The chill of the North Sea air bit gently against his skin.
Floodlights burned overhead, cutting through the early dusk.
Julian stepped onto the pitch — first out, first breath, first step into his new battlefield.
His boots pressed into the turf, damp and alive.
Grass. Real. Measured. Waiting.
The hum hit next — low at first, then rising into a roar.
Thousands in the stands, blue scarves raised, faces painted, some bare-chested under the cold.
Banners cracked in the wind.
Drums thundered. Voices merged.
The heartbeat of Emden.
And he could feel it in his bones.
HSV II fanned out across the pitch, the circle of warm-ups snapping to life — one-touch passes, crisp, sharp, alive with rhythm.
Boots kissed the ball. Breath fogged the air. Orders barked. Laughter cut through the noise.
Julian found his place in the pattern — touch, move, turn. Again. Again.
Every pass was a promise. Every breath, a vow.
