"Not every weapon shines in daylight."
--
January 18th, 2015 – Liverpool Academy Gym – 8:02 AM
Azim moved through his gym routine like a ghost with purpose.
The echoes of the Bolton massacre still haunted the academy halls—six goals, one half, domination like prophecy—but Azim treated it like it hadn't happened. No fist pumps. No videos reposted. Not even a comment when Sinclair brought it up.
He was already elsewhere.
"IS Core Log – Entry 018-A
"Mode: Ghost
Status: Active
Objective: Conceal elite performance until managerial transition complete.
Manager Watchlist:
Brendan Rodgers – Current
Jürgen Klopp – Priority
Estimated Arrival: Q4 2015
Strategy: Suppress exposure.
Target: Tactical silence.
His form under the weights was perfect.
Leg press: 320kg
Bench: 110kg
Deadlift: 175kg
Recovery time: minimal
But everything was under throttle. Controlled. Suppressed.
Across the room, Jerome Sinclair was wrestling with a hip thrust bar. He groaned, muscles quaking, as the reps slowed.
Azim moved in, not as a star, but as a teammate.
"You're pulling from your spine," Azim said calmly. "Reset. Push from the floor. Activate glutes first."
Sinclair adjusted. The weight moved easier.
"Bro, how do you—" he trailed off, shaking his head. "You're like a cheat code sometimes."
Azim smirked faintly. "Nah. Just obsessed."
They bumped fists, but Azim's mind was already elsewhere.
IS Alert:"Public attention rising. Youth staff re-reviewing Bolton footage. Brendan Rodgers' assistant requested internal match tape."
----
January 27th – UEFA Youth League vs Real Madrid U19 – Anfield (Closed Stands)
The empty seats of Anfield made every boot sound louder.
"IS: Opponent structure – 4-2-3-1. Press staggered. Weak link: DM #6 - delayed pivot tracking."
Azim floated around the pitch like he already knew the ending.
He dropped into space, bounced a reverse ball to Dhanda, then peeled away before the CBs realized. Wilson's cross came a second later.
Volley. Net ripples.
1–0.
Fifteen minutes later, he curved a dribble around three defenders like he'd pre-watched the game in a dream.
Then a third. A press trap and a curled finish before half-time.
Final: 4–0. Hat-trick. No celebration.
The Madrid scouts were speechless. One quietly wrote "Instinct: Elite?" in Spanish.
Back in the dressing room, Sinclair slapped his back. "Bro, what was that second goal?! That spin... you went full Iniesta."
Azim offered only a half-smile.
IS: Match file compiled. Sending encrypted tactical report to: [email protected]
----
February 3rd – Melwood
It felt like betrayal just putting on the first-team jacket.
Inside, he was burning. Outside? Calm. Controlled. Calculated.
Brendan Rodgers didn't shake his hand. Didn't say his name. Just called him "the U18 striker."
"IS Core Command – Disguise Mode: ON"
Sprint Cap: 28 km/h
Vision Delay Buffer: 180ms
Execution Threshold: 35%
Cognitive Overlap: None
He fluffed his touches. Misread cues. Lost headers. Played safe.
Lucas Leiva tapped him after a small-sided game. "Keep working, kid. It'll come."
Azim just nodded.
But inside, every detail burned itself into his memory.
Skrtel steps too late.
Moreno overcommits.
Henderson drifts too far.
Gerrard looks tired. He shouldn't still be playing double pivot.
"IS Report – Session Complete."
Rodgers Tactical Identity: Transitional, reactive. No verticality. Minimal youth progression.
---
February 18th – Dorm Room 112 – 10:38 PM
Trent sat cross-legged on the floor, watching a replay of their last U18 match. He paused the screen.
"Why'd you hold the run here?" he asked. "You could've gone."
Azim leaned back against his bed.
"Because Phillips wasn't looking."
"Still. You could've made the run."
Azim stared at the ceiling. Then shrugged.
"I don't need to score in that game."
Trent looked at him strangely.
"You're the best player in this academy. You could be on the bench for the seniors by now. You're hiding something."
Azim didn't blink. Didn't smile.
He just said: "Some things only matter at the right time."
They stared at each other.
---
March 5th – IS Core Log Update
Objective Status: On Course
U18 Stats:
Matches: 12
Goals: 26
Assists: 9
Youth League:
Matches: 4
Goals: 10
Assists: 4
Public rating: "Top academy talent. Needs more consistency."
Rodgers priority list:Not included.
Visibility Score: Controlled.
Klopp File Sync: 84 updates sent.
---
March 14th – U18 Match vs Man City – Kirkby
Adarabioyo, tall and commanding, barked out orders at the back.
They all thought he'd stop Azim.
He didn't.
First goal – chest, swivel, top bins.
Second – press trap, blind backheel assist.
Third – no touch. Azim just dragged defenders out wide, and Wilson scored in the space.
Fourth – a header that broke the laws of air.
Final: 4–2.
Lewtas didn't even smile. He just muttered, "That's not youth football. We are creating a monster."
Azim walked past him, silently.
"IS Upload: Complete. Label: City Crushed."
---
April 1st – UEFA Youth League QF vs Ajax U19 – Amsterdam
The Dutch diamond was beautiful.
But not immune.
Ajax pressed in waves. Azim flowed through them.
One-touch volley. Solo drive. Then a curler from a press trap that silenced the bench.
Hat-trick. 19 minutes.
"Who is this kid?" a scout whispered.
Azim didn't flinch.
Back in the Core:
"Still not enough."
---
April 2015 – The Walls Close In
The corridors of Melwood buzzed with a tension that was almost palpable. Liverpool's first team was underperforming, and the murmurs of discontent among the fans were growing louder. Brendan Rodgers, once hailed as the architect of a promising future, now seemed to be running out of ideas. The team's lack of direction was evident, and the weight of expectation was becoming unbearable.
In the midst of this turmoil, Azim remained a shadow. His performances with the U18s were nothing short of spectacular, yet he was conspicuously absent from the first-team discussions. Rodgers' brief interest had waned after Azim's deliberate underwhelming displays during training sessions. The manager's focus had shifted elsewhere, leaving Azim to his own devices.
Liverpool finished 6th place with 62 points in 2014-2015 season.
---
IS Core Log – Entry 042-B
Status: Monitoring
Objective: Assess managerial stability and club investment patterns.
Findings:
Managerial Confidence: Declining
Fan Sentiment: Negative trend detected
Investment Activity: Minimal; FSG's reluctance to inject capital is evident.
Azim leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the glowing interface of the IS Core. The data painted a bleak picture. Fenway Sports Group (FSG), the club's owners, had invested just £136 million into Liverpool since their takeover in 2010. In the modern footballing landscape, this was a pittance. Competing clubs were spending exorbitantly, strengthening their squads and infrastructures, while Liverpool lagged behind.
The realization was stark: under the current ownership, Liverpool's ambitions would remain shackled. FSG's prudent approach, while financially sound, lacked the boldness required to propel the club back to its former glory.
Azim's mind raced. He needed a catalyst, someone with the vision and resources to transform Liverpool into a powerhouse. And then, a name surfaced from the depths of his memory: Prince Faisal bin Fahd bin Abdullah.
---
May 2015
The corridors of Melwood were steeped in a familiar tension.
In the dim glow of his dorm room, Azim sat before the IS Core interface, its soft luminescence casting shadows across his contemplative face.
Azim's mind raced, seeking a catalyst to propel Liverpool into a new era of dominance.
IS Command: Initiate Encrypted Outreach (Anonymous)
Recipient: Prince Faisal bin Fahd bin Abdullah
Objective: Reignite interest in Liverpool FC investment
Azim watched as the IS Core crafted a meticulously detailed dossier, highlighting Liverpool's current financial standing, potential growth trajectories, and the transformative impact of strategic investment. The document was dispatched through secure channels, devoid of any identifiers, leaving the recipient to ponder the origins of this compelling proposition.
---
In the opulent halls of his Riyadh estate, Prince Faisal perused the anonymous dossier with keen interest. The figures were compelling, the projections ambitious yet grounded. Memories of Anfield's electrifying atmosphere and the club's rich history resurfaced, rekindling a passion that had lain dormant for years.
The prince's advisors noted his renewed enthusiasm. "Your Highness," one ventured, "this proposal, though anonymous, aligns with your longstanding vision for football investment. Perhaps it's time to reconsider Liverpool."
Prince Faisal nodded, his gaze distant yet focused. "Begin discreet inquiries into FSG's current stance. Let's ascertain if the door to Anfield remains open."
---
Off-Season
The footballing world thrives on speculation, and soon, murmurs of a potential Saudi interest in Liverpool began to circulate. Journalists picked up on subtle movements within financial circles, and the name "Prince Faisal" found its way back into the headlines.
Azim, ever the silent observer, monitored these developments through the IS Core. Each article, each speculative tweet, each boardroom whisper was analyzed, feeding into a growing sense of anticipation.
IS Analysis:
Public Sentiment: 65% in favor of new ownership
Media Coverage: Increasing speculation on Prince Faisal's involvement
FSG's Position: Open to discussions under the right terms
The pieces were aligning. The stage was set for a transformative shift.
---
September 4th, 2015
It began as a whisper—like most revolutions.
First in niche financial pages: "Foreign royal interest resurfaces at Liverpool." Then in Spanish tabloids: "Saudi Prince scouting Premier League acquisition." Then silence.
Then fire.
BREAKING: Liverpool Football Club acquired by Prince Faisal bin Fahd bin Abdullah in £950 million deal.
The valuation? £815 million, confirmed.
The deal? All cash. Full ownership.
FSG had folded.
In the end, their unwillingness to fund Liverpool's resurgence became their downfall. Fans who had begged for investment now witnessed something else entirely: the return of ambition.
No interviews. No fanfare. Only a press release:
"Our ambition is to restore Liverpool Football Club to the highest level of world football. We believe in sustainable excellence. And in the right people."
Anfield buzzed, even empty. The future had changed hands.
---
September 5th, 2015
Brendan Rodgers wasn't even surprised after the defeat against West Ham 0-3 at Anfield.
He'd seen the storm on the horizon—heard the empty cheers, watched the players go through the motions. The day before his dismissal, his training session had been eerily quiet. A player joked about the next gaffer being Klopp.
Rodgers laughed, then turned away.
By noon the next day, he was gone. Quiet handshake. Mutual agreement. Statement posted.
The club didn't look back.
----
September 8th, 2015 – Jürgen Klopp Appointed
Anfield, Tuesday, September 8th, 2015.
A crisp autumn breeze drifted through Liverpool, carrying with it whispers of change. The iconic stadium loomed quietly, its walls steeped in history, aching for renewed glory. Inside, journalists murmured with eager anticipation, pens poised, cameras silently focused. It was not just another managerial unveiling—it was a declaration of intent, a rebirth in the storied life of Liverpool Football Club.
At precisely 10:00 AM, Jürgen Klopp stepped into the media room. Tall, poised, with an air of humble confidence, his entrance stilled the chatter. He wore a dark suit, unbuttoned at the collar, perfectly balancing professionalism with approachability. Klopp paused briefly, scanning the assembled faces before breaking into a genuine smile, as though greeting old friends.
"It's a great pleasure to be here," he began softly, his voice warm yet resolute. "One of the greatest honours I could imagine. Liverpool is more than just a club—it's an emotion, a heartbeat, something you can't explain fully but can always feel deeply."
The room listened intently, every word hanging in the air, weighted with meaning. Klopp glanced down briefly, gathering his thoughts before looking back up, his eyes shimmering with sincerity.
"I know there's pressure here, of course. It's normal. Twenty-five years since Liverpool won the league—it's a long time. History can inspire, but we must not let it burden us every day. We cannot carry the club's legacy as heavy baggage; instead, we must draw strength from it, let it guide us forward. We will create our own history now."
Klopp's eyes swept the room again, almost challenging anyone to doubt his conviction. There was a quiet, magnetic intensity to him, commanding respect without demanding it. He spoke clearly, articulating his vision in a way that felt deeply personal to everyone present.
"My teams play football that is emotional—very fast, very strong, passionate, fearless. We will play at full throttle, pressing, proactive football. Football is not just tactics and formations; it's heart and courage. Every fan who comes to Anfield must feel it, must sense something special unfolding. That's my promise."
His words were not merely delivered; they were felt. Passion simmered beneath his calm exterior, ready to ignite a flame that could rekindle the spirit of a club aching for glory.
A journalist, clearly intrigued by Klopp's aura, ventured a question that brought a gentle smile to the German's lips.
"José Mourinho arrived in England as the 'Special One.' How would you describe yourself, Mr. Klopp?"
The room briefly rippled with quiet laughter. Klopp's eyes twinkled behind his glasses, and with a humble, self-deprecating grin, he leaned into the microphone, replying warmly, "I'm just a normal guy from the Black Forest. You could call me 'The Normal One.'"
That single line broke any remaining tension, bringing laughter and lightness to the room. The ice was not only broken; it melted entirely. Klopp had revealed the core of who he was—a man of humility, wit, and deep authenticity.
As the laughter faded, his expression turned serious again, returning to his vision.
"But jokes aside, the truth is simple. I came here to help this club rediscover itself. It's not about what we've won before; it's about what we will win next. The players must believe in themselves again. Everyone at the club must change from doubters to believers. That is the task, the core mission from this day forward."
The words settled, resonating deeply. The press room remained quiet, reporters scribbling feverishly, knowing they were witnessing more than just a manager's debut—they were seeing a fundamental shift in Liverpool's identity.
Klopp leaned forward, resting his elbows on the podium, speaking earnestly, directly to the fans listening far beyond the walls of Anfield.
"The players need confidence, trust, time. We won't achieve everything instantly, but we will grow step by step, together. I promise, we'll give everything we have, every minute of every game. If you support us fully, we'll build something special."
His eyes were vivid, alight with genuine optimism. There was a conviction in Klopp's tone that transcended mere rhetoric. It felt real, tangible, a promise etched in his very demeanor.
After a short pause, Klopp concluded simply, "Now, let's begin this new chapter. Let's write it together."
He stood quietly, absorbing the respectful silence before it erupted into spontaneous applause—an uncommon tribute from seasoned journalists. Klopp raised his hand modestly, acknowledging them with grace, his smile growing wider, warmer.
As he exited the room, leaving behind an atmosphere charged with newfound hope, the whispers began again, louder now, filled with excitement and awe. Liverpool had appointed more than a new manager—they had found someone who understood the very soul of the club, who felt its heartbeat as keenly as any lifelong supporter.
Outside, the city of Liverpool seemed brighter, energized by something intangible yet profound. Fans already gathered near Anfield's gates, chanting his name, holding scarves aloft, instantly believing in the man who promised them their dreams back.
Within days, posters appeared throughout Merseyside emblazoned with Klopp's words, echoing everywhere from pubs to playgrounds:
"From Doubters to Believers."
The message was simple, powerful. In one press conference, Jürgen Klopp had reignited hope. Liverpool stood on the brink of a new era, and the city, once more, was alive with expectation.
Inside the training complex, a young striker named Azim watched the conference replay, his heart swelling with inspiration and determination. He felt a connection to Klopp's every word, sensing a unique chance, an opportunity to shape his destiny alongside a manager who dared to believe deeply and unconditionally.
He rose slowly, determination flaring in his eyes. This was no longer merely about football—this was the start of something much deeper, the beginning of an unforgettable journey.
Azim smiled quietly to himself. He had found exactly what he'd been waiting for.
Now, the real work began.
He asked one question after the press conference.
"Where's the list of academy players?"
When they handed him the spreadsheet, he stared at it.
One name stood out.
Azim – ST – U18s. 41 goals, 19 assists. Match rating avg: 9.4/10.
He leaned back in his new chair.
"I want to meet this boy."
---
September 10th, 2015
"Azim," the coach began, "the boss wants to see you in his office. Now."
Azim's heart rate remained steady, but internally, he felt a surge of anticipation. He had envisioned this moment countless times, yet now that it was here, it felt surreal.
He nodded, quickly changed into a fresh training kit, and made his way to the main building.
---
Walking through the corridors of Melwood, Azim couldn't help but reflect on his journey. The deliberate underperformance during Rodgers' tenure, the clandestine communications facilitated by IS, and the strategic patience he had exercised—all leading to this juncture.
He passed by framed photographs of Liverpool legends, their eyes seeming to follow him, as if acknowledging the weight of the moment.
Reaching Klopp's office door, he took a measured breath and knocked.
"Come in," came the familiar, gruff voice.
---
Azim stepped into the office, immediately noting the minimalist decor. A few personal items adorned the shelves, but the room was largely devoid of distractions. Klopp sat behind a sturdy wooden desk, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Azim.
"Azim," Klopp began, his German accent adding a distinctive cadence to his speech. "Take a seat.
Azim complied, maintaining eye contact, his demeanor calm and collected.
There was a moment of silence as Klopp seemed to assess the young man before him.
"I've been watching you," Klopp finally said.
Azim's mind raced. He knew Klopp had access to his match footage, but how much did he truly know?
"Your performances with the U18s have been... exceptional," Klopp continued. "Yet, there's an air of mystery about you. You don't seek the limelight, you don't clamor for attention. Why is that?
Azim chose his words carefully. "I believe actions speak louder than words, sir. My focus has always been on contributing to the team's success, not personal accolades.
Klopp leaned back, a slight smile playing on his lips. "A humble answer. But I sense there's more to it."
Azim remained silent, allowing the weight of the moment to settle.
Klopp reached into a drawer and pulled out a tablet. He tapped the screen a few times before turning it towards Azim.
"These are some clips from your recent matches," Klopp said. "Your vision, your positioning, your decision-making—they're beyond your years. It's as if you see the game unfolding moments before it actually does.
Azim watched the clips play, scenes he was intimately familiar with. He had orchestrated those moments, after all.
"I have a philosophy," Klopp continued. "It's called 'gegenpressing.' Winning the ball back immediately after losing it, high up the pitch. It requires intelligence, stamina, and an innate understanding of space and movement.
He paused, locking eyes with Azim.
"I believe you embody those qualities.
Azim felt a surge of validation but kept his emotions in check.
"I want to integrate you into the first team," Klopp stated. "Not as a peripheral figure, but as a central component. I envision building our tactical framework around your capabilities.
The weight of the statement hung in the air.
"However," Klopp's tone shifted slightly, "this won't be handed to you. You'll need to earn it. Prove to me, to the team, and to the fans that you're ready for this responsibility."
Klopp's voice was steady, low—not praising, but probing. As if he already knew the answer to every question he was about to ask.
Azim sat still, hands clasped over his knees, posture straight, like a soldier awaiting his briefing. His eyes didn't flicker. Not at the compliment. Not at the pressure that hung in the room like a fog.
Klopp continued, tapping his index finger against the armrest of the chair.
"But they don't match the way you train with the first team."
Silence. Sharp. Intentional.
Azim didn't answer.
Klopp smiled, faintly. Not mocking—just curious.
"I watched the Bolton tape. I watched Real Madrid. Ajax. Man City U18. That goal where you checked over your shoulder five times in six seconds, then peeled left to receive and fire across goal with your off foot? That's not instinct. That's premeditation. That's understanding the whole pitch like it's in your palm."
Another pause.
"But when I looked at your Melwood training footage? You're passive. No pressing intent. Poor movement. You don't call for the ball. You look… like you're deliberately trying not to be seen."
He folded his arms, leaned back.
"So. Tell me, Azim. Why?"
The question echoed in the office.
Azim didn't answer. Not with words.
Klopp's eyes narrowed, reading everything in his silence.
And that silence spoke volumes.
It said: Because you weren't here yet.
But Azim still didn't say it.
He just stared.
Quiet. Calm. Focused.
Klopp rubbed his beard, looking away for a moment. Then chuckled, softly.
Klopp said, leaning forward. "You've been waiting a long time, haven't you?"
Azim's voice was quiet. But unshakeable.
"Yes."
Klopp nodded, slowly. Then rose from his chair.
"Come with me."
Azim followed without a word.
They walked out of the office, down the corridor toward the private tactical room—small and dark, lined with LED screens and magnetic boards. A digital projection of a full pitch glowed softly at the center.
Klopp tapped a tablet. The pitch shifted.
"This is how we're playing from January," he said. "When the window opens. But until then… we work with what we've got."
Azim scanned the formation.
4-2-3-1. High line. Counter-press triggers. Staggered overloads on both flanks.
"But the shape isn't the point," Klopp said. "The point is the role."
He tapped the screen.
The striker icon lit up. Then all surrounding player dots shifted, like magnetic particles rotating around a nucleus.
"Everything flows through you," Klopp said. "The press. The link. The verticality. I want your movement to trigger our tempo. I want you to force defenses to bend. Not just with goals—though I know you'll give me those—but with awareness. Timing. Weight. Pulling defenders out like chess pieces."
He turned to face Azim fully.
"I'm not building this team around your reputation, Azim. You don't have one yet."
He placed a hand on his chest.
"I'm building it around your mind."
Azim clenched his jaw, just for a second.
He had imagined this moment a hundred different ways.
And it still didn't feel real.
"I'll give you the space to play," Klopp said. "But it'll cost you."
Azim tilted his head.
"Everything," Klopp said. "Your life will not be your own anymore. Media will come. Pressure. Doubt. Teammates who think you haven't earned it. Fans who expect you to be a god."
"You'll be the center. But you'll also be the shield."
Another long pause.
Then, softly—
"Can you handle that?"
Azim stepped forward. Looked him dead in the eye.
"Yes."
----
Kirkby Dorm 112 – 11:58 PM
Azim lay in bed, arms crossed behind his head.
Across the room, Trent slept soundly—one leg dangling off the side of the bunk.
The room was quiet. The world outside wasn't.
Azim's HUD blinked quietly in the corner of his vision.
DISGUISE MODE: OFF
TACTICAL CORE: ONLINE
Tomorrow, the real work would begin.
But tonight, as the city slept, one truth burned brighter than anything else:
Liverpool had finally seen the future.
And the future wore red.