CHAPTER 177: CIVILIAN PROFILE DETECTED

Leon woke up to the sound of sizzling garlic and the rich, comforting aroma of his mother’s cooking.

For a moment, he was completely disoriented.

His body was expecting the dull ache of a post-match recovery, his mind the lingering tension of the Derby d’Italia. Instead, he just felt... light. Happy.

He padded into the kitchen to see his mother, Elena, humming a cheerful tune as she stirred a large pot of tomato sauce.

A plate of her lemon ricotta cookies was already sitting on the counter, a silent testament to her love.

"Buongiorno, dormiglione (Good morning, sleepyhead)," she said without turning around. "Did you sleep well?"

"Like a rock," Leon said, grabbing a cookie. "What’s the occasion? This looks like a feast."

"The occasion," she said, finally turning to look at him, a knowing twinkle in her eye, "is that my son came home from a big, stressful match, and for the first time in a long time, he looked truly, simply happy. This is a mother’s celebration."

Leon felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the coffee he was pouring. She was right.

The pressure of the title race, the mystery of his evolving system—all of it felt distant this morning, replaced by the simple, pleasant anticipation of making a phone call.

After a delicious and laughter-filled breakfast, he took his coffee and went out into the small, sun-drenched garden behind their apartment building.

He found a quiet bench, the scent of jasmine and rosemary hanging in the air. He took a sip of coffee, pulled out his phone, and dialed Sofia’s number. His heart was doing that silly, nervous flutter again.

She answered on the second ring, her voice bright and clear. "Pronto?"

"Hey, it’s Leon," he said, smiling. "Calling at a much more normal hour, as promised."

He heard her laugh, a sound that was already becoming his favorite. "I’m impressed. I was half-expecting a call at 3 AM from a footballer with a sudden craving for late-night philosophy."

"I’ll save that for the third date," he joked. "Listen, I have the day off. And I was wondering if you, the art history student with the very nice laugh, might be free to get some lunch."

"Hmm," she said, and he could practically hear her smile. "I have a mountain of reading to do for a class on Renaissance frescoes... but I suppose the art of the 16th century can wait a few hours."

"Great!" he said, maybe a little too enthusiastically. "I know a place. It’s quiet, the food is good, and it’s not too fancy."

"Sounds perfect," she said. "Just one condition."

"Anything."

"You have to tell me if a 3-3 draw really feels like a win," she teased. "As a non-expert, it sounds suspiciously like it’s not a win at all."

He laughed. "It’s complicated. I’ll explain over pasta."

Two hours later, Leon was sitting at a small, secluded table in the corner of a charming trattoria, a place with ivy-covered walls and mismatched wooden chairs.

He was wearing a simple black t-shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap pulled down low.

He felt ridiculous, like a spy in a bad movie, but it was the only way he could hope to have a semi-normal experience.

Sofia arrived a few minutes later, looking even more beautiful than he remembered. She was wearing a simple summer dress, her hair tied back loosely, and she had a warm, easy smile that instantly put him at ease.

"The mysterious man in the cap, I presume?" she said, sliding into the chair opposite him.

"I’m trying to be incognito," he whispered dramatically.

"You’re doing a terrible job," she whispered back, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You’re the only person in here wearing a hat indoors."

He took it off, laughing, and ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, you have a point."

Their conversation was as easy and effortless as it had been on the phone.

She told him about her passion for Caravaggio, describing the artist’s dramatic use of light and shadow with such vividness that he could almost see the paintings in his mind.

"It’s the emotion," she explained, her hands moving as she talked.

"I think I get that," Leon said thoughtfully. "Sometimes on the pitch, there are moments... it’s not just running and kicking. It’s like... poetry. A pass that no one else sees, a movement that changes everything. It feels like more than just a game."

He talked about his world, not the glory or the money, but the weird parts.

The pressure, the constant analysis, the strangeness of having thousands of people scream your name. He told her about Julián’s philosophical questions and the team’s mandatory dinner to save Palmer from English food.

She listened, fascinated, laughing at all the right parts. She wasn’t star-struck. She was just... interested. Interested in him.

Their meal was interrupted when a small boy, no older than ten, who had been sitting with his family a few tables away, approached them with a napkin and a pen, his eyes wide as saucers.

"Excuse me," the boy said, his voice a trembling whisper, looking at Leon. "Are you... are you Leondona?"

Leon’s heart melted. He smiled warmly. "I’m just Leon," he said softly. "But I’d be happy to sign your napkin."

He signed it, and the boy ran back to his family, clutching the napkin like it was the World Cup trophy itself.

Sofia just smiled, a gentle, understanding look on her face. "I guess being incognito has its limits."

"Just a few," he admitted, feeling a comfortable warmth spread through him. She wasn’t weirded out. She wasn’t overly impressed. She just got it.

After lunch, they walked through a nearby park, the afternoon sun filtering through the leaves of the tall plane trees.

"You know," he said, "it was really nice to just... talk. About things that aren’t football."

"I agree," she said, bumping her shoulder against his playfully. "Though I have to admit, your job is a little more interesting than the socio-economic impact of the Medici banking system on Florentine art."

"I don’t know," he grinned. "That sounds pretty intense."

They reached the edge of the park where they had to part ways. There was a slightly awkward, charged silence.

"I had a really great time, Sofia," he said finally, his voice sincere.

"Me too, Leon," she replied, her eyes holding his.

He wanted to say something else, something smooth and confident, but all that came out was, "So... maybe we could do it again sometime?"

She laughed, a bright, happy sound. "I’d like that a lot."

She gave him a small wave and turned to walk away.

He just stood there, watching her go, a ridiculously happy, goofy smile on his face.

The world felt simple. It felt perfect. He felt like a normal guy who had just had a great first date.

As he watched her disappear around a corner, his Vision, which had been blissfully silent all afternoon, suddenly flickered to life.

It wasn’t the ’Manager Mode’. It was his standard view, but it had locked onto her retreating figure. For a split second, a profile box, the kind he usually saw over players, materialized over her.

It was different, simpler, and it made his blood run cold.

[Civilian Profile Detected: Sofia Rossi]

[Status: Happy]

[Key Trait: ???]

And then, just below it, a new line of text appeared, a line that made no sense, a line that completely shattered the perfect, simple peace of his afternoon.

[Relationship Link Detected: Potential Synergy with Cristian Chivu.]