CHAPTER 184: CHAPTER 184: INK, EMPIRE, AND SILENCE

The ink on the contract was barely dry when the next step began.

Julian handed over his phone — every account, every password.

Sabrina’s assistant sat nearby, fingers moving fast over the screen as they linked his profiles to the agency system. Snapgram, Y, TokTok, even the minor platforms — all synced under the Weiss Agency network.

Her movements were mechanical precision — no wasted motion, no chatter. Every few seconds, the faint tap of her nails against glass echoed through the quiet restaurant, like the ticking of a clock marking the start of something irreversible.

Within minutes, Sabrina herself pulled out her phone.

"Smile," she said simply.

A quick flash.

Julian in his black tuxedo. Sabrina beside him — poised, elegant, her wine-red lips forming a faint smile. David behind them, grinning like a man who’d just watched history being made.

Her assistant worked quietly, cropping and adjusting. Then — upload.

The caption appeared a moment later on Sabrina’s verified account:

New Chapter begins. Welcome to Weiss Agency’s newest prodigy — Julian Ashford.

#NextLegend #WeissEmpire #HSVII

Within minutes, notifications exploded.

Comments flooded in.

Fans, journalists, even rival scouts.

The ripple had begun.

Julian could feel it in the quiet buzz of the restaurant — that strange hum of modern fame, the way the air seemed to shift once a name entered the feed. It wasn’t noise; it was data. Attention spreading like fire.

Sabrina’s phone buzzed again — repost, engagement, repost.

Her eyes glimmered with quiet satisfaction. "And just like that," she murmured, "the world remembers your name."

She turned toward Julian, business returning to her voice.

"Now, we’ll reorganize all your social media. Keep your public image under control — highlights, interviews, game clips. For privacy, you’ll have a separate personal account. Use that one for yourself."

Julian nodded. He wasn’t the type to live online anyway. "Fine by me."

"Oh, and one more thing," Sabrina added, her tone smooth but firm. "Your phone’s already linked to our base system. Any post we make needs your authorization first. You’ll always have final say. I don’t want you feeling like a puppet."

That line — I don’t want you feeling like a puppet — carried weight.

Julian met her gaze, nodding once. "Good. I like control."

Sabrina smiled faintly. "Then we’ll get along."

For a moment, silence returned between them — not awkward, but balanced. The kind of silence born between people who understood hierarchy and the cost of ambition.

The chandelier’s glow softened over the polished table, reflecting faintly in the untouched glasses of red wine.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs.

"What I want from you now is simple," she said. "Play. Win. Get called up to the first team when the new season starts."

Julian’s answer was quiet, certain.

"I will."

Sabrina tilted her head slightly, eyes gleaming like glass under light.

"Do that, and I’ll make sure the whole country knows your name."

Julian stood, buttoning his jacket once more.

"Then I’ll make sure it’s worth knowing."

With that, the meeting between Julian, David, and Sabrina came to its quiet end.

They exchanged brief farewells at the restaurant entrance — a firm handshake, a shared glance of mutual understanding, and the unspoken promise of what was to come.

The restaurant doors opened with a soft chime. Cool night air rolled in, tasting faintly of sea salt and rain. The pavement outside shimmered like glass. Sabrina’s car was already waiting, headlights spilling over the wet cobblestone. For a fleeting second, Julian looked at his reflection on the window — tuxedoed, calm, but with eyes that burned faintly under the city’s glow.

Behind him, the restaurant door closed with a hush — the sound of one world ending and another beginning.

Outside, the city of Hamburg glowed beneath the drizzle — neon reflections rippling across wet streets.

David clapped Julian on the shoulder. "You did good, kid. From a bench player to a headline in one week. Not bad at all."

Julian gave a faint smile. "It’s just the beginning."

As they walked toward the parked car, the streets whispered with distant sounds — the hum of trams, the hiss of tires over puddles, the faint echo of laughter spilling from late-night cafés.

For Julian, each sound folded into a rhythm. The pulse of a city that never truly slept, where ambition moved like the tide.

He rode the quiet elevator up to his apartment, the hum of the city fading behind the glass doors.

By the time he stepped inside, exhaustion had finally caught up with him.

The apartment lights came alive in a soft amber hue, catching on the minimalist lines of the furniture.

The faint scent of detergent and rain lingered in the air. He hung his jacket neatly, unbuttoned the shirt collar, and stood by the window for a long moment — watching droplets race each other down the glass.

The tuxedo came off. The lights dimmed.

He lay down without overthinking — no system prompts, no strategy, just silence.

Tomorrow, training would start again.

And once more, he’d return to the grind — where empires are built not in contracts or headlines, but in sweat, breath, and the rhythm of repetition beneath gray skies.

...

The next morning, Julian arrived at the HSV Campus.

The city was still waking — faint fog hanging over the rooftops, the chill air cutting clean against his lungs.

The field lights were still half-on, pale and ghostly, painting the dew on the grass in streaks of white.

Somewhere distant, a groundskeeper pushed a mower, the hum low and steady. The smell of damp turf mixed with fresh coffee drifting from the player’s building.

Routine came first.

As always, he stopped by the medical wing before training. The familiar scent of antiseptic and liniment oil filled the room as the club doctor scanned his body.

The monitor beeped softly, lines tracing muscle tension, heart rate, recovery.

The doctor frowned slightly.

"Once again, you’ve pushed your muscle fibers too far," he said, removing the scanner. "You’re in form, yes — but your body’s still carrying the strain."

Julian tilted his head. "So?"

"I’ll be recommending a full rest for you this week," the doctor replied. "Coach Soner needs you long-term, not burned out by December."

Julian exhaled slowly. He didn’t protest.

If anything, he’d expected it.

HSV II were sitting comfortably in the top three of the Regionalliga Nord. Their next match was against VfB Oldenburg — a team struggling at the bottom of the table.

There was no need to risk him.

And besides, HSV II wasn’t built to chase promotion. They were built to prepare.

For the future. For the first team.

"Understood," Julian said quietly. "Thank you for the check."

He stood, straightened his hoodie, and walked out — calm, composed, and already thinking of what to do with the unexpected silence that came with rest.

...

When Julian entered the locker room, the noise hit first — laughter, banter, the thud of boots against the benches.

"I see someone had dinner with Sabrina Weiss

and didn’t even invite us," Mageed was the first to call out, smirking as he tossed a towel over his shoulder.

Anssi chimed in from the corner. "So what now? We’ve got a star among us?"

"No, no," Hannes interrupted dramatically, raising his hands like an announcer before kickoff. "Not a star — Kaiser des Spielfelds. The Emperor of the Pitch himself!"

The room erupted.

Whistles, laughter, mock bows.

Julian just smiled, shaking his head as he sat down to tie his boots.

He’d expected this — fame came with noise.

"Careful," Mageed grinned. "You start eating with CEOs and agents too often, you’ll forget how to eat cafeteria food."

Julian chuckled. "You talk like you wouldn’t join me if I called."

That earned another round of laughter.

There was something grounding in it — the sweat-stained humor, the smell of leather boots and grass, the sound of zippers and studs clinking against benches. \

This was real. Not the glow of cameras, not hashtags or contracts. Just teammates, steel lockers, and the rhythm of preparation.

The teasing went on, harmless, alive — the kind of noise that only came from shared victories and bruised shoulders.

Soon enough, Coach Soner’s whistle cut through the chatter. "Alright, enough comedy. Out. Field. Now."

Training resumed like clockwork.

Physical conditioning.

Video analysis.

One-on-one drills.

Set pieces under the cold Hamburg wind.

The breath of players turned to mist under the pale light, boots pounding rhythm into wet grass. Somewhere between exhaustion and focus, Julian found his calm again — not in dominance, but in discipline.

The day moved the way all great training days did — steady, rhythmic, a heartbeat of repetition.

By the end of the session, Coach Soner gathered everyone in the locker room. His tone was calm but firm.

"Our next match — VfB Oldenburg," he began. "They’re sitting at the bottom of the table. That means we’ll rotate. Those who haven’t played much — your time’s now."

The announcement settled like a quiet ripple through the room.

Julian already knew what was coming.

His name wasn’t on the sheet. Not even as a sub.

"Full rest," Soner had said earlier. "You’ve earned it. Don’t burn yourself out."

Mageed made the bench.

Most of the starting eleven were young players, the ones who needed minutes — the ones still learning what it meant to wear HSV’s badge.

Julian didn’t protest.

He just nodded, tying his hoodie strings tight as he watched the names on the board.

It wasn’t frustration he felt — just stillness. A week of silence before the next climb. Even empires need silence before their next conquest

Another match he’d have to watch — but even from the sidelines, he’d be studying.