Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

"I am officially proposing a trade. Your Byon... for Inter's new vice-captain."

For a full ten seconds, Leon's brain was a blue screen of death. The logic simply did not compute. He had been so focused on the absurdity of Briatore wanting to trade for Biyon that he had completely missed the beautiful, diabolical, and utterly insane twist. He wasn't trading a player for Byon. He was trading Byon... for him. He was trying to get him back.

The sheer, magnificent, 24-karat audacity of it was so breathtaking that Leon didn't feel anger or fear. He just felt a strange, almost impressed, sense of awe. He flopped back onto his bed and let out a single, sharp, and slightly hysterical laugh. His life was officially a soap opera, and Flavio Briatore was the guest star who had just shown up to flip a table and reveal a secret twin.

The next day at the training ground, the world felt a little less real. The players were preparing for their upcoming match against Burnley, a team known for their physical, no-nonsense style of play. But Leon's mind was a million miles away, lost in the Machiavellian machinations of his former president.

"Okay, so," Andy Robertson was saying to Trent Alexander-Arnold as they were doing passing drills, "the plan is simple. Don't let them kick you. If they get close enough to kick you, run away. If you can't run away, fall over before they can kick you. It's a game of proactive self-preservation."

"It's a tactical masterpiece, Robbo," Trent shot back, a grin on his face. "A strategy of 'aggressive cowardice'. I love it."

Leon was trying to focus, but his brain kept replaying the phone call. He needed to tell someone. He needed a reality check.

He needed to tell the one person who would understand the sheer, beautiful absurdity of the situation. He needed to tell Biyon.

After the main session, as the players were heading back inside, he pulled his best friend aside, a nervous, almost giddy look on his face.

"Hey," he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "You are not going to believe the phone call I got last night."

"Let me guess," Byon said, a thoughtful look on his face. "Julián finally called you to ask if a shadow has a weight, and if so, do we need to factor it into our pre-match weigh-ins?"

"Worse," Leon said. "It was Briatore."

Byon's easy-going smile vanished, replaced by a look of genuine concern. "What did that lunatic want?"

Leon took a deep breath. "He... uh... he told me that he made an official offer to Man City. He wants to bring you to Inter."

Byon just stared at him, a look of pure, bewildered confusion on his face. "Me? To Inter? Why?"

"As a gift," Leon said, the words still feeling ridiculous. "To me. To convince me to come back."

Byon was silent for a long moment, processing the sheer, multi-layered insanity of the proposal. Then, he let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. "So, he wants to trade me, to you, to get you? That's... that's not a transfer strategy, that's a hostage negotiation." He started laughing harder, a deep, genuine, belly laugh. "I'm not a player! I'm a diplomatic bargaining chip! This is the greatest thing I have ever heard!"

Their laughter was so loud that it attracted the attention of the man who was scientifically drawn to all forms of beautiful, chaotic energy: Julián Álvarez.

"What is so funny?" he asked, jogging over, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated curiosity.

Byon, still wiping tears from his eyes, decided to have some fun. "Leo's old boss just tried to trade me to Inter," he said.

Julián's eyes went wide. "A trade! For who?!"

"For their new vice-captain," Leon said, playing along.

Julián froze. His brain, a supercomputer of bizarre connections, began to whir. "Wait a minute," he said slowly, a look of dawning, horrified realization on his face. He looked at Biyon. He looked at Leon. He looked at Biyon again. "But... but if they trade you... and Leo is sad... and he wants to be with his friend... and he has a clause..." He gasped, his hand flying to his mouth. "IT'S A TRAP! A FRIENDSHIP TRAP! He is using the power of bromance to undermine our entire squad! That man is a genius! A beautiful, evil genius!"

The story of the "Friendship Trap," as it was now officially known, became the legend of the week. It was the perfect, ridiculous, and utterly hilarious distraction from the looming, physical battle against Burnley.

That night, as Leon was relaxing at home, he got a text from Julián. It was a screenshot of a news article from Italy. The headline was: "BRIATORE'S NEW ERA: INTER TRAINING GROUND TO BE RE-PAINTED IN GOLD, TEAM BUS TO BE REPLACED WITH A FLEET OF LAMBORGHINIS."

Below the screenshot, Julián had just written one, simple, and deeply profound question: "Do you think we get to pick the color?"

Leon just laughed, a warm, happy sound that filled his quiet house. He had made the right choice. His life was a beautiful, chaotic, and utterly brilliant mess.

He picked up his phone and called his agent.

"Marco," he said, the moment his agent picked up with his usual volcanic greeting. "Tell Mr. Briatore, respectfully, that I am a Liverpool player. And my best friend is a Manchester City player. And that is the end of the story."

"Leo! But the glamour! The drama!" Marco lamented.

"I have enough drama, Marco," Leon said with a grin. "I'm happy right where I am."

The bus ride to Turf Moor, Burnley's famously intimidating, old-school stadium, was a world away from the glamour of the San Siro or the Rose Bowl. The sky was a low, heavy grey, and the streets were lined with hardy, passionate fans who looked like they gargled with gravel for fun.

Arne Slot stood at the front of the bus as they pulled up to the stadium, his final words simple and to the point.

"Alright, lads," he said, his voice a calm, steady anchor in the hostile new world. "This is not Anfield. This is not a cathedral of football.

This is a factory. A factory of hard work, of physical battles, of pure, unadulterated will. We will not out-fight them. We will not out-run them." He looked around at his team of world-class artists.

"We will out-think them. We will waltz in the middle of their hurricane. Go and show them the difference between a tractor and a Ferrari."

The players walked off the bus, a single, unified red line, into the roaring, hostile heart of the factory. The air was cold. The crowd was loud. And the pitch looked less like a carpet and more like a battlefield.

Leon looked around, a slow, determined smile on his face. He had faced down tactical ghosts, reality-bending wonder-goals, and the psychological warfare of the world's most flamboyant president.

A simple, old-fashioned street fight? This was going to be fun.