June 2027. Atlanta.
The USMNT National Training Center looks like a spaceship landed in a forest. Glass, steel, and humidity.
Robin steps out of the Uber. No blacked-out SUVs for him. No entourage. Just a duffel bag and a pair of boots that have touched the soil of a high school pitch in Ohio more recently than a stadium.
There are cameras at the main gate. A gaggle of reporters waiting for the stars. Waiting for Pulisic. Waiting for Reyna.
They don't look at Robin. Why would they? He's wearing a plain hoodie, hood up, head down. He slips through the security turnstile while the press is busy chasing a Ferrari that just pulled in.
He likes it. Invisibility is a weapon.
He walks through the corridors. The walls are lined with photos of past legends. Dempsey. Donovan. Howard. They stare down at him, judging.
Robin ignores them. Past glory is just dust with a frame around it.
He pushes open the double doors to the locker room.
The noise hits him first. Laughter. Bass-heavy hip-hop. The sound of expensive cologne and confidence.
Then, the silence.
As soon as Robin steps fully into the room, the volume drops. It doesn't fade; it cuts. Like someone pulled the plug.
Robin stops. He scans the room.
It's a classroom. A high school cafeteria divided by salary caps and caps earned.
On the left, the Old Guard. Jackson Voss, the captain. 34 years old. A center-back who made his career by being safe and loud. Beside him, Russo and a few others who played with Deion Vale for a decade. They are leaning back, relaxed, owning the space.
On the right, the New Blood. Smith, Richards, the young guys breaking into European teams. They are on their phones, heads down, scrolling. They don't want trouble.
Robin walks down the center aisle. He feels the eyes.
He needs a spot.
Most lockers are taken. Kits hanging up. Gucci toiletry bags on the benches.
There is one empty locker. Right in the middle of the Old Guard's territory. Right next to Jackson Voss.
It's clean. Empty. A void in the noise.
Robin walks to it. He drops his bag on the bench. Thud.
He unzips it. He pulls out his boots.
"Don't get comfortable, kid."
The voice is deep. Baritone. Used to shouting orders over the roar of a crowd.
Robin pauses. He doesn't look up. He keeps unlacing his street shoes.
"I said," Voss repeats, louder this time. "Don't get comfortable."
Robin turns his head slowly.
Jackson Voss is big. 6'4". A wall of muscle and tattoos. He's looking at Robin like Robin is a stain on the carpet.
"That's Deion's locker," Voss says.
The room is dead silent now. Even the kids on their phones have looked up.
"Deion isn't here," Robin says. His voice is flat. Bored.
"It's still his locker," Voss snaps. He stands up, looming over Robin. "He's injured. He's not dead. He'll be back."
Robin looks at Voss. He studies him.
He doesn't see a captain. He sees a politician. He sees a man terrified of change. Voss isn't protecting Deion's legacy; he's protecting the hierarchy. He's protecting the idea that the veterans own this room.
If Robin moves, he accepts his place. He accepts that he is a guest. A tourist.
"He won't be back," Robin says.
Voss's eyes narrow. "Excuse me?"
"His leg is snapped," Robin says. He turns back to his bag, pulling out his shin guards. "Tibia and fibula. He's thirty-two. He drinks too much. He's done."
Gasps from the New Blood side.
Voss steps closer. He's in Robin's personal space now. "You got a big mouth for a guy who hasn't played in a year. You think you can just walk in here and take his spot? Take his number?"
"I didn't take his number," Robin says, standing up.
He isn't 6'4". He isn't covered in tattoos. But he has the eyes of a man who watched his own leg snap and didn't quit.
"But I am taking his locker. Because I'm the one playing. And he's the one watching."
Robin holds Voss's gaze. He doesn't blink. He doesn't posture. He just waits.
Voss's jaw tightens. His fists clench. He wants to hit the kid. You can see it. But he knows Johnny is down the hall. He knows the cameras are outside.
"Move to the reserves corner," Voss growls. "Last warning."
Robin turns his back on the captain. He hangs his shirt in the locker.
"No."
Voss stands there for a long moment, breathing hard. The disrespect is palpable. It hangs in the air like smoke.
Finally, Voss scoffs. He sits back down, shaking his head.
"We'll see how long you last, Silver," Voss mutters, loud enough for the room to hear. "We'll see."
Robin sits down. He continues lacing his boots.
He doesn't care about their feelings. He doesn't care about the brotherhood.
He's here to work.
The pitch.
10:00 AM. The Georgia sun is already angry. It beats down on the pristine grass, baking the air.
Johnny stands on the balcony overlooking the training ground. Daisy is next to him, holding a stopwatch and a clipboard.
Down below, twenty-four players are lined up on the end line.
"The Beep Test," Johnny says, taking a sip of coffee. "Classic."
"It's archaic," Daisy notes. "We have GPS trackers. We have heart rate monitors. We don't need to run them until they drop."
"I don't care about their VO2 max," Johnny says, leaning on the railing. "I want to see who quits."
He looks at Robin Silver. The kid is standing on the far left, isolated. He's doing high knees, staring at the grass.
"Beep."
The speaker blares. The group starts jogging.
Level 1. Easy. A light trot to the 20-meter line.
The Old Guard runs in a pack. Voss, Russo, and the goalkeeper. They are chatting. Laughing. They know the pace. They know how to conserve energy. They are treating it like a warm-up.
The New Blood—Smith, Richards, Weah—are at the front. They are showing off. Sprinting too fast, turning too sharp. Peacocks.
Robin is in the middle. He runs mechanically. He touches the line, turns, and waits for the beep.
Level 5.
The pace picks up. The chatter stops. The sweat starts to flow.
Level 8.
The first casualty. A young striker from the MLS. He misses the beep. He doubles over, hands on knees.
Robin doesn't look at him.
In Robin's head, the beep isn't a signal. It's a monitor.
Beep.
The hospital room.
Beep.
The sound of the car hitting flesh.
Beep.
The sound of his dad opening a beer.
He runs. He isn't running against the other players. He is running away from the noise. If he stops, the noise catches him. If he stops, the guilt catches him.
Level 11.
The pack is thinning. Voss drops out, shaking his head, pointing to his hamstring as an excuse. Politics. He doesn't need to prove anything.
The young peacocks are fading. Their form is breaking down.
Robin is still going. His face is a mask. His breathing is rhythmic. Two in, two out.
Level 13.
It's getting fast now. A sprint. Turn. Sprint.
Only four players left.
Robin.
Smith, the young winger.
A center-mid named Adams.
And Ben Cutter.
Cutter. They call him The Dog. He's a defensive midfielder who plays in Germany. He isn't talented. He has feet like cement blocks. But he has three lungs. He's built for suffering.
Cutter looks at Robin. He grins. It's a grimace, teeth bared.
"Come on, Division Two," Cutter wheezes. "Let's go."
Robin doesn't respond. He just runs.
Beep.
Level 14.
Smith drops out. He collapses on the grass, gasping for air.
Adams drops out two shuttles later.
It's just Robin and The Dog.
The rest of the team is watching from the sidelines. They are drinking water, pouring it over their heads. But they are watching.
"Look at the kid," someone whispers.
Robin's legs are burning. The scar on his shin feels like it's glowing hot. The metal rod is heavy.
But he loves it.
The pain is honest. The pain is real. It drowns out everything else.
Beep.
Cutter is struggling. He's grunting with every step. He's turning wide, losing milliseconds.
Robin turns sharp. Efficient. Output.
They pass each other in the middle.
"Give up," Cutter gasps.
"Never," Robin whispers.
Level 15.
This is elite territory. This is where the body screams stop.
Johnny is watching intently from the balcony. He has put down his coffee.
"He's still going," Johnny murmurs. "Eight months on a couch, and he's hitting fifteen."
On the pitch, the world is narrowing. Tunnel vision.
Robin can't hear the beep anymore. He just feels the vibration.
Turn. Push. Sprint.
Cutter is breaking. His head is bobbing. He's losing his form.
Robin stares at the line. It's the only thing that matters.
Beep.
Cutter misses it. He's two meters short.
The Dog slows down. He stumbles. He falls to his hands and knees, dry heaving into the grass.
Robin hits the line.
He hears the beep.
He could stop. He won.
But he doesn't.
He turns. He runs the next shuttle alone.
He needs to know. He needs to find the limit.
He sprints the 20 meters. He hits the line.
Beep.
Level 16.
He turns again. His lungs are on fire. His vision is swimming with black spots.
He pushes off his right leg. The broken leg.
It holds.
He runs until the black spots take over. He runs until his legs turn to jelly.
He hits the line one last time.
Beep.
He misses the next one.
Robin slows to a walk. He doesn't fall. He refuses to fall.
He walks in a small circle, hands on his head, expanding his lungs.
He walks past Cutter, who is still on the ground, spitting up Gatorade.
Robin stops. He looks down at The Dog.
"Good run," Robin croaks.
Cutter looks up, eyes red, sweat dripping from his nose. He looks at Robin with something new. Not friendship. Not kindness.
Respect.
"Freak," Cutter pants.
Robin smirks.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks up at the balcony.
The sun is blinding, but he sees the silhouette.
Johnny is standing there.
Robin gives a single, sharp nod.
I'm here. I'm ready. I'm a monster.
Johnny nods back.
Day 1. Survived.