The drive to La Turbie felt like floating through someone else's dream.
Monaco's roads curved through hills that dropped toward the Mediterranean. Expensive cars passed in the opposite direction—players heading home after morning training. Their faces registered in his borrowed memory bank—teammates he had never met but somehow knew.
The training complex rose from terraced slopes like a modern fortress. Glass and steel caught the sunlight, pristine pitches spreading below. This was where Europe's elite came to prepare for the biggest competitions.
Players clustered around the entrance, designer bags slung over their shoulders. Morientes talked animatedly with Pršo. Giuly stretched against a concrete wall. Evra checked his phone while Rothen gestured toward the practice fields.
They nodded when they saw him—respectful acknowledgments for the coach who had earned them this Champions League spot.
The weight of their expectations pressed against his chest.
Michel waited inside with a clipboard tucked under his arm. Other coaches gathered nearby—specialists who had helped build Monaco's tactical foundation. Their deference was evident in how they positioned themselves, waiting for guidance from the mastermind who had transformed the club's fortunes.
"Morning, Coach." Michel's tone carried familiar warmth. "Are you Ready to go over the European preparations?"
"Of course."
But the response felt hollow, like reading lines from a script he had never rehearsed.
The tactical room buzzed with quiet energy. Whiteboards were covered in formation diagrams, and video screens showed opponent analysis. Everything was organized with surgical precision.
References to "the system" came casually. The diamond formation that had unlocked stubborn defenses. The high press that had broken PSG's rhythm. Tactical innovations that bigger clubs were already copying.
His innovations. Except they weren't.
Players filtered onto the practice pitches with purposeful movements. There was no wasted energy, no confusion about roles or responsibilities, and this team knew exactly what their coach expected.
Giuly led warm-ups with the captain's authority. His touches were crisp and economical. Every movement demonstrated the technical standards Monaco demanded. Around him, teammates moved through familiar routines.
Rothen and Evra discussed overlapping runs near the touchline. Their conversation was tactical and sophisticated. They were players who understood complex concepts because someone had taught them properly.
Formation work flowed like choreography. The diamond midfield shifted seamlessly between attacking and defensive shapes. Players knew their triggers, rotations, and responsibilities.
They had been coached well by Yves Laurent.
"Your pressing system is working perfectly," Michel said, making notes on his clipboard. "The way we trapped Lyon's midfield was a masterpiece."
Demien nodded, though he had no memory of the match—just an inherited understanding of how the system functioned.
Players glanced toward him periodically, looking for familiar signals, tactical adjustments, and the declined communication that had become second nature under his guidance.
But every response felt delayed. Every instruction came a half-second slower than it should have.
Evra's eyes narrowed slightly during a passing drill. The left-back's experience showed in his reading of situations and his measurement of teammates and coaches.
"You're coaching differently today," Evra said quietly during a water break.
The words hit like cold water.
"Just focused on our European campaign."
"Maybe." But doubt lingered in Evra's voice.
Training continued with mechanical precision, using prosecuting systems that the team had internalized through months of repetition. The tactical foundation was solid, built by a coach who understood the game at its highest level.
A coach who wasn't standing on this touchline.
Michel approached as players began cooling down. "Are we having an FF meeting in twenty minutes? Do you want to review our Champions League group analysis?"
"Absolutely."
Another hollow response. Another moment where he felt like an actor playing a role without understanding the character.
The tactical board was covered in diagrams that looked familiar but felt foreign. Opposition scouting reports filled with details he should have compiled personally. Plans building on a tactical foundation he had supposedly created but couldn't fully remember constructing.
Giuly jogged toward the building, sweat darkening his training kit. The captain's sharp eyes measured everything—teammates, staff, tactical setups. He had earned his armband through years of leadership.
Those experienced eyes settled on the touchline. On the coach who had guided Monaco to Champions League qualification.
"Coach." July's voice carried respect and a hint of concern. "You you?"
The simple words hung in ween them—a captain's concern for the tactical mastermind who had delivered European football to Monaco.
"Fine. Just thinking about our upcoming matches."
Giuly studied him for another moment, then nodded and headed inside, leaving Demien alone with the weight of borrowed expectations and the growing certainty that someone as sharp as the Monaco captain wouldn't be fooled for long.