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Chapter 8 - The Devil's Bargain

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation. Coach Thorpe's eyes, usually filled with tactical calculations and gruff authority, were now stripped bare, revealing a core of bewildered, icy clarity. He had seen through the mask, past the "post-concussion syndrome," and straight into the terrified soul of Leo Mears.

Leo's first instinct was to deny it. To bluster, to get angry, to use Kaelan's famous temper as a shield. But the words died in his throat. The exhaustion, the guilt from the call with Elara, the sheer, impossible weight of the secret—it all crashed down on him at once. The fight drained out of him, leaving only a hollowed-out shell.

He looked at the whiteboards covered in Kaelan's genius, at the simulator meant for a mind he couldn't fully access, and then back at the one man who had seen the truth.

There was no path forward but through.

His shoulders slumped. The practiced posture of Kaelan Valtieri melted away, revealing the defeated slump of Leo Mears. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, stripped of the false accent, laced with a raw, unmistakable Mancunian twang.

"My name," he whispered, the words tasting like a confession of a capital crime, "is Leo Mears."

He expected disbelief. He expected fury. He expected Thorpe to call security immediately.

Instead, the coach went perfectly still. The only movement was a slow, deliberate blink. He was processing, his brilliant tactical mind connecting the horrific dots.

"The boy in the coma," Thorpe stated, his voice dangerously low.

Leo nodded, tears of shame and relief welling in his eyes. "The crash… I don't know how or why. I woke up… in here." He gestured helplessly at Kaelan's body. "And he's… he's in there. In my body."

Thorpe took a sharp step back, running a hand over his closely-shaved head. He paced a small, tight circle in the confined space, a caged animal. "My God." He stopped, his gaze snapping back to Leo. "Does anyone else know? David?"

"No! No one. Just… just you."

For a long moment, they just stared at each other—the imposter and the only man who knew his secret. The air was thick with the implications.

"This is impossible," Thorpe breathed, but he was no longer denying it; he was acknowledging the sheer scale of the catastrophe.

"Tell me about it," Leo said, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest. "I'm a reserve player from Northwood FC. I couldn't even get a game in the third division. And now… I'm supposed to be him." He pointed a trembling finger at a framed Ballon d'Or photo on the wall.

Thorpe's initial shock began to solidify into something else. Something colder. More pragmatic. The coach was re-emerging.

"The training footage," he muttered, thinking aloud. "The clumsy touches. The fear in your eyes. It all makes a sick kind of sense now." He fixed Leo with a piercing stare. "And these… flashes of competence? The pass? The penalty?"

"Echoes," Leo explained desperately. "I can't control it. It's like… like a ghost in the machine. Sometimes his instincts kick in. Most of the time, it's just me. Failing."

Thorpe absorbed this, his mind racing. Leo could almost see the calculations happening behind his eyes: the contracts, the sponsorships, the upcoming Juventus game, the brand, the media firestorm.

"If this gets out…" Thorpe began, his face pale.

"It would be the end of everything," Leo finished for him. "For me. For him. For the club. They'd lock me up in a lab and dissect me. They'd pull the plug on him." The sheer horror of it finally gave voice to his deepest fear. "You have to turn me in."

It was the only logical, moral choice. He braced for it.

But Thorpe didn't move. He just stood there, his jaw working. The silence stretched, taut and unbearable.

"No," Thorpe said finally, the word quiet but definitive.

Leo stared, uncomprehending. "What?"

"Turning you in guarantees destruction for everyone," Thorpe said, his voice gaining a hard, metallic edge. "The club is financially leveraged on Valtieri's image. His transfer fee alone was €180 million. The sponsorships… it's a house of cards. If it collapses, hundreds of people lose their jobs. The club could face relegation, bankruptcy. It's not just a career, boy. It's an ecosystem. And you…" He looked Leo up and down, a surgeon assessing a damaged asset. "…you are currently the keystone holding it all up."

The reality of it slammed into Leo. He wasn't just a person; he was a financial instrument. A commodity.

"So, what then?" Leo asked, his voice trembling. "I just… keep pretending?"

"You don't have a choice. We don't have a choice," Thorpe corrected him. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "Here is the new reality, Leo Mears. You will continue to be Kaelan Valtieri. I will become your… curator. Your handler."

"My what?"

"I will coach you. Not just in football, but in being him." Thorpe's eyes were relentless. "His mannerisms. His speech patterns. His tactical preferences. How he takes his coffee. How he argues with referees. We will use this room. We will use these echoes. We will drill you until you can mimic him well enough to pass, not just on the pitch, but off it. Especially with Elara."

The mention of her name was a fresh wound.

"I can't—" Leo began.

"You WILL!" Thorpe snapped, his control slipping for a second before he reined it in. "You think this is about your comfort? Your guilt? This is about survival. Your survival, and the survival of everyone tied to that man's name." He jabbed a finger at Leo's chest. "The Juventus game is in eight days. You will be on that pitch. And you will not embarrass him. Or me."

It was a devil's bargain. Secrecy for slavery. His freedom, his identity, were now the price of this charade.

"And… and what about him?" Leo asked, his voice small. "The real Kaelan? In my body?"

A shadow crossed Thorpe's face. For a moment, Leo saw a flicker of genuine concern for his protégé. Then, it was gone, replaced by cold pragmatism.

"That is a problem for another day," he said flatly. "For now, he is stable. And for now, that is all that matters. Our focus is on keeping this from unraveling."

He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He didn't look back.

"Training tomorrow is at 7 a.m. Be ready. We start with his free-kick routine. The world expects a Phoenix. I will hammer you into a convincing enough replica."

He left, closing the door behind him and plunging Leo back into silence.

Leo slid to the floor, wrapping Kaelan's powerful arms around himself, trying to find comfort that wasn't there. He had confessed his deepest secret, and in doing so, had only forged new, stronger chains. He was no longer just an imposter. He was a prisoner, and Coach Thorpe was his warden.

He had traded the fear of exposure for the certainty of imprisonment.

And as he sat there in the dark, a new, chilling thought occurred to him, one that made his blood run cold.

Thorpe is protecting the brand, not me... so what happens when I'm no longer useful?

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