Book 1: Premier League - The Contract
Chapter 1: The Smell of Bread
The cardboard was damp.
Again.
Kai shifted his weight, feeling the London pavement cold through the thin layer of wet cardboard that served as his mattress. His back ached. His stomach growled. And somewhere, just a few meters away, behind the wall he was leaning against, bread was baking.
He opened one eye.
Dawn light. Grey sky. The usual.
The bakery behind him had been his alarm clock for three weeks now. Every morning, 5:47 AM, the ovens fired up and the smell drifted through the ventilation grate. His body learned to wake at 5:47 without needing to see the sun. Old habits. Old training.
Number 47, wake up. Training in twenty minutes. You will be first on the pitch or you will run laps until you vomit.
He pushed the memory away. It was easier here. In this world, no one yelled. No one blew whistles. No one forced him to do anything.
Except his stomach. His stomach was very demanding.
Kai sat up slowly. The alley behind the bakery was narrow, just wide enough for a delivery van, which meant it was just wide enough for him to sleep without being seen from the street. He'd chosen it carefully. End of the alley, recessed doorway, slight overhang that kept off most rain. Luxury accommodation, by street standards.
He stretched. His body moved smoothly, quietly. Twenty years old in this life, but his body remembered everything from the last one. The way muscles should fire. The way joints should align. The way to conserve energy during rest.
Number 47, you will rest when you are dead.
Well. He was dead now. The old world was dead. The old Number 47 was dead. And here, in this world, he rested whenever he wanted.
He reached into his jacket pocket. His fingers found the small plastic bag with yesterday's haul: half a sandwich (found in a bin near the station, still wrapped), an apple with one bad spot (market discard), and three pound coins (collected from pavement, bus seats, the mysterious places where money appeared).
The sandwich was slightly stale. He ate it anyway, slowly, chewing each bite thoroughly. Old training again. Chew thirty-two times. Maximum nutrient extraction. No food wasted.
The apple he saved for later. The coins he counted. Three pounds. Enough for a hot drink somewhere. Maybe a pastry if he found a cheap place.
But first, he needed to check his headphones.
He pulled them from his other pocket. The cheap wired headphones he'd found three weeks ago, tangled in a bush near the library. The left earbud worked sometimes. The right earbud worked when it wanted. The cable was frayed in three places. But they were his.
He'd spent two days figuring out how to fix them. The library had free internet and free charging. He'd watched videos on headphone repair, memorized the steps, then found a discarded phone repair kit in a bin behind an electronics shop. The tweezers were bent. The small screwdriver was missing its handle. But he'd managed.
Now the headphones worked. Mostly.
Kai put them in. No sound. He wiggled the jack. Still nothing. He held the cable at a specific angle, the one he'd discovered by accident, and—
Music.
Some pop song he didn't recognize. Upbeat. Female voice. Happy drums.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. The music washed over him. It filled his ears, his head, his chest. In the old world, there had been no music. Only whistles. Only commands. Only the sounds of bodies hitting bodies, of trainers shouting, of his own breathing ragged and desperate.
Here, music was everywhere. Free. Infinite. He'd discovered it that first week, when he'd found the headphones and charged them at the library and put them in for the first time. The sound had made him cry. Real tears. First time since waking in this world.
Number 47 does not cry. Number 47 does not feel. Number 47 performs.
But Number 47 was dead. Kai was alive. And Kai cried when music moved him.
The pop song ended. Another began. Slower. A man's voice. Piano.
Kai let his mind drift. The bakery smell mixed with the music. His stomach, temporarily satisfied, stopped complaining. His back, against the rough wall, found a comfortable position. His eyes stayed closed.
This was enough. This moment. Music and bread smell and no one telling him to move.
In the old world, he'd never had moments. Only movements. Constant motion. Constant performance. From age seven until age thirty-two, his body had belonged to others. He'd been captured from the streets—same as this life, actually—and processed into the system. They'd tested him. Measured him. Found his potential.
This one has fast twitch fibers. Excellent recovery rate. High pain tolerance. Mark him for full-spectrum training.
Full-spectrum. That meant everything. Football. Combat sports. Athletics. Swimming. Gymnastics. Whatever they could monetize, they trained. Whatever they trained, he mastered. Not because he was gifted—though he was—but because the alternative was worse. Much worse.
Number 47, you will be the best. You will win. You will make us money. Or you will be replaced.
He'd seen what replacement meant. The ones who couldn't keep up. The ones whose bodies broke before their minds did. They disappeared. Where? He never knew. But the training barracks had empty beds every month.
So he'd kept up. For twenty-five years, he'd kept up. He'd played football in stadiums he never saw. He'd fought in rings he never chose. He'd run, jumped, kicked, scored, won—always won—until his body couldn't anymore.
Thirty-two years old. His heart had stopped during a recovery session. Just stopped. The trainers had been angry. Forty-seven was our best asset. Now we have to train another.
And then—nothing. Then darkness. Then waking up in this world, on these streets, with the same body but younger. With all the skills still embedded in his muscles and bones. With all the memories still burned into his brain.
And with something new: choice.
Kai opened his eyes. The music had changed again. Something with guitars. Spanish, maybe. He didn't know the language yet, but he recognized the sound. In the old world, he'd heard other trainers speaking Spanish sometimes. Harsh words. Commands. But this music was different. Soft. Gentle.
He let himself listen.
The bakery door opened.
Kai's eyes snapped to it automatically. Old habit. Assess threat. Identify exit. Calculate response time.
A man in a flour-dusted apron stepped out, carrying a bag of rubbish. He was middle-aged, tired-looking, with kind eyes that hadn't yet noticed the figure in the doorway. He walked to the bin, lifted the lid, dropped the bag inside.
Then he turned.
Their eyes met.
Kai didn't move. Didn't speak. In the old world, eye contact with strangers was dangerous. Could be scouts. Could be enforcers. Could be anyone who might report a street kid for removal.
But this wasn't the old world. And the baker just looked at him for a long moment, then nodded once.
"You're the one who sleeps back here," the baker said. Not a question.
Kai said nothing.
"I've seen you. Three weeks now. You're quiet. Don't make trouble." The baker wiped his hands on his apron. "You hungry?"
Kai's stomach answered before he could. It growled audibly.
The baker almost smiled. "Wait here."
He disappeared inside. Kai's fingers touched the headphones, ready to pull them out if needed. But he left them in. The music continued. Protection.
The baker returned with a paper bag. Warm. He held it out.
"Yesterday's croissants. Not sold. Still good."
Kai stared at the bag. In the old world, food was currency. Food was reward. Food was controlled, measured, given only for performance. No one ever just... gave.
He took the bag. "Thank you."
His voice was rough from disuse. He didn't speak much. Didn't have anyone to speak to.
The baker nodded again. "There's a shelter three streets over. They do breakfast. Just so you know."
Then he went back inside. The door closed. The music played.
Kai opened the bag. Croissants. Three of them. Golden brown, slightly flattened from being in the bag, but smelling like butter and warmth and something he couldn't name.
He ate one slowly. Thirty-two chews per bite. The flavor exploded in his mouth.
This world, he thought. People just give things. Food. Music. Time.
He leaned back against the wall. Put the headphones in properly. Found the angle where both earbuds worked.
A new song began. Something slow. A woman's voice. Words he didn't understand.
He closed his eyes. The croissant was almost gone. The bakery smell surrounded him. The music filled his ears.
Somewhere far away, a football rolled across a pitch. Somewhere, crowds cheered. Somewhere, trainers screamed and whistles blew.
Not here. Not now.
Here, there was only bread and music and the choice to stay or go.
Kai chose to stay. Just for a moment. Just for one more song.
The music played on.
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End of Chapter 1
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Food Review: Day-old croissant from anonymous bakery. Buttered. Flaky. Free. 9/10.