BEEP... BEEP... BEEP...
The sound wasn't a heart monitor this time, but the insistent, shrieking alarm of Kaelan Valtieri's custom-made, diamond-encrusted watch. Leo fumbled with the device, his fingers—long, elegant, and utterly useless—finally slapping the silence into it.
Sunlight streamed into the minimalist bedroom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. For a single, blissful moment, he forgot. Then, the reality crashed down on him with the weight of a collapsing stadium.
Training. Today.
His stomach twisted into a knot so tight he thought he might be sick. He looked at his hands, the hands that were supposed to perform miracles with a football. They felt like foreign objects, clumsy and disconnected.
The ride to the Etihad Campus was a silent, rolling panic attack. The driver, a burly man named Gus, merely grunted a greeting. Leo spent the entire journey staring out the window, watching normal people live their normal lives, envying every single one of them.
As the car passed through the security gates, the scale of the operation hit him. This wasn't a football club; it was a fortress dedicated to the pursuit of perfection. Players in training gear moved with a fluid, powerful grace, their laughter and banter echoing in the crisp morning air. They were giants, titans. And he was a mouse in a lion's skin.
He was directed to the first-team dressing room. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open.
The chatter died instantly.
Every head turned. The room was a sea of faces he had only ever seen on television or in video games. World Cup winners, Champions League legends. They were all looking at him. Some with concern, some with curiosity, and one—a hulking central defender with a scar above his eyebrow—with undisguised contempt.
"Kaelan! Good to have you back, mate." The captain, a seasoned Spanish midfielder named Alvaro, stepped forward, clapping him on the shoulder. The impact was firm, friendly, and sent a jolt of terror through Leo. "How's the head?"
"Fine. Still... fuzzy," Leo managed, forcing Kaelan's voice, trying to mimic the man's usual confident cadence and failing miserably.
The scarred defender, whose nameplate read 'R. VANCE', snorted. "Fuzzy enough to forget how to parallel park, I heard."
A few nervous laughs skittered around the room. Leo felt his face heat up. He just nodded, quickly finding Kaelan's designated spot—a pristine area with his kit laid out like a holy relic. He changed in silence, the fabric of the training jersey feeling like a hair shirt.
< < [System Alert: High-Stress Environment] >>
**<< Cortisol levels critical. Manual motor functions may be impaired. >> **
His phantom HUD was back, a perfect metaphor for his fracturing mind.
They filed out onto the immaculate training pitch. The grass was a perfect, luminous green, smelling of earth and money. Coach Thorpe, a man with the steely gaze of a military general, blew his whistle.
"Right! Warm-up laps. Let's go! Valtieri, no heroics. Ease into it."
The run was the first test. Leo's new body was a machine. His lungs pulled in air with an efficiency he'd never known, his legs pumping with effortless power. For a few glorious seconds, he felt a flicker of hope. Maybe the body would remember. Maybe it would take over.
Then came the passing drills.
He stood in a circle with five other players, the ball zipping between them at a dizzying speed. It was his turn.
Thump. The ball arrived at his feet, a crisp, perfect pass. Time seemed to slow. A thousand calculations exploded in his brain: Angle of foot, weight distribution, follow-through, pace, trajectory—
**< < [Skill Check Failed: Basic Passing] >> **
He swung his foot. It wasn't a pass; it was a desperate, clumsy lunge. The ball skewed wildly off the outside of his boot, flying ten feet wide of its intended target and smacking against the advertising boards with a pathetic thwack.
The silence was deafening.
A few players exchanged glances. Vance smirked.
"Rusty, Valtieri?" Coach Thorpe called out, his voice neutral. "Again. This time, try using the inside of your foot."
The next hour was a masterclass in humiliation. Every first touch was a tackle. Every simple pass was an adventure. He tripped over the ball during a dribbling drill, earning a roar of laughter from Vance. During a shooting exercise, he somehow managed to sky the ball so high it nearly hit a low-flying passenger jet.
He was a catastrophe. A fraud being slowly, painfully unmasked under the blinding Manchester sun.
"Right, small-sided game. Four vs. four," Thorpe barked, splitting the squad. "No excuses. Game intensity."
Leo was placed on a team with Alvaro, a young, pacy winger, and against Vance. It was a nightmare scenario.
The game was a blur of movement and shouted instructions he couldn't process. He ran, a headless chicken in designer boots, desperately trying to stay out of the way. The ball was a predator, and he was its prey.
Then, it happened.
Alvaro, under pressure from two opponents, saw a sliver of space and slid the ball towards Leo. It was a simple, five-yard pass. A pass any professional, any semi-competent amateur, could control.
But Leo was frozen. The ball rolled towards him, and in his panic, he completely misjudged his body position. Instead of controlling it, he let it bounce off his shin, straight into the path of the onrushing Vance.
WHOOSH!
Vance didn't need a second invitation. He stole the ball, surged past the stranded Leo, and unleashed a thunderbolt into the top corner of the net.
The whistle blew. Vance turned, his chest puffed out, and walked slowly up to Leo, his face a mask of cold fury.
"What the hell was that?" he snarled, his voice low enough for only Leo to hear. "That wasn't rust. That was Sunday league pub trash." He leaned in closer, his breath hot on Leo's face. "I don't know what game you're playing, Valtieri, or if that crash rattled your brain for good. But whatever that was out there, it's not good enough for this club. Sort your shit out, or get out."
He shoved Leo hard in the chest with one hand, a dismissive, contemptuous gesture, and walked away.
The world narrowed to a pinprick. The laughter, the stares, the burning shame—it all melted into a white-hot hum of panic. He stood there, rooted to the spot, the words echoing in his mind.
Sunday league pub trash.
He was. He knew he was.
As the others trudged off the pitch, Alvaro gave him a sympathetic pat. "Don't mind Vance. He's an ass. You'll get it back, Kaelan."
But the look in Alvaro's eyes wasn't one of belief. It was one of pity. And that was far, far worse.
Leo was the last to leave the pitch, his body aching with a shame deeper than any physical fatigue. He dragged himself back towards the dressing room, his head down, the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He needed to get away. He stumbled into a secluded corridor, leaning against the cool wall, trying to catch his breath that wouldn't come. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the tears of frustration and terror.
I can't do this. I'm going to be found out. It's over.
And then, he heard it. Two voices, hushed and serious, coming from around the corner. One was Coach Thorpe. The other was David, his agent.
"...not just rust, David," Thorpe was saying, his voice grim. "It's like he's never seen a football before. His motor skills are completely off. The doctors said no permanent damage, but this..."
"I know, I know," David replied, his tone strained. "But he's Kaelan Valtieri. The brand is too big to fail. We have to give him time."
"Time is a luxury we don't have," Thorpe shot back. "The board is already asking questions. If he can't perform in the pre-season friendly, they'll start looking at his contract. The morality clause."
Leo's blood ran cold. A morality clause. They could fire him. Strip him of everything.
David's next words were slow, deliberate, and filled with a chilling finality.
"Then we don't give them a choice. If he can't play like Kaelan Valtieri by the Juventus game..."
He paused, and Leo held his breath, pressing himself against the wall.
"...then we'll have to find a medical reason to sideline him. Permanently. A persistent post-concussion syndrome. Something that forces a quiet, early retirement."
Leo's legs gave way. He slid down the wall, landing hard on the cold floor, the sound muffled by the plush carpet.
They weren't just going to fire him. They were going to lock him away. Declare him broken and discard him, all to protect the brand.
He was trapped. The pitch was a courtroom where he was on trial, and his own agent and coach were the executioners, sharpening their blades.
As he sat there in the dark, cold corridor, a single, terrifying question echoed in the silence, a question more urgent than any he had faced before:
They're going to bury me to save his name... what am I going to do?