FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!
The moment the hospital doors slid open, the world erupted in a blizzard of camera flashes and a cacophony of shouted questions. It was a sensory overload that made Leo's—no, Kaelan's—heart try to batter its way out of his ribcage.
< < [Environmental Overload Detected] >>
**<< Adrenaline Spike: 180%. Recommend regulated breathing. >> **
The phantom system message flickered in his mind, a manifestation of his sheer panic. He forced a breath, the air catching in a throat that wasn't his. David, a steady and unyielding presence at his elbow, guided him forward with a firm grip.
"Kaelan! Over here!"
"Are you fit to play,Kaelan?"
"Any comment on the other victim?"
"Are the rumors of a suspension true?"
The questions came like gunfire. Leo's instinct was to duck, to hide, to mutter an apology for existing. But the body he was in moved with a practiced, almost bored grace. He lifted a hand—a casual, dismissive wave that felt as alien as walking on the moon. The muscles in his face, without his conscious command, settled into a look of cool indifference.
"Smile, but don't stop," David murmured, his own face split into a plastic grin for the cameras. "Just like we practiced. You're unharmed. You're untouchable."
Untouchable. The word was a bitter joke. He felt every stare like a laser sight on his skin, every shout a potential accusation. They saw Kaelan Valtieri, the footballing demigod. They didn't see Leo Mears, the terrified imposter screaming inside a gilded cage.
Somehow, his legs carried him to a waiting car—a monstrous, black SUV with tinted windows that promised sanctuary. The moment the door thudded shut, it was like being plunged into a silent, leather-scented vacuum. The outside world became a muted, chaotic film.
Leo slumped against the seat, his body trembling. The cool mask shattered, leaving raw terror in its wake.
"I can't do this," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "David, you don't understand—"
"I understand that you need to get a grip," David interrupted, his tone losing all its previous faux warmth. He tapped on his tablet, pulling up a news site. The headline was brutal: 'PHOENIX CRASHES: Valtieri's Ferrari Wrecked, Coma Victim in Critical Condition.' Below it was a picture of his old, crushed Honda Civic—a sad, metal corpse.
"That's me," Leo wanted to scream. "That's my body!"
But he couldn't. He just stared, his blood running cold.
"The narrative is everything, Kaelan," David said, his voice low and intense. "You are the hero. The victim is a tragic footnote. The club is furious about the car and the bad press. Your endorsement deals have clauses about 'reputational damage.' We need you back on the pitch, scoring goals, and making people forget this ever happened."
The agent leaned forward, his eyes hard. "Now, your 'memory.' The doctors said there might be fugue states. What's the last thing you do remember?"
Leo's mind raced. This was his only lifeline. He had to play the amnesia card.
"I... I remember getting in the car," he said, choosing his words carefully, using the accent that felt like a costume. "The rain. Then... nothing. Until I woke up in the hospital." He looked David in the eye, pouring every ounce of his genuine confusion into the lie. "Who was the other driver?"
"Leo Mears," David said, the name sounding insignificant on his tongue. "Twenty years old. No family to speak of. A trainee with Northwood FC's reserves. A nobody." He swiped the tablet again, pulling up a file. Leo saw his own face—pale, with mousy brown hair and anxious eyes—staring back from the screen. It was his old club ID photo. He looked... small.
< < [File: Leo Mears] >>
**<< Status: Critical. Induced Coma. Prognosis: Uncertain. >> **
The mental notification was a gut punch. Induced coma. So, there was a chance. A chance for the real Kaelan to wake up in that broken body and expose this entire charade.
"The club is handling the medical bills, of course," David continued, as if discussing a minor administrative fee. "Standard procedure. Avoids a messy lawsuit. But that's the end of our involvement with Leo Mears. Understood?"
Leo could only nod, his throat tight. He was discussing the disposal of his own life.
The car pulled up to a security gate, which slid open to reveal a modern architectural marvel of glass and steel. Kaelan Valtieri's house. No, his house now.
The inside was like a museum dedicated to one man's greatness. Polished concrete floors, minimalist furniture, and walls adorned with framed jerseys and golden trophies glinting under discreet spotlights. It was breathtaking, sterile, and utterly soulless.
David gave him a quick tour, pointing out the essentials like a bored estate agent. "Kitchen. Living area. Home gym. Your bedroom is upstairs. Your schedule for the week is on the fridge. A car will pick you up for your first training session tomorrow at 8 a.m. Sharp."
Training session. The words sent a fresh jolt of pure, undiluted fear through him. He, Leo Mears, who could barely control a pass without tripping over his own feet, was expected to train with the best players in the world.
"David," Leo said, his voice cracking with desperation. "What if... what if I'm not ready? What if I've... forgotten how to play?"
David stopped at the door, turning to give him a long, unreadable look. "Then you fake it. You're Kaelan Valtieri. You were born ready."
With that, the agent left, closing the door with a soft, definitive click. The silence that descended was absolute and crushing. Leo was alone. Truly alone.
He wandered through the vast, empty space, his footsteps echoing. He stopped in front of a massive glass case. Inside, on a velvet pedestal, sat the Ballon d'Or. The golden sphere seemed to mock him. He reached out a trembling finger, the cool, smooth surface feeling like a lie.
He was a ghost in a palace he could never have built.
Exhausted, he climbed the stairs and found the bedroom. It was as minimalist as the rest of the house. He collapsed onto the enormous bed, staring at the ceiling. The events of the day replayed in his mind on a hellish loop: the crash, the hospital, the press, the file with his face.
He thought of his own body, lying in a hospital bed somewhere across the city, kept alive by machines. He thought of the real Kaelan, a brilliant consciousness trapped in that broken vessel.
And then, a new, more immediate terror seized him. Tomorrow. Training.
He had to perform. He had to somehow mimic the skills of the world's greatest footballer. One wrong pass, one clumsy touch, and the entire world would know.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall any muscle memory, any instinct that belonged to this body. Nothing. Just the terrifying emptiness of his own incompetence.
As he lay there in the dark, a single, horrifying realization dawned on him, more chilling than any other:
The first pass I try to make tomorrow.