The world inside Hal's training ground was a symphony of focused energy.
Leo sat on a cold metal bench at the sideline, the roar of the girls' warm-ups fading into a background hum. This was it.
With the reverence of a knight preparing for battle, he untied his worn-out sneakers. He lifted the new Jaguar boots from their tissue paper nest. They felt heavier than they looked, dense with potential.
Remembering his father's words—"Jaguar boots are my fav. Any player who uses 'em has my respect."—he brought them to his lips in a quick, private kiss, the clean scent of new leather and promise filling his senses before sliding them on. The fit was perfect, a firm, confident hug for his feet.
A speck of dust marred the perfect clarity of his father's right lens. He took the glasses off, careful not to smudge them further, and polished the lens clean with the soft inside hem of his hoodie. He took a deep breath, steeling himself to look at the field through the system's eyes, to truly see what he was up against.
He raised his head to put them on.
The world exploded.
A white blur, moving at terrifying speed, filled his vision. There was no time to react, no system warning; just the sickening, wet CRUNCH of synthetic leather impacting bone and cartilage.
The force made him loose balance. He crashed onto his back on the hard turf, the air blasted from his lungs in a soundless gasp. Stars and black spots swam before his eyes.
A hot, metallic warmth flooded his mouth and dripped down the back of his throat. Mynose, he thought with detached horror. It's definitely broken.
"Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"
A girl with a worried face and a spray of freckles was hovering over him, her hands fluttering, unsure where to touch. "I was just clearing it! I didn't see you sitting there!"
Before Leo could even groan, a voice, sharp as a whip crack, cut across the field. "C'mon, Daisy! I didn't even put any effort into that pass! Leave him and bring the ball!"
Daisy flinched. "But Maya, he's bleeding…"
"If he's hurt, he can go home," the voice—Maya's voice—shouted back, utterly devoid of sympathy. "The clinic's that way. Boys aren't supposed to be here anyway."
The words were a second blow, colder than the first. Gritting his teeth against the throbbing, sickening pain in his face, Leo pushed himself up onto his elbows.
Blood, shockingly red, dripped in a steady patter onto the pristine black leather of his new boots. He ignored Daisy's repeated apologies as she snatched the ball and jogged away, shamefaced.
Painfully, he slid his father's glasses on.
The world snapped into hyper-clarity, the pain registering as a pulsing, red warning outline in the corner of his vision.
[WARNING: NASAL DISLOCATION DETECTED. MINOR CONCUSSION RISK. ADRENALINE SPIKE 240%.]
A new, urgent line of text scrolled beneath, the font bold and commanding.
[OVERRIDE PROTOCOL 'GRIT' ENGAGED.] [BIOMETRIC PAIN SUPPRESSION: TEMPORARY. PRIORITY: OBJECTIVE.]
A cool numbness washed through the center of the pain, pushing it to the edges. He got to his feet, wiping the blood on his already-stained sleeve.
Across the field, Maya was gathering the girls, her back to him as if he'd already been erased. He walked over, his new boots feeling both alien and anchored on the turf.
As he got closer, he heard the plan. "Alright, 5v5. Half-pitch. First to four. Sasha, pick your team. Daisy, you're…"
The other girl, Sasha—taller, muscular with a sharp, pretty face framed by complex, beaded braids—cut her off. She pointed a finger directly at Leo's chest. "Hey. Newbie. What's your name?"
All eyes turned to him. He swallowed a mouthful of blood. "Leo."
"Okay. Leo's with me," Sasha declared, a challenging glint in her eye aimed squarely at Maya.
Maya's gaze flicked to Leo. It wasn't a look of curiosity, but of cold assessment; like checking the density of a wall she was about to run through. It lasted less than a second before she looked away. "Fine. Your funeral. Let's go."
He was assigned midfield. The whistle blew.
What followed was seven minutes of pure, unadulterated humiliation.
His first pass, guided by a shimmering system line, was technically perfect in trajectory. It was also pathetically slow. An opposing midfielder, smirking, stepped in and intercepted it as if plucking an apple from a low branch.
[PASS INTERCEPTED. BALL VELOCITY INSUFFICIENT.
[RECOMMENDATION: INCREASE LEG STRENGTH & FOLLOW-THROUGH.]
He was muscled off the ball by girls half his size, their low center of gravity and fierce determination making them feel like moving walls. [PHYSICAL CONTEST LOST. OPPONENT STR ESTIMATE: 14. APPRENTICE STR: 6. INSUFFICIENT.]
He managed a few desperate, system-assisted clearances, but they were acts of panic, not play. He was a ghost in the engine room, a traffic cone in a lame energy-drink jersey.
Maya was a force of nature. She moved with a terrifying, economical grace. She didn't dribble through defenders; she passed them by, a subtle feint, a burst of acceleration that seemed to tear the air, and she was gone. She scored the first three goals for her team with cold, surgical precision.
Leo's team, driven by Sasha's relentless, snarling hustle and a few lucky breaks, clawed back. 3-1. 3-2. Then, in the dying moments, a mad scramble in the box led to a messy, desperate equalizer. 3-3.
The small-sided game had no referee. Someone called out, voice strained: "Last play! Next goal wins!"
Leo was ready to give up as his team moved back into formation. "If I'm this bad with some girls, I'm never gonna be put on the official school team."
The air crackled with a tangible, electric tension. The kick-off was a furious mess of tackles, the ball pinging wildly like a pinball. It squirted out to the edge of the area, rolling perfectly into the path of the one person nobody wanted to see it near.
Maya.
She was unmarked, 20 yards out, central.
A collective groan of despair went up from Leo's team. The goalkeeper sank into her stance, knowing it was hopeless but poised for the martyrdom of the attempt. Sasha cursed, her shoulders slumping in defeat.
The game was over.
Maya took one settling touch, her body coiling like a spring, the world narrowing to the ball and the net.
And from her blind side, a blur in a bright yellow jersey surged.
It was Leo. The system had seen it three seconds ago; the deflection probability, the passing lane that would free Maya. It had given him a single, desperate command, flashing red: [CLOSE DOWN ANGLE. INTERCEPTION PROBABILITY: 12%].
He had moved not on thought, but on the desperate, screaming hope contained in that pathetic 12%. He threw himself into the path of the shot just as Maya's foot met the ball with a sound like a gunshot.
The impact wasn't with his foot. It was with the center of his chest.
THUMP.
It felt like being hit by a speeding car. The air exploded from his lungs. But he was braced this time. The lenses of his glasses flared a brilliant, electric blue as the system analyzed the ball's spin, velocity, and point of impact in micro-seconds.
[CRITICAL IMPACT ABSORBED. IMPROVISED TRAPPING PROTOCOL ENGAGED. KINETIC ENERGY DISSIPATED.]
He didn't fight the ball. He absorbed it, his torso yielding just enough, letting the fury of the shot die against his sternum. It dropped to his feet as if on a silken string.
For the first time all game, there was a bubble of space around him. The entire field was frozen, a tableau of stunned shock.
The system painted the field in urgent, golden light. A single, blazing path erupted from the ball to the back of the net, weaving through the paralyzed defenders. It was no longer a suggestion. It was a directive.
[PRIMARY OBJECTIVE UPDATED: SCORE.]
Leo took one touch forward, the new Jaguar boots gripping the turf with a confident squeak. He was already moving, a step ahead of his own shock. He bypassed a flat-footed midfielder with a simple, devastating push past her. A defender lunged; he tapped the ball through the narrow gate of her legs, his movement suddenly economical, precise.
He was not thinking. He was a conduit, executing flawless geometry.
He was at the edge of the box. The goalkeeper, still hopelessly out of position from preparing for Maya's certain goal, scrambled desperately across her line.
Leo didn't look up. He didn't need to. A glowing, pulsating X marked the exact spot inside the near post, six inches from the crossbar and the upright.
He drew back his right foot, the black Jaguar logo a sleek blur, and struck.
The shot wasn't about power. It was about certainty. A white streak that hissed through the air, kissing the inside of the post with a perfect PING before burying itself in the top corner of the tiny goal.
For one heartbeat, there was absolute silence. Just the ball rippling the net.
Then, a raw, primal yell tore from Leo's throat, ripped from a place he didn't know he had. "GOOOOOOOAL!"
He had never screamed that word on a pitch before. Not in victory. Not in joy. This was something else—release, defiance, proof.
He leapt into the air, fists clenched at his sides, the pain in his nose and chest utterly forgotten, burned away in the fire of the moment. The echo of his shout hung over the silent, stunned training ground.
He landed, panting, the world rushing back in. He looked down. A single, perfect drop of crimson from his shattered nose had splattered across the pristine black toe of his right boot. A mark of the price. A badge.
The only thing that mattered to him was his first ever goal.
Then he became aware of the silence and turned.
All eyes were locked on him. Wide with disbelief. Sasha was staring, her mouth slightly open, the earlier defeat replaced by blazing curiosity. Daisy looked utterly shocked.
And Maya.
Maya was just looking at him. No smile. No anger. Her earlier dismissal was incinerated, replaced by the pure, calculating stare of a predator who has just discovered another hunter in her territory.
Her eyes weren't on his bloody face, but on his feet, on the clean lines of his run, dissecting the impossible geometry of his play.
Leo met her gaze, his chest heaving, the coppery taste of blood and the sweet taste of victory sharp on his tongue.