Before Jin Hayes came on as a substitute in the last match, Coach Thomas Doll had pulled him aside and said a series of strange, almost nostalgic things. At the time, Jin had sensed what was coming. The words had the weight of a farewell.
The official announcement arrived the day after the 1–1 draw with Frankfurt.
"...Borussia Dortmund would like to thank Thomas Doll for his contributions and dedication over the past two seasons and wishes him all the best moving forward. Assistant coach Dick Fuhren will assume the role of interim head coach with immediate effect, remaining in charge until a permanent appointment is made."
The news spread quickly through the training ground, though it surprised no one. Doll had looked like a man already gone long before the axe fell.
The following morning, Dick Fuhren led the warm-ups as usual. Jin spotted Doll in the distance, walking alone toward the parking lot with a cardboard box under his arm.
No entourage.
No lingering goodbyes.
"He looks relieved," Jin said quietly.
"Probably feels like a weight's been lifted," Şahin replied. "He's been suffering lately."
"Is no one going to see him off?"
The players exchanged uncertain glances. None of them had thought to organize anything. All eyes turned to the captain.
Sebastian Kehl threw his hands up. "What are you looking at me for? I didn't know he was leaving this suddenly."
"Alright! Ladies! Eyes forward, back to training!"
Fuhren's whistle cut through the murmurs. The players returned to their drills, but the restlessness lingered. Fuhren understood it better now than he had a week ago. Sitting in the head coach's chair changed things. The pressure wasn't abstract—it was a physical weight that distorted judgment, made rational decisions feel impossible. He finally understood why Doll had made so many puzzling choices.
Now that weight was on Fuhren's shoulders. Eight points separated Dortmund from a Champions League spot. Four matches remained: Werder Bremen, Wolfsburg, Schalke 04, Bayern Munich. A gauntlet.
Half an hour earlier, CEO Watzke had told him not to worry about results.
"Securing Bundesliga survival this season is enough. European qualification is for the next coach to handle."
"Has the new coach been decided?"
"Yes. Jürgen Klopp, formerly of Mainz, will take over next month."
Fuhren had nodded, but the knot in his stomach hadn't loosened. Four brutal matches. He needed to steady the team until Klopp arrived, but he also couldn't afford to let them drift. He scanned the training pitch, his gaze settling on the young winger cutting through a set of cones.
Looks like I'll have to lean on him.
…
"Looks like I'm the only one who can carry us."
Şahin, Hummels, and Reus exchanged glances. They wanted to argue, but no one could come up with a convincing rebuttal.
If the goal was simply to avoid relegation, they'd have nothing to worry about. But that wasn't the goal. The Champions League dream had taken root earlier in the season, and even now—eight points adrift, four matches left—none of them wanted to let it go. The math was unforgiving: they needed at least three wins from four. For a team in turmoil, it was close to impossible.
But impossible didn't stop them from wanting to try.
Alexander Frei was still sidelined with his muscle strain, at least two more weeks away from returning. Dortmund had no reliable finisher. Jin could break down defenses, carve open space, create chances—but someone still had to put the ball in the net.
Fuhren had no tactical miracles to offer, so the players huddled among themselves to figure it out.
"Your finishing's not exactly clinical," Şahin said, without malice. "I'll make late runs. Hit a few from distance."
"I'll push up for set pieces," Hummels added.
"If I get minutes," Reus said cautiously, "I'll try to cause problems from the left."
Jin looked at each of them. "Fine. I'll create the chances. Whoever misses has to admit in front of the whole team that they're useless."
"Deal," Şahin said immediately.
A small laugh went through the group. The tension didn't disappear, but it eased, just enough.
These were all teams Jin had already beaten once this season. If he could do it before, he could do it again—maybe even complete the double. But he couldn't rely entirely on his teammates to score. He needed to carry more of the finishing burden himself.
Beyond his max-level technical ability, his game relied on three distinct effects:
Defensive Enhancement—triggered by anticipation and positioning, allowing him to intercept passes he had no right to reach. It had quietly made him effective on the wing defensively in the second half of the season.
Critical Pass—his signature weapon, activated after beating three defenders. It had fed Frei so many chances that the Swiss striker had climbed into the Bundesliga's top scorer race.
Causality Shooting Enhancement—the hardest to trigger. Jin had initially thought it required a certain threshold of dribbling difficulty, but experience had taught him it was more complex. The system seemed to weigh multiple factors: the complexity of the dribble, the game state, the timing. In stoppage time, with the team trailing, high-difficulty moves seemed to tip the scales.
The only time it had activated was against Schalke 04, facing Neuer's goal. Jin had used a flashy flick—a side-flip over an opponent's challenge—and lashed a shot that somehow, inexplicably, turned into a perfectly weighted lob. Neuer, one of the world's best, had been helpless.
That was Causality. It defied logic. A shot aimed at the corner flag could bend itself into the net.
Three days stood between now and Werder Bremen. Jin had a hypothesis about what truly triggered the effect—and he intended to test it.
If he was right, Dortmund's impossible run might not be so impossible after all.
….
"What are you thinking about? So focused."
A clear voice, bright as spring water, broke through Jin's thoughts. He'd left the training ground for afternoon classes, then walked the familiar route home without really seeing any of it. The upcoming matches cycled through his mind—Bremen, Wolfsburg, Schalke, Bayern. Four games. Eight points. The math refused to leave him alone.
Anna had been watching him since he walked into the classroom. He'd been distant all afternoon, lost in something she couldn't see. And then he'd left after the final bell without even waiting for her.
I always wait for him.
She'd followed a few paces behind, cheeks puffed in mild indignation, waiting to see how long it would take him to notice. They were nearly at his doorstep before she finally gave up.
"Huh?" Jin turned, surprised. "Why are you behind me? I was just thinking about the upcoming matches..."
Anna stood there, a single-lens camera hanging from a strap around her neck. Her expression shifted from annoyance to something softer. She'd guessed correctly—football was the only thing that pulled him this far away.
"Come on," Jin said, an apologetic smile crossing his face. "Let's walk home together."
Anna hesitated, then spoke quickly before she could lose her nerve. "C-could you help me with something...?"
"Of course."
He didn't even let her finish explaining. The easy agreement made her cheeks warm.
"Thank you."
Anna ducked her head slightly, her knees pressing together beneath her pleated skirt. Jin's gaze flickered—just for a moment—to her long legs and white socks before he caught himself. Old habits. An attacking player's instinct for space was hard to switch off.
A few seconds passed before Anna gathered herself, her blue eyes meeting his directly.
"You know I signed with that modeling agency, right? I have a print ad shoot coming up." She spoke quickly, as if rushing through something embarrassing. "I don't have much experience with photography, so I wanted to practice a little before the actual shoot..."
She trailed off, already regretting it. If Jin showed even a flicker of hesitation, she'd make an excuse and drop the whole thing.
"If it doesn't work out, it's fine—someone will guide me on the day anyway..."
"Give me the camera. Are we shooting here?"
"Huh? Well, that..."
"Oh." Jin glanced around the quiet street. "It's just taking pictures."
Anna's face flushed. "Then, then maybe we should go to my room?"
She looked around nervously, checking for any familiar faces from school.
…
Frank dragged himself through the front door, every muscle in his body complaining. Late-season injury crises were part of the job, but that didn't make them any easier. Between Frei's strain and the mounting knocks across midfield and defense, Frank had spent the entire day working as an unofficial massage therapist. Now he was the one who needed a rubdown.
He collapsed onto the sofa, eyes closed.
"Anna, can you get me some water?" He waited. No response. "Anna?"
She usually curled up in the corner of the sofa reading at this hour. Today, she was nowhere in sight.
"She came back with Jin. They're in her room," Hans said, not looking up from his beer and television.
Frank sat up slowly. "They're alone? In her room?"
"Yes, indeed."
Hans's easy expression shifted. A father's instincts stirred. His daughter, alone in her room with a boy her age? He started to rise from his chair, then paused mid-step.
"If it's Jin..." He thought about it. "Maybe it's not so bad."
"Let's just check," Frank said, already moving toward the stairs.
The two of them crept up like burglars, pressing their ears to Anna's bedroom door. A moment of silence, then muffled voices filtered through.
"Yes, just like that. Open your legs a bit more. Yes, that's right."
"This, this is so embarrassing..."
"It's nothing. You'll get used to it."
Hans and Frank exchanged a look. The color drained slightly from Hans's face.
"Should we stop them?" Frank whispered. "Isn't this a bit early?"
"If she let him in, it's her choice."
"But—"
"Forget it." Frank tugged his father's sleeve. "It was going to happen eventually. Let's go have a beer."
Hans hesitated, fist half-raised to knock. Then he let it drop.
Downstairs, he collapsed into his chair, staring at the ceiling. His little girl. Taken by some kid from abroad. He took a long pull from his beer and fixed his gaze on Anna's closed door.
"Jin," he muttered under his breath, "you'd better win a few more matches now."
…
Inside the room, Jin paused, camera in hand. He could have sworn he'd heard something from the hallway. Shrugging it off, he refocused.
"Never mind. Let's continue."
"Mm."
Anna's fair face was flushed, but she kept her head up. She took a few deep breaths, composing herself, and when she looked up again, her eyes had shifted. The nervous girl was gone. In her place was something cooler, more deliberate.
Jin's heart stuttered.
He raised the camera instinctively, framing her through the lens. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, catching the delicate curve of her jaw. She sat casually on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked beneath her, her posture relaxed yet precise—as if the pose had been waiting in her bones all along.
Click.
The image burned into the film. And into him.