The morning air was still cool against Leon's cheeks.
His legs pumped furiously as he sprinted down the quiet sidewalk, bag thumping against his back, barely noticing the early sun rising behind him. The academy was up ahead—but it wasn't why he was running. Not yet.
Tall. Built like a Norse demigod. That sharp platinum-blonde under the black hoodie. The easy, heavy steps of a striker who knew defenders feared him before the ball was even played.
Leon practically slid to a stop, the world narrowing to that single figure a dozen meters ahead. No cameras. No agents. Just Haaland—calm, alone, probably on some kind of media-free visit.
The logical voice in his head tried to break through.
Be cool. Don't freak out. Be respectful. Don't make a scene.
But another voice—stronger, younger, brighter—screamed in his chest.
"WHAAAA! YOU—YOU'RE HAALAND!!"
The tall Norwegian striker turned his head, blinking once.
Then he chuckled. That unmistakable, low laugh.
"Haha, thanks, champ."
He looked at him warmly, without any of the detachment of a global star.
Leon nearly tripped on his own shoelaces, still halfway jogging toward him.
"Leon! I'm Leon!" His eyes sparkled like he was five again, meeting a real-life superhero. "And one day… I'll play alongside you!"
Haaland gave him a soft grin. The kind that said I've heard it before… but I believe you anyway.
"That's awesome. I'll be waiting."
Leon was already digging through his bag, unzipping compartments with frantic energy. "Can you sign my bag? I'll never forget this! I might even send it to you when I join City!"
Haaland laughed again—richer this time.
"Oh, of course. Got a pen?"
Leon whipped one out like a magician producing a wand. "Always prepared!"
He held the bag out, almost reverently, as Haaland leaned down and signed it across the front pocket in bold, sweeping letters.
"There you go, future teammate."
Leon just stood there for a moment, looking down at the name etched into the fabric like it was divine scripture. His heart pounded like he'd scored in a final.
"Hehe… thank you, Haaland! You're a legend!"
And with that, he turned and bolted down the street, laughter bubbling out of him, too much joy to hold inside.
The gates of Athlion Academy came into view. Leon's steps slowed—not out of fatigue, but because reality was catching up.
He clutched the shoulder strap of his bag tighter.
It really happened. It wasn't a dream.
He rounded the hedge near the training pitch and spotted Byon standing at the academy entrance, yawning, half-eating a protein bar, looking like someone who had slept with his mouth open.
Byon's eyes lit up the moment he saw Leon.
"Heeey! Leon! Where were you?"
Leon, still panting, barely stopped his momentum before nearly crashing into him.
Byon squinted. "Huh?! Don't lie to me."
Leon unshouldered his bag and held it out like a sacred relic.
"I'm not lying! He signed my bag. Look!"
Byon grabbed it suspiciously, still mid-chew.
His jaw slowly dropped, protein bar forgotten.
"…oh my god." His voice went breathless. "That is his signature. That's… that's real?!"
Leon nodded, grinning like a lunatic. "Totally real! I met him, he talked to me, and said he'd be waiting for me."
Byon looked up, blinking.
"…Did he smell Man City on you?" he asked, voice hushed with awe.
Leon laughed, shaking his head. "Maybe…"
Then he let the grin soften, his voice dropping just slightly, almost as if speaking more to himself than to Byon.
"…Maybe he saw even more than that."