Wednesday, 7:30 AM.
Marco Reus arrived at the training ground on time, his road bike resting against the rack near the entrance. He'd been doing this since breaking into the first-team picture—arriving early, carving out extra minutes where he could.
Appearances had been sporadic so far: a few substitute shifts, the rest spent watching from the stands. Every unused match felt like a setback, but Reus refused to let frustration settle. Instead, he pedaled harder, showed up earlier, and let the extra hours in the gym speak for themselves.
He wasn't the only one.
Reus still found it hard to believe: a fifteen-year-old with that much natural talent, already turning heads, yet still grinding before sunrise like a veteran fighting for a contract.
Jin Hayes was on the treadmill again, fitted with a respirator and heart monitor, pushing through another conditioning block. According to what Reus had heard, the club had built a tailored fitness program for him—daily cardio sessions, lactic acid tests twice a week, constant adjustments to make sure his body could keep up with his instincts.
It was meticulous. Necessary, probably. But still striking to witness.
Reus tried to remember what he'd been doing at fifteen. Running drills without much thought, convinced he'd breeze through the youth ranks, collecting praise from teammates who thought the same. Now Nuri Şahin—one of those same teammates—was anchoring the midfield week in, week out, while Reus was still chasing his first real run in the side.
He moved quietly to the weight section, starting his set. By the time he took a breather, Jin had finished his session.
"Here."
"Thanks."
Jin looked briefly surprised when Reus handed him an energy drink, but accepted it with a quick nod. They hadn't been close at first—Reus had only known him as the young talent making noise—but these early mornings had a way of bridging gaps. Gym sessions before most of the squad arrived created a small, unspoken understanding.
"You're pushing too hard," Reus said. "Last week wasn't on you. That loss was about shape more than anything."
Jin wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and took a long drink before answering. "If I could've gone the full ninety, maybe we get another goal. I'm part of it."
He meant it. That much was clear.
The 1–3 defeat to Hannover 96 at Signal Iduna Park still hung over everyone. What started as a controlled, confident performance had unravelled in the final quarter of the match, and for Jin, the substitution felt like responsibility unfinished.
The game had opened well. In the 39th minute, Jin cut in from the wing, threading through a crowded penalty area. Two defenders tried to close him down, but he slipped between them, triggered a sharp pass into the far post, and Jakub Błaszczykowski—steady, experienced, always fighting for his spot—was there to finish. They'd rotated in and out of the starting eleven over the past few weeks, but there was never any tension between them. When Błaszczykowski scored, he ran straight to Jin and pulled him into the celebration.
At that moment, Dortmund were flying.
Four straight wins had lifted them to fourth. Relegation talk had faded; Champions League qualification suddenly felt like a real target. The team pushed relentlessly after the goal, wave after wave of attacks pinning Hannover deep. Jin kept finding space on the right, creating chances, though his own finishing was off and a few dangerous passes didn't quite find their mark. Still, the rhythm was theirs.
By the 75th minute, his legs were heavy. Too many explosive movements, too many duels. When Thomas Doll signaled for the substitution, Jin couldn't argue. Doll also brought off Frei, who'd felt some tightness, and introduced two defensive-minded players to protect the lead.
Hannover had barely threatened all match. But given space, they stirred. Their second counter-attack produced the equalizer.
1–1.
Doll responded quickly, sending Reus on for Błaszczykowski to add attacking thrust down the left. But Reus struggled to settle. His positioning wasn't as disciplined as Błaszczykowski's, and Hannover began targeting that side repeatedly. In the four minutes of stoppage time, they scored twice from crosses.
Final whistle: 1–3.
The four-game winning streak was over, and Dortmund slipped from fourth to sixth. The gap to the Champions League places suddenly looked wider.
....
"Speaking of which, last week's loss had something to do with me too."
Reus's expression had turned gloomy. He rarely spoke this much, but the frustration had clearly been building.
"You know, I used to think I was something special. Ask Nuri—I was arrogant in the youth setup. Thought I was above everyone."
He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Then I got to the first team and realized the world is full of gifted players. I'm not unique at all."
He glanced at Jin. "The first time I saw you play, honestly, I felt scared. I thought about quitting. Made me realize how ridiculous I'd been, thinking I'd already made it."
Jin didn't know how to respond.
His own path had been nothing like Reus's.
Before the system appeared, he was just a regular student who'd gone to a few open trials—the kind that happened all the time back home. The biggest thrill he'd known was performing well in a school match, maybe hearing a few classmates cheer from the sideline. He'd never grown up in an elite academy, never been surrounded by top-tier coaching from childhood.
And yet here was Marco Reus—someone who'd had all of that—sitting here talking like his career was already fading.
The more Jin thought about it, the more it irritated him. Before he could stop himself, he reached over and punched Reus on the arm.
"Ow—" Reus winced, rubbing his shoulder. "What was that for?"
"Instead of sitting there feeling sorry for yourself, go train another hour. If Doll doesn't see what you've got, then keep working until a coach who does comes along. Or go somewhere else and prove them wrong. With your ability, you'll get there."
Reus stared at him, caught off guard. "You really think I've got the ability?"
Jin didn't answer directly. "What do you think?"
"I…"
"Think about it yourself."
Jin patted him on the shoulder and walked off, barely suppressing a smile as he caught Reus's conflicted expression from the corner of his eye.
It was more fun being cryptic sometimes. He could've told Reus exactly what he sensed—that Reus would become Dortmund's captain one day, a true symbol of the club. But saying something like that would've sounded absurd, and Reus probably wouldn't have believed it anyway. Better to let him figure it out on his own.
In the cafeteria, Jin collected his usual nutritional meal—the plan the club's nutritionist had designed specifically for him. Fresh fish cakes made from snapper, swordfish, and sea bass, a mixed salad with celery, apple, and banana, whole wheat toast, and an electrolyte drink fortified with B12.
Over the past six months, he'd grown from 185 centimeters to 186, and his weight had climbed from 59 kilograms to roughly 63. He was still lean, still prone to being pushed off the ball by stronger opponents, but the difference was noticeable. He could hold his ground just long enough to create space for a dribble or a pass.
He scrolled through his phone while eating, scanning the post-match coverage. Around him, the cafeteria began to fill with teammates grabbing their own meals.
Nuri Şahin walked past the food line without stopping and dropped into the seat next to Jin, resting his head on the table.
"What are you looking at?"
"Media reactions."
Şahin sighed. "Champions League feels out of reach now. Let them write what they want."
"Why out of reach?" Jin frowned. "It's Bayern, Werder Bremen, the teams above us. Beat them, and the table changes."
"In this form? You think we can beat Bayern?"
"We already did."
Şahin lifted his head, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. Right. The match before the winter break—3–0 down, then a 4–3 comeback that had felt almost unreal. But that had been at home, with the Yellow Wall behind them. Allianz Arena was a different kind of test.
"Let's focus on Frankfurt first," Mats Hummels said, setting his tray down and inserting himself into the conversation with typical pragmatism. "Bayern's the last match of the season. Frankfurt's in three days."
He took a bite before adding, "I heard Alexander Frei's out for at least four weeks. But even without him, that's a tough away game."
The reminder landed heavily. The loss to Hannover was still fresh, and the table didn't offer much comfort. Sixth place was precarious, and slipping further wasn't an option.
....
Across the training complex, in the CEO's office, a different conversation was taking place.
Thomas Doll sat across from Hans-Joachim Watzke, the words already out before he could second-guess them.
"If we lose to Frankfurt, I will resign. Voluntarily."