[Lukas's PoV]

The weakly flickering garden lights seemed to mock my fate tonight. I sat, slumped on a park bench with peeling paint, letting the night breeze touch my tired face. My last bottle of wine was empty—much like my life at the moment. I threw the bottle toward the nearest trash can, but it missed, the sound of its shattering echoing in the silent park, similar to my career that had crumbled into pieces.

"Damn," I muttered, looking up at the starry night sky. They blurred and swayed before my eyes, taunting me as my head pounded. That old man—the shop owner who chased me away just because I fell asleep in front of his shop as if I were some trash sullying his faded display window.

The alcohol started to work through my body, warming my blood and blurring the harsh reality that haunted me. The Jakarta night was no longer bitterly cold; maybe I was numb, or maybe I was just too tired to care. The park was deserted—only me and memories that wouldn’t leave.

I closed my eyes, hoping to sink into unconsciousness for a while, escaping reality—a skill I'd become good at recently. But, like all my other plans, even this simple wish wouldn’t come easily.

"Lukas Satria."

The voice broke the silence of my night—firm yet gentle, like water splitting a rock. Without opening my eyes, I knew the owner of the voice was standing right in front of me. The faint scent of vanilla tickled my nose, mixing with the stench of alcohol that emanated from me. I chose to stay silent, pretending to be asleep. Sorry, but meeting someone who knows me in this state would only add to my long list of regrets.

Seconds passed in silence. I thought she’d give up, leaving me alone with my darkness. But I was wrong. I opened one eye, peeking—and there she was, still standing with a gaze as sharp as a knife.

"Get up, you jerk. Do you think I’m stupid?"

BAM!

Without warning, she kicked the bench right next to my head. This rusty old iron bench shook, sending a bang that startled the night birds. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes fully—my pathetic act had been totally exposed.

"Caught me, huh?" I gave a shy grin, scratching my head for no reason.

Now I really looked at her. Her face was beautiful in a unique way—like a porcelain doll that could kill. Her brown eyes stared sharply, contrasting with her caramel-colored hair tied in two ponytails. She was petite—no more than 150 cm—but her presence filled the entire space around her. She wore full athletic attire, a training jacket and fitted pants, showing she was no stranger to physical activity. Her twin-tail hairstyle should’ve made her look childish, but somehow, it made her seem more intimidating.

"I knew it." A satisfied smile spread across her face, like a cat that had caught a mouse. At least she took her foot off the bench.

"Why is a middle schooler like you wandering around at this hour?" I asked with a deliberately sleepy tone. Her tiny figure clearly screamed 'underage.' As messed up as my life was, I still cared enough to not let a kid follow in my footsteps. "Go home, or your parents will worry. Besides, I’ve got nothing you can take."

Her face turned red instantly, like a tomato ready to explode. "How dare you! Who are you calling a middle schooler, HUH?!" She pointed at my face with her tiny finger, trembling with anger. "I graduated from college a year ago!"

"Oh." I blinked. Really? But... it seemed impossible.

"You don’t believe me, do you?!" She pouted, her cheeks puffing like a squirrel storing nuts.

"I believe you." A complete lie.

"Good." She smiled with satisfaction—so innocent. I doubted her age even more. She straightened up, folding her arms across her chest in a pose that tried to look professional. "Alright, let me introduce myself. My name is Arunika Asteria, and I’m here to offer you a job."

"A job?"

"Yes." Aru—the nickname I instantly created in my mind—nodded proudly, like a child who had just scored a hundred on a test. "I want you—"

"I refuse!" I cut her off with a wide yawn.

"Damn it, listen to me until the end!" She stomped her feet in frustration.

"Fine, fine..." I raised my hands in surrender.

"Good!" She snorted like a bull ready to charge. "I want to recruit you as a coach for my father’s soccer club!"

"And why me?" I raised an eyebrow, looking at her skeptically.

She pointed her little but menacing finger at my face. "Because we believe you’re the right person for the job."

We? So there were more people behind this crazy plan. "Someone like me is the right person?" A cynical laugh escaped my lips. "You must be joking."

"A professional like you, someone who once conquered Europe—your experience is invaluable!" Her eyes sparkled as if she were talking about a hidden treasure, not a former soccer player washed up on a park bench. "We believe you can share your knowledge with our players and restore the club’s glory!" Her voice was full of enthusiasm, like a flame that refused to be extinguished. "Someone with your experience can turn a 'pile of stones' into 'a precious jewel'!"

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I yawned again, looking at her with a weary gaze. Excessive optimism always made me nauseous—maybe because I’d forgotten what it felt like to have hope.

"You’re wrong about two things, miss." I stood up from the park bench, towering over her. Though she was small, she didn’t back down an inch. "First, I’m no longer a pro—not since five years ago. And second," I gave a faint, bitter smile, "I have no interest in working in this industry again." I walked past her, patting her shoulder lightly. "Goodbye, little miss."

"W-wait!" The sound of small footsteps chased me from behind. I turned, slightly pitying her as she ran with her short legs, trying hard to catch up with me. I stopped.

"What now?"

Panting like a tired puppy, she shouted, "Are... are you really sure you don’t want it?"

I nodded firmly.

"300 million!" Her shout broke the night silence, causing some birds to fly away in shock from the nearest tree. "We’ll pay you 300 million per season!"

I blinked. "Seriously?"

She nodded with a determination as solid as stone. Her eyes met mine straight on, with no doubt in them.

I rubbed my chin, thinking for a moment. 300 million per season meant 25 million a month—not bad. "Interesting," I smirked. "Alright, I accept your offer."

Her face lit up like the morning sun. "Really?"

I nodded. "But, on one condition."

"Condition?" Her brows furrowed in confusion.

I looked at her seriously. "I want full freedom when coaching. I mean, no interference in training methods, player selection, transfer matters, and so on." I held out my hand, waiting for her response. "Deal?"

She hesitated for a moment, seeming to weigh things up. Her eyes narrowed, as if she were solving a complex puzzle. Finally, after a long sigh, she shook my hand. Her hand was small and warm, contrasting with my cold, rough one. "Alright, deal."

I grinned broadly, chuckling softly. "Nice doing business with you, little miss!"

---

[Arunika's PoV]

Under the dim park lights, that figure looked like a shadow from the past—Lukas Satria, a former soccer legend now trapped in a spiral of his own downfall. Standing before him felt like looking at a faded painting; its brilliant colors had dulled, replaced by strokes of sadness and despair.

The sharp scent of alcohol wafted from his body, dancing with the cold night wind that pierced to the bone. It was hard to believe that the man slumped on the park bench was the same person who once made European stadiums roar with his name. But here I was, trying to convince the remnants of this legend to rise again, to give new hope to my father’s small club.

"Lukas Satria." His name felt heavy on my tongue. He lifted his head slightly, like a lazy cat disturbed from its nap, then closed his eyes again. Pretending to sleep—a trick too easy for me to guess. A cold breeze blew, bringing with it the scent of the garden mixed with the pungent smell of alcohol from his body. For a moment, doubt crept into my heart—was this really the person we were looking for?

A few seconds passed in a tense silence. My patience—which was never in large supply—began to wear thin. He was clearly listening but too stubborn or too drunk to respond. "Wake up, jerk. Do you think I’m stupid?" The harsh words slipped from my lips, perhaps not fitting my small figure that often made people underestimate me. Without thinking, I lifted my foot and slammed it on the bench right beside his head. The clanging sound of rusty metal shattered the night silence.

Lukas opened his eyes lazily, a shy grin spreading across his pale lips. "Caught, huh?" he muttered like a child caught stealing candy.

I smiled in satisfaction, though still fuming inside. Good, now he couldn’t avoid me. I observed him more closely—his messy hair looked like a bird’s nest, his wrinkled shirt smelled like a cheap bar, and his eyes, once surely brimming with ambition, now dimmed like a dying light. But behind all the chaos, I could see traces of the figure that once made the soccer world bow down.

After a small argument that made me want to kick more than just a park bench, I finally introduced myself and stated my purpose. "So, I want to recruit you as a coach at my father’s soccer club," I said firmly, trying to sound more mature than I might appear.

His expression shifted from lazy to disbelief. He even dared to assume I was a middle schooler! My blood boiled, and I unconsciously shouted in defense, "I graduated from college, you know?!" Maybe my reaction was excessive, but it was truly annoying always being mistaken for a kid just because of my... compact frame.

Lukas nodded half-heartedly, still clearly disbelieving. But I didn’t care. What mattered now was convincing him. I explained how his incredible experience in Europe could be a treasure for our club, how he could share his knowledge with young players hungry for guidance. My voice was full of hope—perhaps too optimistic for someone speaking to a drunk man in a dark park, but hey, sometimes miracles start in unexpected places, right?

However, like ice melting in the heat, my hope began to fade as he rose from the bench. With a cold, piercing tone, he looked at me and said, "You’re wrong in two things, miss. First, I’m no longer a pro—not since five years ago. And second, I have no interest in working in this industry again." Then, as if dismissing a stray dog, he patted my shoulder and turned to leave. "Goodbye, little miss."

No. This couldn’t end just like that.

"Wa-wait!" My feet moved on their own, running after him. Damn, why did he have such long legs? Each of his steps was like three of mine. Luckily, either out of pity or laziness, he stopped.

"What now?"

Panting like an exhausted puppy, I shouted, "Are... are you really sure you don’t want it?"

He nodded, as cold as ice.

Alright. Time to pull out the ace—or maybe, more accurately, the suicide card. "300 million!" My voice shattered the night silence like thunder. "We’ll pay you 300 million per season!"

Finally, there was a spark of interest in his dull eyes. "Serious?"

I nodded firmly, trying to hide the cold sweat starting to drip. God, my father would kill me. Our club's budget wasn’t that big, but... if it meant getting Lukas Satria, maybe it would be worth it. Anyway, I could figure out how to convince my father later. Right now, what mattered was getting this man to say 'yes.'

After a moment that felt like a century, he finally gave a faint smile. "Alright, I accept your offer."

My heart leaped. "Really?"

He nodded but then raised his index finger. "But, on one condition."

"Condition?" My stomach started to churn.

"I want full freedom when coaching. No interference in training methods, player selection, transfer matters, and so on." He held out his hand. "Deal?"

I froze, my mind whirling like a spinning top. Full freedom? My father had always kept a tight grip on the club—every decision had to go through him. This club was his life, a legacy from my grandfather that he guarded like treasure. But... looking at Lukas, I knew this was the only chance. He was like a wild cat—too in love with his freedom to be restrained.

After a long sigh that felt like lifting a ton of weight, I shook his large, rough hand. "Alright, deal."

Lukas grinned widely, chuckling softly. "Nice doing business with you, little miss!"

I returned his handshake, trying to ignore the sense of dread gnawing at my heart. Now, I just had to convince my father that my crazy decision was for the best—that Lukas Satria, a former legend now more familiar with a bottle than a ball, was the key to reviving our club from the slump.

God, I hope I’m not making a mistake.