My Ultimate Gacha System

"See you tomorrow."

Demien understood immediately.

Paris.

Less than twenty-four hours after the two of them had directly produced all six goals in a 3-3 Manchester derby.

He gave Haaland a tired grin. "Yeah."

They separated toward their own teams, nothing more needed than that.

His shirt was soaked through, his breathing still heavy, his legs carrying the full weight of ninety-plus minutes against City.

He glanced once toward Ederson’s goal — his stoppage-time shot had been fingertips away from making it 4-3.

A United media officer intercepted him before the tunnel.

He assumed he was being pointed inside.

"Broadcast wants you for a short one," she said instead.

Demien closed his eyes for half a second before turning toward the pitchside position.

The derby’s altered scoreline was already up behind the interview boards.

MANCHESTER UNITED 3-3 MANCHESTER CITY

HAALAND — 26’ PEN, 49’

WALTER — 39’, 61’

FODEN — 80’

HØJLUND — 88’

"You came from behind twice tonight — does a point feel like a fair result?"

"No," Demien said. "We showed character, coming back twice like that. But when you’ve got a chance to win a derby in stoppage time and you don’t take it, there’s still frustration in that. A draw’s a draw."

"Two goals and an assist for you tonight. Two goals and an assist for Haaland. Is there anything between the two of you?"

Demien almost laughed, knowing exactly what headline they wanted. "Yeah," he said. "He probably thinks he should’ve had three. I think I should’ve had three."

The interviewer laughed properly at that.

"Both of you are expected in Paris tomorrow — does that make tonight feel even stranger?"

Demien glanced toward the stadium rather than answering straight away. "Tomorrow’s tomorrow," he said. "Right now I’m still annoyed we didn’t win this."

The interview ended there.

Reporters shouted as he crossed the tunnel.

"Demien, Paris tomorrow?"

"Was that your best United performance?"

"Walter, what did Haaland say to you?"

He answered none of it — Marco’s rules were strict this close to Paris: no ranking predictions, no comparisons with Haaland or Mbappé or Bellingham, no biting on bait.

The dressing room carried a strange mood, alive from the comeback, frustrated at never having led, exhausted from City’s relentless control.

Onana sat with a towel over his head after denying Haaland again and again.

Maguire was still going over the second goal with Evans.

Bruno ripped his tape off more aggressively than necessary.

Højlund sat somewhere between hating himself for the penalty and loving himself for the eighty-eighth minute.

Demien dropped onto the bench.

Højlund eventually sat beside him. "You know I’m blaming you for that pass," he said.

Demien looked over. "You scored."

"Exactly. Now I have to hear about it all week."

Demien laughed despite himself.

Højlund’s tone shifted. "Thanks for trusting the run," he said. "After everything earlier."

"The run was there," Demien said. Nothing more than that.

Onana passed close by, and Demien caught his wrist. "Without you, he probably has a hat-trick today."

"Without your goals, we lose anyway," Onana said, and kept walking.

Ten Hag’s debrief stayed short — he acknowledged the fight, then reminded them City had too much sustained possession, too many repeated entries through the same patterns. Three goals scored didn’t erase three conceded. No individual speeches. Recovery started immediately.

Sunday evening moved in snapshots — the television at home running DERBY CLASSIC: UNITED 3-3 CITY, his phone lighting up with WALTER AND HAALAND TRADE BLOWS BEFORE PARIS, then 2 GOALS + 1 ASSIST EACH, then NO WINNER IN MANCHESTER. WHAT HAPPENS IN PARIS?

One pundit argued Haaland remained the proven global benchmark after his historic treble season.

Another pointed out Demien had produced identical direct output from central midfield.

A third shut it down. "Monday’s vote can’t possibly change because of Sunday’s derby," he said. "That’s a completed evaluation period, not whatever happened the night before the ceremony."

Demien switched it off once the panel turned it into a duel.

The room went quiet.

His phone buzzed again.

Marco: Recovery tomorrow morning. Car after. Don’t be late. Paris will not wait because your legs hurt.

He smiled despite himself.

He put the Italy match ball and the derby shirt somewhere visible but separate, no dramatic staring at trophies he hadn’t won yet.

Sleep came easily — his body too exhausted to leave room for award nerves.

Monday, October 30th, he woke sore rather than injured, calves stiff on first standing, one fresh bruise from a City challenge, shoulders tight from the constant contact.

The stiffness eased once he moved.

Notifications already filled his phone.

He didn’t open them.

Recovery came first.

Carrington ran him through hydration assessment, mobility work, light cycling, soft-tissue treatment, contrast recovery, a check of every knock from the derby.

No football. No mission. No reward panel — this was routine, not progression.

The staff found no injury, just a body carrying an extremely demanding ninety-plus minutes.

"You wearing the derby boots to the ceremony?" Højlund asked from the next bike.

"I’ll throw one at you if you keep talking," Demien said.

"Would the Kopa fit in your locker?" Onana asked.

"There’s nothing to put in it yet," Demien said.

Nobody in the room actually knew anything.

Marco called while Demien finished treatment. "Rankings thirty through eleven start at 17:15," he said. "Red carpet’s around 19:05, ceremony proper starts 20:45. There’s no lazy afternoon here — recovery, change, travel, hotel, and the rankings are already running while you’re getting dressed."

"Sophia and Isabella both confirmed?" Demien asked.

"Confirmed," Marco said. "You’ve got everything you need?"

"Yeah."

"Suit sorted?"

"Yeah."

"Sophia’s seen the suit?"

Demien paused.

"That’s a no, then," Marco said.

Sophia was waiting when the car pulled up, and she looked at the way he got out before saying anything.

"You look terrible," she said.

"Good to see you too."

"I’m serious."

"So am I."

"Anything actually injured?" she asked.

"No."

She asked again, watching him more carefully this time.

"Just sore," he said, and walked a few steps to prove it.

She accepted it.

"Two goals, one assist, and you’re still complaining because Ederson stopped the third," she said.

"That’s a perfectly valid reason to complain."

"You’ve been compared to Haaland for less than a day and you’re already more annoying," she said.

"Did you come all this way just to insult me?"

"I haven’t even started," Sophia said.

Isabella was flying in separately from Italy, meeting them straight at the Paris hotel.

On the flight, Demien checked his phone, locked it, and five minutes later checked it again.

"What are you checking?" Sophia asked.

"Nothing," he said, thumb already on the football scores.

She looked directly at the screen.

He locked it again.

He didn’t seriously expect to win the senior Ballon d’Or — Messi, Haaland, Mbappé, De Bruyne were all still in that conversation. What he didn’t know was where among the thirty he’d land, whether last season’s Atalanta form had carried him into the top twenty, whether he’d actually beaten Bellingham and the rest of the Kopa field.

The derby hadn’t changed any of it, and he knew that.

Paris moved past the windows in traffic, event cars, a hotel entrance already thick with security and cameras, Ballon d’Or branding starting to appear on every screen the city had.

Isabella was waiting in the lobby.

She hugged him before she’d properly looked at him, then pulled back and immediately found the bruise.

"What happened here?"

"Ninety minutes against Manchester City happened," he said.

That wasn’t a satisfying answer to her at all.

Isabella and Sophia greeted each other warmly, no tension in it.

"Have you inspected what he’s planning to wear?" Isabella asked Sophia.

"About to," Sophia said.

Demien realized he’d been outnumbered.

The suite filled with the practical pieces of the evening — formalwear laid out, shoes polished, his watch on the dresser, hair getting checked, an event lanyard and schedule card on the table, Marco moving between two phone calls at once, the television running L’Équipe’s day-long Ballon d’Or coverage.

Demien tried to focus on getting dressed.

Then the rankings began.

The graphic changed. 30 — RÚBEN DIAS.

Demien glanced over, then away.

27 — BARELLA. 26 — MUSIALA. 25 — GVARDIOL. 24 — SAKA.

Marco started reading them aloud even though the television was doing it for him.

"You’re making it worse," Sophia told him.

"Knowing the information can’t make information worse," Marco said.

"Both of you, stop talking," Demien said.

They both looked at him.

That had come out more nervous than he’d meant it to.

23 — ONANA.

Demien pulled his phone over. 23rd in the world. Not bad for someone who had to save Haaland from embarrassing us.

Onana’s reply came back fast: You still don’t even know where YOU ranked.

That didn’t help.

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