The alarm clock's shrill cry pierced through the pre-dawn darkness of Mateo's apartment, its red digits glowing 5:30 AM like angry eyes in the gloom. For most sixteen-year-olds, this would be an ungodly hour, but for Mateo Alvarez, it had become as routine as breathing.
The weight of expectations from Klopp, from the fans, from the media, and most pressingly, from himself had transformed his sleep patterns into something resembling military precision.
He rolled out of bed with the fluid motion of someone whose body had adapted to the demands of elite athleticism, his feet finding the cold hardwood floor of his Dortmund apartment.
The space was modest by the standards of professional footballers, but it was his sanctuary. Lukas still snored softly in the adjacent room, blissfully unaware that his roommate was already beginning another day in the increasingly surreal life of Der Maestro.
