking tactics this early?”

  “No, it’s not that.” Reinhart gently shut the door. His gaze was calm—different from usual. “I’m here to resign.”

  Lorient frowned. “What?”

  “I’m resigning as assistant coach. Effective today.”

  “This is a joke?” Lorient stood up, clearly unsettled. “You’ve got a future here, Reinhart. I was even considering making you head coach next season. You’d be insane to walk away from this.”

  Reinhart nodded slowly. “Maybe I am insane. But staying would drive me even crazier.”

  He took a deep breath, searching for the right words. “All my life, I’ve lived to win. But that’s not enough anymore. There’s something—someone—I need. And this time, I won’t let it fall apart.”

  Lorient stared at Reinhart, trying to read between the lines. But Reinhart was unreadable now. He wasn’t just a promising young assistant coach. He was a man who had once stared at the Santiago Bernabéu sky with an empty heart.

  And now, he had purpose.

  “But if you walk away like this, it breaks your contract. You know there’s a penalty cuse,” Lorient argued. “You only just renewed it. It’ll cost you.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll pay whatever it takes. So please, just accept my resignation.”

  Reinhart’s voice was steady, cold—but unwavering. Lorient saw no hesitation.

  “Fine,” Lorient finally said, relenting. “Do what you have to do. But if you regret this—”

  “I won’t,” Reinhart interrupted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “For the first time in my life, I’m certain of my decision.”

  (Wait, is he… smiling? He never smiles… What the hell is going on with him?) Confusion flickered in Lorient’s eyes as he studied the unfamiliar expression on his assistant’s face.

  “Ahem. So… where exactly are you going?”

  “Bradford City. Fourth tier of the English league.”

  The name dropped like a stone. Lorient’s face twisted in disbelief. (Did he just say… fourth tier? What the hell is wrong with this guy?)

  “And one more thing,” Reinhart added calmly. “As a token for helping the club gain promotion—I’d like to cim the reward you promised me back then.”

  “Reward?” Lorient blinked. He remembered the moment clearly—during the promotion celebration: (Hahaha! Thank you, Reinhart! Thanks to you, we’ve been promoted! As your manager, I owe you a reward—anything, just name it! Hahaha!)

  “So what do you want?”

  There was a brief silence. Then Reinhart finally spoke…

  “You’re crazy, Reinn.”