The markers squeaked.
Not one stroke wasted. Not a single arrow drawn without knowing where it ended before it began.
The whiteboard was littered in layers now—earlier drills wiped into ghost smudges beneath the new ones. Demien leaned into the far edge of the board, shoulders tense, marker in one hand, the other dragging three red magnets into a loose triangle. He paused.
Then added two more.
"Single pivot," he murmured, as much to himself as to Michel, who stood five feet back with arms folded, weight on one heel, watching like a man trying to decide if this was genius or madness.
Demien drew a short diagonal from the pivot to an advanced right interior. Then another, looping to the false nine. His wrist rolled through the next set of arrows like he'd drawn them a thousand times.
"Advanced interiors… wide angles… and here—" his fingertip tapped the top edge of the front magnet, "—false nine pulls centerback. Opens the lane for the underlap. But…" He trailed off. Reached for two blue magnets and pinned them higher and wider on the board.
"Wingbacks stay here. Pinned. High. No early overlaps."
Michel squinted, stepping in closer. "What are you doing?"
Demien didn't look at him. He was already shifting the midfield shape, replacing the traditional six with a lone sentinel in front of the back line. He pulled the interior triangles into exaggerated diagonal links, angling passing lanes across three vertical zones.
"Creating a new formation."
Michel let out a short breath—half scoff, half disbelief. "Looks more like something out of a computer game."
Demien's fingers hovered over the magnets, not adjusting anything yet. Just staring at the pattern. The triangles weren't flat—they were recursive. Every second pass looped back into the spine. The whole board was alive.
He blinked once, and for a second, it wasn't Monaco in front of him. It was a grainy YouTube window, 480p, buffering.
A low-angle camera from the side of a dusty Spanish training pitch. Players in bright bibs—unfamiliar names—moving like gears inside a Swiss watch.
Guardiola brings it in 2008, Demien remembered. The first-team Barcelona. Xavi. Iniesta. Busquets at nineteen, still raw. But he'd seen it first in the B-team. The way the ball did the running. The third-man runs. The metronome rhythm—tap, tap, pause, slice. Teams couldn't chase it. Couldn't breathe inside it.
He exhaled slowly.
"But not yet. Not in 2003."
His voice was quiet now. Different. Like he was narrating something only he could see.
"I'll bring it before he does."
Michel rubbed his temple, the way he did when caffeine stopped helping. "Isn't this… tiki-taka?" His tone was skeptical, almost defensive. "That's what this is, right? Except… it looks different."
Demien nodded once. Still not looking at him. He stepped back to view the full board. Adjusted one magnet by half an inch.
"Because I edited it."
Michel gave a soft laugh—short, disbelieving. "You edited tiki-taka."
Demien finally turned.
"I removed the dead zones. No wasted width. Every player sits in a five-lane vertical grid. Triggers come from pass direction, not position. One pass left? Winger steps in. One pass back? Press triggers. One pass into the half-space? Interior moves to third man. No one marks. Everyone calculates."
Michel opened his mouth, closed it. Then walked slowly to the side of the board, tracing the lines without touching anything. His eyes narrowed. It wasn't nonsense. That was the worst part.
"You're setting them up to… what? Think in flows?"
"Decision trees." Demien reached for a black marker and boxed off two zones between the midfield and the defensive pivot. "Every player scans. Two seconds max. They make one of three choices. No freelancing. No emotion. Just pattern recognition."
"And you think this squad," Michel said, gesturing vaguely toward the open staff notebooks and half-empty coffee cups, "—this Monaco squad—is gonna do that?"
Demien looked at him. Eyes steady. Voice sharper now.
"It's not about what they are."
He stepped forward, tapped the chest of the red magnet labeled 'Z'.
"It's what they can become."
Michel stayed silent. For the first time since the room cleared, he didn't have a line ready. He reached for a water bottle, found it empty, and set it down again. The hum of the overhead lights felt louder suddenly.
"This isn't development," he muttered. "This is rewiring."
Demien leaned back against the wall. Let the fatigue set into his shoulders now that the board was done. Arms crossed. The marker cap clicked shut between his fingers.
"I know."
"And you're sure?" Michel's voice wasn't mocking anymore. It was low. Level. Tired.
Demien didn't hesitate.
"Yeah. I am."
They stood like that for a moment. Two men and a whiteboard full of future.
The papers on the table fluttered slightly in the draft from the AC vent. Outside the windows, Monte Carlo glowed soft gold across the coastline, but in this room, it might as well have been the command center of a spaceship.
Demien pushed off the wall.
Walked once across the room, checked the positioning of a few loose notes. Clicked the cap on the red marker, tossed it neatly onto the tray.
Then turned for the door.
His coat was still hanging on the back of a chair. He didn't take it. Just paused by the doorway and spoke without looking back.
"Call everyone in."
Michel raised an eyebrow. "What time?"
"Six."
Demien grabbed the handle.
"We start before the sun does."