The sleek white hull of the high-speed Eurostar train glided smoothly into the cavernous, iron-arched hall of Gare du Nord in Paris.
It was Monday evening. Outside, a soft, autumn rain washed over the Boulevard de Magenta, reflecting the warm amber glows of Parisian streetlamps against the wet cobblestones.
While the main Manchester United squad traveled together under heavy security to their official team hotel near the Bois de Boulogne, Llori had been granted a strict, four-hour personal window by Erik ten Hag—a rare privilege earned through flawless discipline and early completion of his physical recovery protocol.
Stepping off the private carriage in a dark turtleneck, tailored black wool overcoat, and low-profile cap, Llori was immediately flanked by two discreet, muscular security guards provided by Nike.
FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!
Even through the VIP private exit, a cluster of French paparazzi had gathered behind the security barrier, their high-powered lenses clicking frantically into the night air.
"Llori! Llori! Over here!"
"Llori! Is it true about the Paris launch event?!"
"Look this way for L'Équipe!"
Llori kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, slipping into the back seat of a waiting black Mercedes-Maybach with tinted windows. The heavy door shut with a solid, airtight thud, instantly snuffing out the deafening roar of the city outside.
"The paparazzi situation in Paris is slightly more aggressive than Manchester, Mr. Farris," his French driver noted smoothly in accented English, merging into the glowing stream of evening traffic toward the 4th arrondissement.
Llori pulled out his phone. The screen was already glowing with media alerts:
L'Équipe: "The $250M Teenager Arrives in Paris: Can United’s New No. 7 Break Luis Enrique’s Fortress?"
Le Parisien: "Spotted at Gare du Nord: Llori Anna Farris swarmed by fans ahead of Parc des Princes clash."
A new WhatsApp message popped up at the top of his screen.
Elena:
“My cello rehearsal at the Philharmonie de Paris just wrapped up. I’m already at Le Grand Véfour. The terrace corner is completely private—no cameras can see past the ivy trellis. Don’t keep me waiting, No. 7.”
Llori smiled faintly, adjusting his coat collar as the Maybach pulled onto the historic Rue de Richelieu.
Tucked under the grand arcades of the Palais-Royal, Le Grand Véfour stood as an iconic masterpiece of French fine dining—its gold-leaf mirrors, velvet banquettes, and hand-painted 18th-century ceilings having hosted historical figures from Napoleon Bonaparte to Victor Hugo.
Llori was escorted through a private side entrance by the maître d', passing through a hidden doorway lined with silk curtains that led to an intimate, candlelit corner table overlooking the quiet inner gardens of the Palais-Royal.
Sitting by the window was Elena Vane.
She was stunning. She wore an elegant, emerald-green silk blouse with a tailored black blazer, her dark hair pinned up loosely with silver clips, revealing her long, graceful neck. A glass of chilled sparkling water rested near her hand as she read a leather-bound book under the warm candlelight.
As Llori stepped into the private alcove, she looked up, her emerald eyes catching the flickering flame of the candle.
"You managed to escape your entourage," she said, a playful smile gracing her lips as Llori took his seat opposite her. "I counted at least three news vans following black Maybachs down the Champs-Élysées on my way here."
"My security driver took a detour through the Place des Vosges," Llori replied softly, taking off his coat and hanging it over the back of his chair. "They were chasing an empty decoy car toward the Eiffel Tower."
"A tactical decoy off the pitch too?" Elena chuckled softly, leaning her chin on her hand, studying his face under the soft candlelight. "You really can't turn that analytical brain off, can you?"
"It works," Llori said calmly as the waiter poured two glasses of sparkling mineral water. "And it gives us a quiet dinner."
"It does," Elena murmured, her gaze softening as she took in his relaxed posture. "You look tired, Llori. Not physically... but the noise around you is getting loud, isn't it? The Nike deal, the British press, the French media... everyone wants a piece of the nineteen-year-old superstar."
Llori looked out the window at the rain trickling down the glass panes of the Palais-Royal.
"The noise doesn't bother me when I'm on the pitch," Llori explained quietly. "On the grass, everything is silent. There are no cameras, no contracts, no headlines. Just twenty-two men, a ball, and forty-five-degree passing angles. But outside..." He paused, looking back into her eyes. "...outside, people expect you to be something other than a footballer."
Elena reached across the table, her slender fingers resting gently over his hand. Her touch was warm, soft, and grounding.
"Then tonight, don't be a superstar," she said softly, her thumb making a small, comforting trace over his knuckles. "Don't be the $250 million man. Don't be Manchester United's Number 7. Just be Llori."
Llori looked down at her hand, then up into her eyes, feeling a genuine wave of peace wash over him—a rare moment where the crushing weight of the footballing world simply melted away.
"Thank you, Elena," Llori said quietly.
"Now," she smiled, pulling her hand back with a playful glint in her eyes, "tell me about Achraf Hakimi. My father says he's going to run you into the pitch tomorrow night."
Llori let out a rare, genuine laugh, shaking his head. "Your father has very little faith in my spatial timing."
"Prove him wrong tomorrow, then," she grinned, taking a delicate bite of her starter. "Because I intend to cheer very loudly from your family box."
By 10:15 PM, Llori returned to the private floor of the Manchester United team hotel in the Bois de Boulogne.
The quiet hallway smelled of clean linen and fresh air. As Llori walked toward his room, a door near the end of the hall swung open.
Erik ten Hag stood in the doorway, wearing his official club tracksuit, holding a tablet displaying heatmaps from PSG’s recent match against Marseille.
Ten Hag looked up, his sharp eyes taking in Llori’s calm demeanor.
"Did you enjoy your evening in Paris?" Ten Hag asked, his voice low and neutral.
"Yes, Boss," Llori replied honestly, stopping in front of his manager. "It was quiet."
Ten Hag nodded slowly. He stepped closer, placing a hand firmly on Llori’s shoulder.
"Good," Ten Hag said, his voice dropping an octave, filled with absolute focus. "Because tomorrow night, the quiet ends. Hakimi has played ninety minutes in every match this season. Luis Enrique spent his entire pre-match press conference talking about how they plan to physically isolate you on the touchline."
Ten Hag tapped Llori’s chest twice with his knuckles.
"Get your rest, Llori. Tomorrow, we show Paris who owns the grid."
"Understood, Boss," Llori said.
Llori walked into his hotel room, closing the door behind him. He walked over to the balcony, opening the glass door and stepping out into the cool Parisian night air. In the distance, across the glowing skyline of the city, the lights of the Parc des Princes shone brightly against the dark clouds.
Llori pulled out his phone one last time before turning it off for matchday.
A text from Elena sat on the screen:
“Sleep well, No. 7. See you under the lights tomorrow.”
Llori closed his eyes, taking a deep, slow breath of the cool night air. His pulse was steady, his mind crystal clear.
Paris was ready. And so was he.
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