The Monday morning rain over Carrington was thin, steady, and relentless, coating the dark asphalt of the training ground parking lot in a slick, shimmering sheen.
At precisely 7:45 AM—fifteen minutes ahead of his daily schedule—Llori stepped out of his sleek black sedan.
His boots hit the damp pavement with a light, measured step. He was dressed impeccably in his dark grey United travel suit, his umbrella held at an exact eighty-five-degree angle to shield his shoulders perfectly from the driving Manchester drizzle.
While the rest of the squad was likely still tangled in their bedsheets, recovering from the grueling physical toll of Sunday’s derby victory, Llori walked through the glass sliding doors of the main building with the exact same serene, unbothered posture he maintained before every match.
Inside the quiet medical wing, the ambient hum of recovery machinery whirred softly.
"You're early, Llori," a voice called out from the darkness of the hydrotherapy room.
Lisandro Martínez was sitting on the edge of the ice bath tub, his bare torso covered in purple recovery tape, holding a steaming mug of black coffee in both hands. His right knee was strapped tightly, but his face wore a deep, contented smirk.
"Punctuality is a static variable, Licha," Llori replied smoothly, hanging his umbrella on the metallic rack near the door.
"My internal circadian rhythm does not adjust for match outcome variances. How are your intercostal muscles?"
Lisandro took a slow, thoughtful sip of his coffee, wincing slightly as he shifted his weight.
"Feels like Haaland ran over me with a tractor," Lisandro chuckled, his dark eyes glinting with satisfaction.
"But every rib hurts with joy, my friend. Every single one."
Llori walked over to the digital biometric station, stepping onto the metal footplates to log his daily hydration and muscle density metrics.
"The blunt force impact you sustained in the thirty-eighth minute generated approximately four hundred and twenty newtons of force," Llori noted, staring at the glowing blue screen.
"Your structural integrity remains intact, though localized inflammation will peak in three hours. I recommend twenty minutes in the far-infrared sauna."
Lisandro shook his head, looking up at the ceiling with a raspy laugh.
"Four hundred newtons? You really have a number for everything, don't you?"
"Numbers eliminate ambiguity, Licha," Llori said softly, stepping off the scale and adjusting his collar.
"Ambiguity causes tactical errors."
Before Lisandro could respond, the heavy double doors of the medical wing swung open with a bang.
Bruno Fernandes strode into the room, wearing flip-flops, oversized United sweatpants, and a massive grin that stretched from ear to ear. He was holding two tablet computers under his arm and a half-eaten piece of avocado toast in his right hand.
"Morning, champions!" Bruno shouted loudly, his voice echoing off the tiled walls.
"Look at them! The wall and the computer! Already here before eight o'clock!"
"Lower your volume by six decibels, Bruno," Llori requested calmly without turning around.
"The acoustics in the hydrotherapy unit amplify sound waves by forty percent."
"I don't care about sound waves!" Bruno laughed, walking right up to Llori and slapping the back of his iPad against Llori's arm.
"Have you seen the newspaper headlines this morning? Have you seen what the press in Madrid and Lisbon are writing about you?"
Llori picked up his clean training kit from his locker.
"Media narratives are sensationalized constructs designed to generate advertising revenue, Bruno," Llori answered in his level tone.
"They carry zero analytical weight."
"Listen to this, Licha," Bruno ignored Llori entirely, tapping the screen of his tablet with his thumb to read aloud in a dramatic, theatrical voice:
"'The Portuguese Architect Who Silenced Pep Guardiola. Llori’s masterclass in spatial dominance leaves Manchester City searching for answers.' They're calling you 'The Matrix Midfielder' in L'Équipe!"
Lisandro let out a low whistle from the ice bath.
"The Matrix Midfielder? That actually sounds terrifying."
"It is mathematically inaccurate," Llori remarked calmly, pulling his red training top over his head.
"A matrix is a rectangular array of numbers arranged in rows and columns. I am a central defensive midfielder operating within a fluid positional system."
Bruno stared at Llori for three full seconds, took a bite of his avocado toast, and then pointed his finger at him.
"You see? This is why you're crazy. Absolute psycho. Come on, Erik wants us in the analysis room at nine sharp. He's already gone through the first-half footage three times."
By 8:55 AM, the entire squad had gathered inside Carrington's state-of-the-art video theater.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the massive high-definition projector screen at the front and the soft glow of individual tactical tablets mounted on each leather seat.
Erik ten Hag stood at the front of the room, holding a laser pointer, his face serious despite the triumphant mood hanging over the club. Steve McClaren sat beside him, tapping away on a laptop.
"Quiet down," Erik said, his firm voice instantly cutting through the lingering chatter.
The room fell completely silent.
Erik pressed a button, freezing a frame from the twenty-second minute of Sunday’s match—the exact moment Llori had intercepted Bernardo Silva’s lateral pass before launching the counter-attack for Rashford’s near-miss.
"Look at this image," Erik instructed, sweeping the red laser dot across the frozen pitch.
"Most central midfielders in Europe would be watching Bernardo’s eyes here. What is Llori watching?"
Erik clicked the remote, zooming in on Llori’s body orientation.
"He isn't watching Bernardo's eyes," Erik explained, looking around the room at Garnacho, Mainoo, and Rashford.
"He is monitoring the distance between Bernardo's left knee and Rodri's hip. The moment that gap exceeds 2.1 meters, the pass becomes inevitable. Llori doesn't react to the pass—he arrives before the ball is kicked."
Kobbie Mainoo leaned forward in his leather seat, studying the image intently.
"How did you know Bernardo was going to turn back inside, Llori?" Kobbie asked, turning his head toward Llori, who sat two rows back.
"Bernardo's left-foot dominance dictates a seventy-eight percent bias toward inward turns when pressed from the right touchline, Kobbie," Llori explained smoothly in the dark room.
"Furthermore, his body angle was tilted six degrees to the rear, indicating an inability to execute a forward line-breaking pass. The lateral pass to Rodri was the only statistically viable option."
The room remained dead quiet for two seconds before Alejandro Garnacho burst out laughing.
"Bro, I swear he's a robot," Garnacho whispered to Marcus Rashford.
"He's analyzing Bernardo Silva's knee angles!"
"Quiet, Ale," Steve McClaren chimed in with a grin.
"If you analyzed knee angles, you wouldn't have been caught offside twice in the second half!"
The entire room erupted into loud laughter, with Casemiro slapping his thigh and Bruno tossing a crumpled piece of paper at Garnacho's head.
Erik allowed a rare, brief smile to touch his lips before clearing his throat to regain control.
"Laugh all you want, boys," Erik said firmly.
"But this level of preparation is why we are three points off the top of the table today. Now, turn your attention to the sixty-fifth minute. We have things to correct."
The tactical screen switched to the sixty-fifth minute, flickering with raw video data as the rain swept across Old Trafford on the display.
Erik ten Hag paused the video frame, highlighting the defensive shape during Jeremy Doku’s third inner dribble.
"Here," Erik pointed the red laser dot directly between the space left by Diogo Dalot and Casemiro.
"When Doku drives inside, our central compactness drops by almost two meters. Llori, you covered this gap, but Casemiro was late in shifting your cover shadow."
Casemiro leaned forward, scratching his chin with a low grin.
"Boss, I was covering De Bruyne’s phantom run," Casemiro said in his deep, heavy accent.
"If I leave Kevin, he scores. Llori told me to stay!"
"I advised a spatial delay of point four seconds, Case," Llori clarified, his voice smooth and utterly devoid of hesitation.
"Your movement was accurate, but your initial orientation was turned three degrees too far toward the touchline, which delayed your horizontal recovery."
Casemiro turned his head slowly, looking at Llori with wide, exaggerated eyes.
"Three degrees?" Casemiro repeated, bursting into a loud, booming laugh that shook his shoulders.
"My friend, I have won five Champions Leagues with three degrees of error!"
"And with three degrees of perfection, you would have won six, Case," Llori replied instantly without breaking eye contact.
The entire analysis room exploded into chaos.
Marcus Rashford covered his face with both hands, shaking with silent laughter.
Antony leaned over his chair, banging on the armrest, while Lisandro Martínez shouted in Spanish from the front row.
"BOOM! HE GOT YOU, CASE! HE GOT YOU!" Lisandro yelled, throwing his hands in the air.
Erik ten Hag stroked his chin, trying desperately to suppress the visible twitch of a smile on his face, before tapping his pen against the clipboard.
"Okay, okay," Erik said, attempting to restore order.
"Enough. The point is valid. Precision in our structural transitions is what separates us from City over a thirty-eight-game season."
The video session concluded twenty minutes later, and the players began filing out of the darkened auditorium toward the main training pitches.
Outside, the Manchester drizzle had settled into a soft, misty fog that hung low over the manicured grass.
Llori walked out onto the pitch alongside Kobbie Mainoo, both holding water bottles.
"Llori," Kobbie said quietly, looking down at his boots as they jogged.
"When you made that nutmeg on Kovacic... did you calculate that before he sprinted, or was it pure instinct?"
Llori maintained his steady, rhythmic jogging pace, his breathing completely light and controlled.
"Instinct is merely subconscious calculation operating at a speed higher than deliberate thought, Kobbie," Llori answered smoothly.
"Kovacic's center of gravity shifted forward at an angle of seventy-one degrees during his approach. His momentum made it physically impossible for him to close his legs within point three seconds. The space was an open mathematical truth."
Kobbie shook his head, a soft smile touching the corner of his lips.
"An open mathematical truth," Kobbie murmured under his breath.
"I'm going to try that in training today."
"Ensure your ankle flexibility matches the friction coefficient of the grass, Kobbie," Llori added dryly.
"Otherwise, you will lose balance and look foolish in front of Steve."
The tactical drills lasted for nearly two hours, focusing heavily on quick passing patterns under high-intensity pressure.
Llori operated in the center of every possession grid, moving like an invisible pendulum.
He rarely ran at top speed, yet he was always precisely where the ball needed to go next, receiving it on the half-turn, laying it off with one touch, and subtly shifting two steps to the left to create another passing lane.
After training, as the rest of the squad headed toward the canteen for lunch, Llori remained on Pitch 1, collecting stray balls and placing them neatly into the wire mesh ball bag.
Steve McClaren walked over, a thermos of tea in hand, steam rising into the cold air.
"You don't need to pick up the balls, Llori," Steve said gently, taking a sip from his mug.
"The kit staff handle that."
"Organizing objects into their designated containers reduces visual clutter and promotes mental equilibrium, Steve," Llori replied, zipping up the ball bag with a precise, clean pull.
Steve chuckled softly, looking out over the empty, rain-slicked pitches.
"Great match yesterday, son. Truly. I've seen a lot of midfielders pass through this club over thirty years. Very few command the rhythm of a derby like you did."
Llori stood up straight, his grey eyes calm as he looked at the veteran coach.
"Thank you, Steve. However, rhythm is dynamic. Yesterday's victory provides zero statistical advantage for our upcoming fixture against Arsenal."
"That's what I love about you," Steve smiled, patting Llori on the shoulder.
"You never get drunk on the noise."
By 1:30 PM, the main dining hall at Carrington was filled with the warm scent of grilled salmon, steamed vegetables, and fresh espresso.
Llori sat at his usual table near the glass window overlooking the courtyard, his plate arranged with strict nutritional balance: precisely two hundred grams of poached chicken breast, one hundred and fifty grams of brown rice, and a measured portion of steamed broccoli.
Bruno Fernandes slid into the chair opposite him, placing a large bowl of pasta on the table.
"Elena called me earlier," Bruno said casually, twirling his fork into the spaghetti.
Llori paused, his fork hovering three centimeters above his plate.
He slowly lowered it, looking up at Bruno.
"Elena called you?" Llori asked, his voice retaining its calm cadence, though his eyes narrowed slightly.
"For what reason?"
"Relax, Professor," Bruno grinned, leaning forward with a conspiratorial wink.
"She was asking about your schedule for Thursday evening. She wants to know if you're free after recovery training."
"My schedule is fully digitized and shared on our joint calendar system," Llori noted smoothly.
"She has full access to my availability metrics."
"Yeah, but she wanted to know if you'd be 'mentally available,' Llori," Bruno emphasized, raising his eyebrows.
"Not just physically present. There's a difference, you know? Human beings aren't spreadsheets."
Llori looked out the window at the rain tapping softly against the glass pane.
A rare, extremely subtle shift occurred in his expression—a softening of the lines around his brow.
"Mental availability is dependent on processing load," Llori admitted softly, his voice dropping an octave.
"However... when I am with Elena, my cognitive processing load shifts entirely to her presence. It is a highly efficient state."
Bruno stopped chewing, staring at Llori in genuine surprise.
Then, a warm, affectionate smile broke across the captain's face.
"Look at you," Bruno whispered, shaking his head.
"The cold-blooded machine is actually in love."
"Love is an emotional state driven by neurochemical reactions, Bruno," Llori countered immediately, though his gaze remained fixed on the rain outside.
"Specifically oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin operating in synchronized harmony."
"Call it whatever chemical you want, my friend," Bruno laughed softly, reaching across the table to pat Llori's forearm.
"Just make sure you take her somewhere nice on Thursday. No football talk. No tactical data. Just you and her."
Llori turned his head back toward Bruno, his expression serene, resolute, and quietly grounded.
"That condition has already been integrated into my planning parameters, Bruno," Llori said softly.
"She is my priority."
Later that evening, the Carrington complex grew quiet as the floodlights flickered off one by one, plunging the green pitches into shadows.
Llori walked out to his sedan, carrying his leather sports bag over his shoulder.
The rain had finally stopped, leaving the cool Manchester air crisp, fresh, and clear.
He opened the driver's door, settled into the leather seat, and started the engine.
The dashboard lights glowed softly, casting a warm blue hue across his calm face.
Before putting the car in drive, Llori pulled his phone from his coat pocket and unlocked the screen.
A single notification was waiting for him.
Elena: "Saw the highlights again. You were brilliant yesterday. Dinner at 7:00 PM on Thursday? No data allowed."
Llori looked at the message for a long moment.
His thumb hovered over the screen as he typed back his response with steady, deliberate care.
Llori: "Data suppressed. Reservation confirmed. I will arrive at precisely 6:58 PM."
He locked the phone, placed it neatly in the center console, and pulled out of the parking lot onto the quiet road.
The derby was won. The tactical debrief was complete.
And as the city of Manchester slept beneath the quiet night sky, Llori drove home, his heart beating at a perfectly stable, peaceful forty-two beats per minute.
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