The city was barely awake when Davor's message came through: "Bring your boots. And don't ask where we're going."
Davor hadn't contacted him since that day they spoke of redemption, a word that had felt more like a dream than a plan. Yet something in those few words carried a kind of gravity, as if Davor was finally ready to reveal the truth behind his mysterious offer. He slung his old duffel bag over his shoulder, grabbed the same boots that had carried him through so many forgotten matches, and stepped out into the cold, colorless dawn.
Davor's car was already waiting by the curb, engine humming softly under the mist. The coach looked older than Marcus remembered, his beard rough, his eyes heavy with sleeplessness, but there was something steely behind his silence. "Get in," he said simply. Marcus obeyed without question, and soon the car was moving through empty streets. The city's pulse grew faint behind them, the skyline swallowed by fog. Neither spoke for several minutes; the only sound was the rumble of tires over cracked asphalt.
Eventually Marcus broke the silence. "Where are we going?"
Davor kept his gaze on the road. "You said you wanted another chance. This is where you'll earn it."
The further they drove, the stranger it felt, as though they were descending into another world.
THE UNDERGROUND FOOTBALLING LEAGUE
The clean boulevards of the upper city gave way to warehouses and broken streetlights. The smell of oil and rust thickened the air, and somewhere far away Marcus heard the steady drip of water echoing in tunnels. When the car finally stopped, they were in a district that looked long abandoned, concrete stained by years of neglect, graffiti scrawled across every wall, and a faint throb of bass pulsing from somewhere underground.
"This is it?" Marcus asked, eyeing the derelict buildings.
"You'll see," Davor replied.
They approached a fenced gate watched by a thick-set guard with arms like tree trunks. He squinted when he saw Davor, then grinned faintly. "Didn't think I'd see you again, Coach."
Davor returned a tired smile. "I'm not here to play hero. Just showing the kid around."
The guard chuckled and pulled the chain loose. "Then don't let him get himself killed."
The moment they stepped through, the air changed. Sound exploded around them, a low rumble of cheers, the clang of metal, the echo of a ball being struck again and again. They walked through a narrow tunnel lit by flickering bulbs, the walls thick with graffiti and the scent of sweat and smoke. Then the passage opened into a cavernous warehouse, and Marcus stopped dead in his tracks.
Before him stretched a steel-caged football pitch, round and compact, surrounded by chain-link fences and dripping in white floodlight. The crowd packed the balconies above, their shouts rattling the walls. It was football, but not the kind he knew, this was raw, violent, stripped of polish. The air buzzed with electricity and danger, and somewhere inside that chaos, Marcus felt his heart start to race.
"What is this place?" he asked, barely able to hear his own voice.
Davor looked around as if he were greeting ghosts. "The Underground League. Not official. Not legal. But every real player in this city knows it exists."
Marcus's gaze swept over the scene, players with tattoos and scars tightening their boots, men exchanging wads of cash, someone wrapping a bleeding ankle in duct tape. "Who plays here?" he asked quietly.
"Everyone who's been cast out," Davor said. "Banned pros, academy rejects, street legends, anyone who's lost everything and still refuses to quit."
Marcus stared down at the pitch. There were no referees, no sponsors, no trophies. Just survival. "Where the fallen play to rise again," he murmured.
"Exactly," Davor said.
A match was already underway, five against five, fierce and frantic. The ball pinged off the walls, players slammed into fences, the sound of boots scraping metal echoing through the space. Marcus's eyes locked onto one player, lean, fast, confident to the point of arrogance. He wore a tattered red jersey with the number seven, his movements a blur of precision and rhythm. Every flick of his foot drew gasps from the crowd. He toyed with defenders, slipping past them like smoke.
"That's him," Davor said over the noise. "Rico. Rico Morales, They call him the Phantom."
Rico was electric. When a defender lunged, he flicked the ball behind him with a back-heel so clean it seemed choreographed. Another came charging, but Rico spun, dragged the ball through his legs, and sent him stumbling into the cage. The crowd went insane, fists pounding against the railings. Rico's grin widened as he darted forward again, then, with a sudden burst of speed, he chipped the keeper with that same back-heel flick, a goal so audacious it silenced the noise for a heartbeat before the stands erupted again.
Marcus felt something shift inside him. His body tensed; his eyes followed every motion, every micro-step. Without realizing it, he replayed the move in his mind, tracing Rico's rhythm, the feint, the balance, the timing of the flick. His muscles twitched as if echoing the motion. It was faint, almost subconscious, but real, the same strange instinct that had awakened the night he got that ability, the moment when he copied Neymar's skill. For a fleeting moment he saw it again in his mind's eye, himself performing the same back-heel goal, the same angle, the same fluid motion. Then the image vanished, leaving him breathless.
He pressed a hand to his temple. The pulse of it still hummed faintly under his skin.
When the match ended, the score was 6–2. Rico's team had dominated completely. The crowd surged against the fences, chanting his name. Rico lifted his arms and soaked it in, his expression that of a man who owned the world.
Marcus couldn't look away. "He plays like he doesn't care who's in front of him," he muttered.
"That's because here," Davor said, "he doesn't."
As the noise died down, Marcus turned to the coach. "You think I can play here?"
Davor's tone hardened. "This isn't like the academy. No one here cares who you were. You either dominate or you disappear."
Marcus stayed silent, eyes burning with a quiet challenge.
"I didn't bring you here to throw you in," Davor went on. "I brought you so you'd remember what real hunger looks like. That's what you lost when you got expelled."
Marcus didn't answer. His gaze drifted back to the pitch, where Rico was heading toward the tunnel, ball tucked under his arm. Their eyes met. Rico paused mid-stride, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk.
"You new here, kid?" he called out.
Marcus said nothing.
Rico stepped closer, his voice carrying through the echoing space. "Another academy dropout trying to prove something, huh? Don't bother. This place eats amateurs alive. I EAT AMATEURS ALIVE..."
Marcus's jaw tightened. That faint hum in his chest returned, the memory of that back-heel flick flashing again, his mind syncing with it like an echo trying to complete a loop. He took a step forward. "I'm not here to prove anything," he said quietly. "I'm here to take back what's mine."
Rico chuckled, spinning the ball lazily on one finger. "Then you better start soon, rookie. I don't stay at the top for long, I keep moving up." With a wink, he tossed the ball back into the cage and turned away, disappearing into the cheering crowd.
Marcus exhaled slowly, his hands trembling with the thrill of challenge. Davor placed a hand on his shoulder. "Good," he said softly. "Now prove you are not all words."
"So what now?" Marcus asked.
"Now you train," Davor replied. "Harder than ever. You learn to master that gift before it consumes you. Because once you step into that cage, there's no turning back."
Marcus looked back at the empty field, the echo of cheers still ringing through the metal walls. "Kael better be ready for what's next."