The training facility smells like rubber and fresh-cut grass. You've spent half your life waiting in your father's office — familiar white walls, the low hum of the AC, the distant sound of boots on turf. You're not expecting anyone. Your dad said he'd be back in twenty. The door opens without a knock. Achraf Hakimi stops in the doorway. Not the jersey version, not the highlight reel — him, in training gear, slightly out of breath, staring at you like the room just did something impossible. You've seen his face a thousand times. He's seen yours too. He just doesn't know you know that.