June 7, 2050.The night sky over Madrid was clear, cloudless. The Santiago Bernabéu Stadium roared, echoing with the endless cheers of the crowd.

  “Ha Madrid, Ha Madrid, Ha Madrid!”

  On the winner’s podium, beneath blinding floodlights, stood a man in a bck suit with an unreadable expression amidst the cheers of tens of thousands.

  In his hands, he held his fifth consecutive Champions League trophy with Real Madrid — breaking the all-time record for the most consecutive titles. It marked the thirtieth trophy of his managerial career, a feat achieved by only a handful of the greatest managers in history.

  Yet his face remained expressionless.

  No smile.No shouts of triumph.No tears of joy.

  Only a hollow gaze aimed at the sky — searching for something that would never answer.

  “To the world, I am the ultimate winner,” Reinhart thought.“But to myself… I am merely living out a promise fulfilled.”

  Twenty-five years ago, Reinhart was a phenomenon.

  He rose in the midst of modern football's chaos, where money, egos, and politics had stained the soul of the game. With a leadership style that was ruthless, tactics that were brilliant, and a presence so cold it could silence world-css pyers in seconds, Reinhart built a reputation as a tactical tyrant.

  He transformed colpsing clubs into champions.He turned average teams into dynasties.At Bayern, he won the treble.At Juventus, he revived an aging squad into an untouchable force.And at Real Madrid, he made history: five consecutive Champions League titles. No one could match him.

  The media dubbed him the “Football Tyrant.”Pyers admired, feared, and resented him.Club owners never dared to question his decisions.In the world of football, Reinhart was more than a manager — he was an institution.

  But no one knew what he felt after the final whistle blew.

  That night, the locker room was buzzing with joy.Champagne sprayed into the air, pyers sang and raised the trophy, staff embraced one another in celebration of the new record.

  But Reinhart sat quietly in the corner, slowly loosening his tie.

  His eyes drifted to the mirror across the room.He saw what the world saw: composed, calm, unshakable.But deep inside, Reinhart knew that the man he once was had died years ago.

  He gnced at his watch, tucked inside was a photo of a woman with a warm smile.

  A memory.And a tragedy.

  The tragedy that stole his emotions.

  It happened when Cassandra left.

  Cassandra — his childhood friend, his first love, the only one who could make Reinhart smile in this cruel world.They used to sit on the school field, talking about their dreams.

  Reinhart wanted to be a famous football pyer.Cassandra? She dreamed of saving her father’s football club, Bradford City — once a Premier League team in 2000, now buried in League Two due to poor management.

  “If one day I can’t save the club anymore… promise me you’ll come and help, okay?” she once said, with a smile Reinhart would never forget.

  He smiled back.“Promise.”

  But time went on.Reinhart rose to fame — not as a pyer, but as a manager.Cassandra fought alone, struggling to keep the debt-ridden League Two club alive.

  She sent letters, messages, emails, asking for help.Reinhart read them all… and ignored them.

  Not because he didn’t care.But because of old wounds — a tragedy from his youth tied to his dream — that made him shut himself off, silencing his humanity.

  And then came the news:Cassandra had died.Suicide.

  In her office at Bradford’s stadium.Leaving one final letter… that never reached him.

  Since that day, Reinhart felt nothing.

  Every victory became routine.Every loss was just a number.

  The world saw him as a winning machine.And he was.

  Because losing your emotions… makes everything easier.

  Lighter.Faster.Colder.

  But that night, for the first time in five years, Reinhart felt something.

  Pressure.A wave of tightness rising from his chest to his throat.His heart pounded.His hands trembled.

  He leaned against the locker room wall.

  “Why… why can’t I breathe?”

  His body slid to the floor.

  Then — darkness.

  The crowd’s roar vanished.The stadium lights faded.Time stopped.

  When Reinhart opened his eyes again,he wasn’t in the Bernabéu.He wasn’t in a hospital either.

  He was back in his bedroom.

  Sitting at his desk,holding his phone.

  And then, he heard the voice he had longed for all these years:

  “Reinn? Are you listening? Just this once… will you help me?”

  His heart froze.

  “Cassandra…?”