CHAPTER 204: THE PRESS

The newsroom of Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung was unusually restless that morning, even for a Monday. Phones rang across the open floor, keyboards clacked relentlessly, and the low hum of reporters discussing leads filled the air like static. At a corner desk near the wide windows sat Helena Möller, one of the paper’s sharper sports correspondents—young, hungry, and with a reputation for sniffing out the stories other reporters overlooked.

She sat forward in her chair, scrolling through her laptop with the intense focus of someone who knew she was one big headline away from a career surge. Her email inbox was dry, her calls over the last hour had yielded little more than stale gossip, and she was beginning to feel that familiar frustration creeping into her shoulders.

Then something on her screen caught her eye.

A Marca article. Headline bold, centred, loud.

"Atlético monitor Bundesliga wonderkid Lukas Brandt — club urged to hurry after City table €77M + €8M bid."

Helena paused. She leaned closer. She read every line. Twice.

Just then, a colleague walking past slowed down, eyebrows lifting.

"Still on the Brandt case?" he asked, stopping beside her desk.

Helena shrugged but kept her eyes on the screen. "Hard not to be. 16 years old and dragging Frankfurt through Europe like he’s been doing this for a decade. He’s only played first team football for 3 and a half months."

"Insane, honestly. And to think... Darmstadt let him go last year." The coworker said as he shook his head. "Still the strangest part of the entire story. No academy in Germany drops a kid who ends up like this."

Helena’s fingers froze above her keyboard.

Her coworker didn’t notice. He grinned, patted her desk, and kept walking.

But that sentence kept echoing in her mind.

"No academy in Germany drops a kid who ends up like this."

She sat back slowly. Something about that detail — Darmstadt discarding him only for him to explode into stardom within months — felt wrong. Not just unusual. Wrong. And wrong things meant buried truth. Buried truth meant stories that make careers.

Her instincts lit up like a struck match.

There’s something there. There has to be something there.

Helena closed the Marca article and opened a blank document. She typed one line:

INVESTIGATE: Why did SV Darmstadt 98 release Lukas Brandt?

Her pulse rose with excitement. Maybe she should drive to Darmstadt after lunch, start asking questions at the academy, dig up records, talk to old coaches. If she could uncover a hidden scandal — or even an overlooked piece of the puzzle — it would be the story every outlet in Germany would scramble for.

But before she could gather her things, her phone buzzed insistently.

Klaus (POLICE CONTACT) flashed on the screen.

Her latest police source—overworked, underpaid, and excellent at leaking—never called unless something big was happening.

She answered immediately. "Klaus?"

"Helena," he said, voice low, urgent, muffled as though he’d stepped away from others. "If you want a headline today, come to the Polizeipräsidium Frankfurt am Main. Right now."

She sat upright. "What’s happened?"

"Lukas Brandt is here. With his agent. And his father." He paused. "Press isn’t here yet."

Her heart kicked against her ribs.

"You’re sure?" she asked, already grabbing her bag.

"One hundred percent. If you hurry, you’ll get the scoop before anyone else."

Helena snapped her laptop shut so fast the sound turned heads across the floor.

She slung her bag over her shoulder.

"I’m on my way," she said.

And she didn’t walk out of the newsroom—she ran.

* * *

The moment Helena burst out of the taxi in front of the Frankfurt Police Presidium she already had her press badge out, clipped to her jacket so it bounced lightly against her chest as she hurried up the steps. Her source — an officer she’d built a professional friendship with over the years — was waiting for her just inside the glass doors. He waved her over discreetly, as if afraid someone else might be listening.

"You got here fast," he muttered under his breath.

"I ran," Helena replied, slightly breathless. "What’s going on? You said Lukas Brandt is actually inside?"

"That’s right," the officer said, glancing around. "Came in with his father and that agent of his. Something about a blackmail attempt. Photo involved. It’s serious."

Her eyebrows shot up, her heartbeat kicking into a higher gear. "Blackmail? What kind of photo?"

He shrugged. "I didn’t see it. But whatever it was, they say it’s already in police evidence. They came to identify the suspect."

Before she could ask more, the officer’s walkie crackled. A voice summoned him deeper inside the building. He excused himself, leaving Helena practically vibrating with anticipation. She immediately moved toward the entrance, positioning herself near the steps outside where any exit would funnel through her.

She didn’t have to wait long.

From the glass doors emerged Lukas, flanked by Marco and Javi. All three looked tense—Marco with his jaw locked in professional irritation, Javi watching his son carefully, while Lukas kept his head low, hoodie up, looking like someone who wanted the ground to swallow him before anyone recognized him.

But it was already too late. A pair of local reporters had materialized seemingly out of thin air, bulky cameras hanging from their necks. A third came jogging down the pavement, and within seconds the trickle became a stream—more journalists rushing in, alerted by the same anonymous whisper Helena had gotten.

She stepped forward immediately, weaving into position with the instinct of someone who had done this dance a hundred times. The reporters pressed closer, microphones extending like metal stems toward the trio.

"Lukas! Lukas! What happened inside?"

"Is it true you were the target of an extortion attempt?"

"What kind of photo was used?"

The questions were shouted over each other until the noise became a wall. Marco tried to guide Lukas toward the car parked nearby, but the crowd closed in tighter. Helena knew this was her moment — one clean, precise question could slice through the chaos.

She raised her voice sharply.

"Lukas! What was the photo the suspect tried to blackmail you with?!"

It worked. Lukas stopped walking. Every other voice faded into a stunned hush as all microphones redirected toward him. Marco tensed, realizing too late that Lukas was about to answer.

The boy lifted his head, eyes steady despite the pressure.

"It was a photo of me and my girlfriend."

The reaction was instantaneous—electrical. The crowd gasped, several reporters talking over each other in shock, a few even stumbling back as if he’d physically pushed them.

"Girlfriend?"

"Since when?"

"Is she public?"

"Is the club aware?"

The questions rained down on him so quickly he could barely make out what the reporters were asking.

But before another word could escape him, Marco snapped back into control. He placed a firm hand on Lukas’s arm.

"That’s enough," Marco said tightly. "Lukas, go to the car with your father."

Javi immediately guided his son away, shielding him with his body as they slipped through the throng and toward the vehicle with the help of a police officer. But Marco stayed behind, turning toward the storm of microphones with the sort of calm every agent eventually learns to fake.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, voice cutting through the noise with practiced authority, "my client is the victim of a criminal act. We have provided all necessary information to the authorities. Please understand that this is an ongoing investigation, and we will not disclose further details until the police issue their official statement."

"But Mr. Karsten—!"

"Is the girlfriend—?"

"Was there another motive—?"

"Has the club responded—?"

He lifted a hand to quiet them and continued.

"Lukas will not be making any more comments at this time. He is focused on football and on Thursday’s Europa League match. I ask that you respect his privacy, and the privacy of the young woman involved. Thank you."

With that, he pivoted away and strode toward the car, shutting the door behind him just as another wave of reporters arrived breathlessly on the scene.

The moment the car pulled away, Helena was already sprinting to the pavement at the side of the building. She sat on the concrete, laptop balanced on her knees, fingers flying across the keyboard. Her mind was in full journalist-mode — fast, analytical, ruthless.

Her headline formed itself instantly, bold against the blank page:

LUKAS BRANDT AND HIS GIRLFRIEND: VICTIMS OF BLACKMAIL

She didn’t hesitate — not for a second. Her editors wanted speed, accuracy, and punch. She was about to deliver all three.

She typed like a machine as the police station buzzed around her, chaos unfolding behind the doors, reporters calling their editors, camera crews setting up for live shots. It felt like the epicenter of a breaking storm, and Helena was determined to be the first to broadcast the thunder.

Within minutes, her article was finished, fact-checked, and sent.

The news was out.

The fuse had been lit.

And the entire football world would soon be set on fire.