The praise after the Mainz game was a roaring fire, but instead of warming Mateo, it felt like it was casting long, distorted shadows in his mind. The world had decided who he was now. He was the "Hybrid Terror," a "force of nature," a "finished product." He was a weapon. A monster. A thing of power and dominance. He read the words, translated by Sarah, and felt a profound and terrifying disconnect. The person they were describing was a stranger.

The person he felt like was a sixteen-year-old boy whose knees ached in the morning and whose favorite hoodie no longer reached his wrists. The person he felt like was a collection of limbs that seemed to have been assembled in the dark, a clumsy puppet whose strings were being pulled by a brain that was still working off an old instruction manual.

This disconnect became painfully, humiliatingly clear on a Tuesday afternoon, on what was supposed to be a triumphant mission: Operation New Wardrobe.

"Today, we solve a crisis that threatens the very fabric of this dormitory," Lukas announced with the grandiosity of a king addressing his court. "Today, we buy clothes that fit the giant!"

Mateo, who had been trying to do his German homework, just grunted and pointed at the pile of laundry on his chair. It was a sad collection of shirts and trousers that looked like they belonged to a younger brother. The evidence was undeniable. The shopping trip, promised for weeks, could no longer be postponed.

But as they walked towards the Westenhellweg, Dortmund's bustling shopping artery, a knot of anxiety tightened in Mateo's stomach. This was different from walking onto a football pitch. On the pitch, he had a role, a purpose. The lines were clearly marked, the objectives understood. Out here, in the chaotic, swirling world of civilians, he was just… exposed.

His new height, which was an asset on the field, felt like a curse here. He towered over most people, making him feel conspicuous and gawky.

He hunched his shoulders instinctively, trying to shrink himself, a futile gesture that only made his new, broader frame look more awkward. He pulled his beanie down, but he knew it was useless. The recognition came quickly.

Whispers followed them like a trail of breadcrumbs. Phones were raised, not with the overt aggression of paparazzi, but with the quick, sneaky movements of fans trying to capture a rare specimen in its unnatural habitat.

Mateo could feel their eyes on him, and each glance felt like a small, sharp judgment. They weren't seeing him, Mateo. They were seeing the Hybrid Terror, the hero of the Klassiker. And he had never felt less like a hero in his life.

Lukas, bless his heart, was oblivious, navigating the crowds with the easy confidence of someone who belonged. He led them into a large, cavernous store filled with loud music and racks upon racks of clothes that all seemed designed for people who were effortlessly cool.

"Right, Professor," Lukas said, rubbing his hands together. "Rule number one: no more sad, baggy shorts. We are here for structure. For style."

He began pulling items from the racks slim-fit jeans, sharp-looking shirts, jackets with too many zippers. Mateo followed him like a prisoner on his way to the gallows. He didn't care about style. He just wanted something that didn't make him feel like a freak.

The changing room was a brightly lit chamber of horrors. It was a hall of mirrors, and the person staring back at him from every angle was a stranger. He saw a boy with a man's body.

The shoulders were too wide, the arms too long, the face, his own familiar face, looking small and lost atop this new, hulking frame. He felt a wave of vertigo, a dizzying sense of depersonalization. This wasn't him. It couldn't be.

He picked up the first item Lukas had handed him: a pair of fashionable, distressed jeans. He pulled them on. They were the right length, the first pair in months that didn't end somewhere around his mid-calf.

But they were tight, clinging to his powerful, footballer's thighs in a way that made him feel exposed and ridiculous. He looked in the mirror and saw what the newspapers were talking about the power, the athlete's physique. But it didn't feel like his.

He tried on a shirt. It was a simple, button-down shirt, but on his frame, it stretched taut across his chest. He looked like he was trying to cosplay as a lumberjack. He felt like an imposter in his own skin.

Lukas knocked on the door. "Well? How is the transformation going? Is the butterfly emerging from its chrysalis?"

Mateo opened the door a crack and just shook his head, a look of deep despair on his face. Lukas peered in and saw the pile of discarded clothes and the miserable look on his friend's face. His jovial demeanor softened instantly.

"Hey," he said gently. "What's wrong? They don't fit?"

Mateo grabbed his notepad, his hands fumbling with the pen.

"They fit," he wrote, the letters shaky. "But they're not… me. I look in the mirror and I don't know who that person is."

Lukas's brow furrowed. He was a simple guy, a footballer. He understood tactics and training, not existential crises in a department store changing room. But he was a good friend. He saw the genuine pain in Mateo's eyes.

"Okay," he said slowly. "Forget the fashion stuff. Let's just find something comfortable. Something that feels like you."

They abandoned the trendy store and went to a simpler, less intimidating one. But the problem persisted. Everything they tried felt like a costume. A plain grey hoodie made him look like a hulking security guard.

A simple t-shirt just emphasized the new, unfamiliar muscles in his arms and chest. With every new reflection, the stranger in the mirror became more alien, more mocking.

He was supposed to be a dominant force, a player who could bend the game to his will. But here, in this temple of normal teenage life, he was utterly powerless. He couldn't even figure out how to dress himself. The disconnect was a chasm, and he was falling into it.

He thought about the player he used to be, just a few months ago. The small, agile dribbler. The boy who could disappear between defenders, whose greatest asset was his lightness, his elusiveness. He had known that player. He had understood him. This new player, this powerful, 180cm man-child, was a mystery. The world applauded this new player, but Mateo missed the old one. He felt a pang of grief for the body he had lost.

System Analysis: Acute Psychological Dissonance Detected.

Condition: Somatic Depersonalization. A subjective experience of unreality in one's self, including one's body. Often triggered by rapid, significant physical change or trauma.

Emotional State: Anxiety (78%), Confusion (85%), Low Self-Esteem (65%).

Cognitive Loop: "My physical self does not align with my internal self-concept." This loop is causing significant distress and inhibiting normal social function.

Recommendation: Grounding exercises. Focus on sensory input to reconnect the mind with the body. Professional psychological consultation is advised for long-term management.

The System's diagnosis was clinical, but it named the demon that was tormenting him. Somatic Depersonalization. He felt like a ghost piloting a machine he didn't know how to operate. The praise, the hype, the talk of him being a "weapon" it all made it worse. It was all for the machine, not for the ghost inside.

They left the second store with only a single, plain black sweatshirt, the only item that felt anonymous enough to bear. The shopping trip was a failure. The crisis had not been solved; it had been magnified.

As they walked back in near silence, the earlier excitement completely gone, Lukas tried to break the tension. "Hey, it's okay. So you're not a fashion icon. You're a footballer. That's what matters, right?"

But it wasn't okay. Because the problem wasn't just about clothes. The clothes were just a symptom. The problem was that he felt like he was losing himself. The boy who had arrived in Dortmund, the quiet, determined kid from Casa de los Niños, was disappearing, being replaced by this big, powerful, famous stranger that everyone else seemed to love but that he didn't even recognize.

That night, he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The new sweatshirt was on his chair. It was just a piece of clothing, but it felt like a surrender. A concession that he had to hide his new body, rather than embrace it.

He was a high school student. He should be worrying about exams, about girls, about what to do on the weekend. Instead, he was having an identity crisis, his sense of self fractured by the very thing that was bringing him so much success.

He was growing as a player, yes. But for the first time, he felt like he was shrinking as a person, lost in the shadow of his own reflection. The Hybrid Terror was a star on the rise. But Mateo Álvarez felt like he was beginning to disappear. And he had no idea how to find himself again.

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