The roar of Stade Bollaert-Delelis was a living thing—a 40,000-throated beast that smelled blood in the air. Lens' ultras had painted the city red and gold for days, their banners hanging from every lamppost, their graffiti staining the walls:
**AFRICAN DOGS GET PUT DOWN HERE.**
Ibukun stepped onto the pitch, and the hate hit him like a wall.
---
### **The War of Attrition**
From the first whistle, Lens came for him.
Zaitsev, their hulking right-back, didn't even pretend to play the ball. His first challenge was a knee to the thigh, the second an elbow disguised as a leap. The referee waved play on.
The System adjusted in real time.
***ADAPTIVE PROTOCOL***
→ **Opponent Strategy:** Targeted aggression (Career-ending intent detected)
→ **Countermeasure:** Low-center dribbling (Force Zaitsev to bend)
→ **Secondary:** Draw fouls near touchline (Exploit weak assistant referee)
It worked.
By the 25th minute, Zaitsev was breathing like a broken engine, his kit drenched in sweat. Ibukun's feints had him lunging at ghosts.
Then—the breakthrough.
A quick one-two with David, a burst of acceleration that left Zaitsev grasping at air, and suddenly, the entire Lens defense was backpedaling in panic. The finish was cold, clinical—bottom corner, no celebration. Just a slow walk back to midfield as the stadium fell silent.
**0-1, Lille.**
---
### **The Syndicate Watches**
High in the VIP box, a figure in dark glasses leaned forward, his phone pressed to his ear.
*"He's better than the tapes,"* the man murmured in Russian.
Across from him, a woman in a pinstripe suit crossed her legs, her sharp heels catching the light. Her gaze never left Ibukun.
---
### **The Second Half Crucible**
Lens' manager lost his mind at halftime. Three substitutions before the restart, all midfield enforcers. Their instructions were clear: break Lille's spine.
The tackles came harder, dirtier.
- **Minute 53:** A two-footed lunge that should've been red. Yellow.
- **Minute 61:** A "stray" elbow that split Ibukun's lip. No call.
- **Minute 78:** A tactical foul that finally earned Zaitsev his second yellow.
Through it all, Ibukun played like a man possessed.
The second goal was a masterpiece—a slaloming run through four defenders, capped with a chip so audacious the Lens keeper didn't even move.
**0-2, Lille.**
The final whistle brought chaos. Lens' ultras rained bottles onto the pitch. Lille's players sprinted for the tunnel.
Only Ibukun walked, his face a mask of calm as blood dripped from his lip.
---
### **The Offer**
The woman in the pinstripe suit was waiting outside the locker room.
Up close, she was even more striking—mid-30s, her dark hair pulled into a ruthless bun, her curves barely contained by the tailored fabric. The scent of jasmine and gunpowder clung to her.
*"Mr. Okoche,"* she said, extending a manicured hand. *"Valentina Sokolova. I handle futures."*
The System scanned her instantly.
***IDENTITY CONFIRMED***
→ **Affiliation:** Independent (Formerly Zenit St. Petersburg)
→ **Reputation:** "The Icebreaker" (Top 5 most feared agents in Europe)
→ **Weakness:** None detected (Caution: High intelligence)
*"You're wasting your time with Lille,"* she continued, her Russian accent softening the edges of her words. *"I could put you at Juventus. Bayern. Real Madrid."*
Ibukun wiped the blood from his mouth. *"Why?"*
Valentina smiled, slow and dangerous. *"Because men like you make women like me very rich."*
She slid a card into his jersey pocket, her fingers lingering just a second too long.
*"Think about it. Or don't. But know this—Marseille's dogs won't stop biting just because you won a derby."*
Then she was gone, her heels clicking like a countdown.
---
### **The Decision**
Back in his hotel room, Ibukun stared at the card.
**VALENTINA SOKOLOVA**
**Player Representation & Strategic Dominance**
The System projected scenarios:
***AGENT ANALYSIS***
→ **Pros:** Top-tier club access, contract maximization, threat neutralization
→ **Cons:** High autonomy loss, 20% commission standard
→ **Warning:** Possible syndicate ties (Unconfirmed)
Outside, the city burned with Lens' fury. Somewhere in the dark, Marseille's warlords were watching.
And Valentina's perfume still hung in the air.
---