Once the squad list, including substitutes, was read out, Klopp didn't linger on tactics. They had drilled those relentlessly over the past three days. The shape, the triggers, and the transitional were all now part of the players' muscle memory. Every run had been rehearsed. Every pass lane calculated. There was nothing more to refine on the training pitch.

So instead, Klopp shifted his focus. His voice changed. It dropped slightly in volume but gained some more weight. The kind that could settle into your chest and stay there.

On cue, the room quieted, the air pulling tight.

"It's not just about systems anymore," he said, stepping forward, his arms relaxed but his eyes sharp. "You know your roles. You know the drills. But if we're going to be great this season, truly great, it won't come from tactics alone. It's going to come from here."

He touched a closed fist to his chest.

"Tomorrow, we're not just playing Manchester City. We're playing against a mirror. A version of us. A team that wants to set the tone just like we do. So what are we going to show them? What are we going to show the rest of the world?"

He paused and let the silence sit.

"We do not wait to find our rhythm. We do not feel our way into games. We start like we mean it. First tackle. First sprint. First pass. They need to feel it."

He looked around the room, meeting eyes, one by one.

"Last season was special. Champions of Europe. Kings of England. But that's not a finish line. That was a door opening. And now you step through it, or you step back. Because there is no standing still at the top."

He took another few steps forward, pacing now.

"You want to defend your titles? Then act like champions. Start like champions. Carry yourselves like champions who are still starving. Because that's what it takes. We are not chasing what we already won. We are building on it. And to do that, we need to send a message."

He held up one finger.

"One game. One trophy. One signal to everyone that we are not satisfied."

The players remained still. Nobody shifted. Nobody looked away.

"Fifteen-hundred hours. Wembley. It starts there. Make it count."

He let the silence return, then gave a small nod.

"Meeting's over."

It ended without fanfare. No backslaps. No locker-room bravado. Just a slow rise from chairs, quiet murmurs, the scratch of chairs being pushed back. The mood was focused, heavy with intent.

Lunch followed. The players sat in clusters, easing back into the normal rhythm. The tension slowly gave way to quiet conversations, bits of laughter, and casual teasing. Firmino's fashion choices and Origi's music took the usual jabs, lightening the atmosphere just enough.

By mid-afternoon, the squad began to leave. Zachary packed his things, exchanged a few words with the staff, and drove off in his Audi, his focus steady.

When he reached home, the house was unusually quiet. He stepped into the kitchen and found a small folded note on the counter, his name written in neat handwriting across the front.

He opened it.

"Had to step out for a few appointments I couldn't miss. Don't worry, I called in the cleaners and made sure everything was taken care of. Use the quiet to relax, focus, and breathe. You've got a big day tomorrow. Proud of you. —K."

Zachary smiled as he read, then shook his head gently. Kristin never missed a beat. Always thoughtful, always one step ahead. She had removed herself from the picture not because she wasn't needed, but because she knew exactly what he needed.

He picked up his phone and called her.

She answered on the first ring. "You found the note?"

"I did," he said. "You didn't have to vanish."

"I did," she replied softly. "You need rest, not company. And I didn't want to pull you out of your headspace. Tomorrow's important."

Zachary leaned against the counter, eyes on the dim light outside the window. "You never pull me out of it. If anything, you're the one who helps me stay in it."

There was a short silence, not awkward but warm.

"I'll see you after the match," she said. "But I'll be watching. Always."

He smiled faintly. "Thank you. For everything."

They spoke for a few more minutes, voices low, the kind of conversation that didn't need weighty words to say something meaningful. Kristin's tone was warm and steady, anchoring him in the present without pulling him away from what mattered. It was the kind of exchange that left no lingering questions, only reassurance.

When the call ended, Zachary stood still in the kitchen, phone still in hand, eyes unfocused as the silence gently closed in around him.

It wasn't empty. It was full. Full of readiness, calm, and purpose.

The rest of the day then unfolded at a different pace, that was especially unrushed but purposeful.

Zachary brewed a fresh cup of tea and carried it out to the patio, the early afternoon breeze brushing past him as he sank into a lounger with a book. It wasn't a tactical manual or a sports biography. Just fiction. Something to remind him there was a world outside football, something to soften the edges of the moment.

For a while, he lost himself in the pages, letting the stillness settle into his limbs. The distant hum of traffic, the occasional birdcall, and the warmth of the sun all soothed his entire being, working magic on his body like medicine.

Later, he rolled out his yoga mat in the living room. The session that followed was slow and intentional. Each movement was deliberate, each stretch purposeful. He focused on his breath, on the length of his spine, on the tension in his shoulders and hips and how it gradually eased. His muscles responded, lengthening and warming, his thoughts becoming clearer with each controlled exhale.

Afterward, he showered, changed into something soft and loose, and settled onto the couch where sleep came quickly. Not the restless kind, but the deep, unbothered rest of a body that knew it was ready. His nap lasted just over an hour, but when he woke, he felt lighter, like a weight had slipped off his shoulders while he slept.

As dusk crept across the Liverpool skyline and night wrapped its arms around the city, the buzz for Wembley started to rise inside him. But there was no anxiety. No pressure. Just focus.

He was ready for the new season.

The work had been done. The miles run. The passes drilled. The moments of doubt faced and conquered.

His body was tuned. His mind was clear.

And tomorrow, when he stepped out onto the pitch, it wouldn't be as a player returning from injury. It would be as Zachary Bemba, Liverpool's number eight. Right where he belonged.