Chapter 5
The van moved smoothly through the night, its tires whispering against the slick, wet asphalt. Rain had fallen earlier in the evening, leaving a dark, reflective sheen on the roads that mirrored the city lights in long, distorted streaks of color. The blurred reflections painted an ethereal scene on the wet ground, adding to the unsettling atmosphere of the ride. Rocco sat alone in the back seat, one hand resting on his worn and slightly battered duffel bag, the other idly tracing the faded seam on his jeans, back and forth, back and forth, a nervous habit he'd developed over the years. Outside, the lights of the city passed like fleeting ghosts—blurry, indistinct, orange-tinted smudges that quickly faded into the dark abyss beyond the windows. Each passing light offered a brief, tantalizing glimpse of the normal world outside the van, a world he was rapidly leaving behind, then vanished just as quickly, swallowed by the darkness.
"So…" Rocco cleared his throat, the sound amplified in the otherwise silent vehicle, the sudden noise momentarily startling him. He leaned slightly forward in his seat, trying to make eye contact with the driver in the rearview mirror. "What kind of evaluation is it, exactly? More drills, like on the field, running plays until we drop? Fitness testing, maybe running sprints until I puke my guts out?" He chuckled nervously, a forced, slightly shaky sound, hoping to lighten the mood and break the oppressive silence.
The driver didn't respond right away, adding to Rocco's growing unease. He kept his eyes glued to the road ahead, his gaze unwavering, both hands fixed firmly at ten and two on the steering wheel, his posture rigid and unchanging, as if he were a statue carved from stone. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, filled with unspoken questions and mounting anxiety.
"Come on," Rocco said, half-joking but with an edge of genuine curiosity and a hint of frustration creeping into his voice, "you pick me up in the middle of the night, drive me out into who-knows-where, say absolutely nothing the whole ride, and expect me not to ask questions? I'm practically in the dark here, man. Throw me a bone."
The man finally glanced at him through the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable in the dim light, his eyes dark and inscrutable. "It's just assessment stuff. Standard procedure. Nothing to worry about. Just routine evaluations."
"Right, but like... they gonna watch film of my past games, dissecting every move I've ever made? Put me through training sessions to see what I can do, pushing me to my absolute limit? Or is it more medical, like blood tests and MRIs, poking and prodding to see if I'm still in one piece?" Rocco pressed, trying to get some clarity and alleviate his rising anxiety. "I just want a general idea of what to expect so I can mentally prepare myself."
"I'm not allowed to tell you anything else," the driver said flatly, his voice cold and devoid of emotion, leaving no room for argument or further inquiry. "Those are my orders. Strictly confidential."
Rocco raised his brows, unimpressed by the terse response and the man's unwavering adherence to protocol. "What, even the basics? You're not giving state secrets here. I just wanna know if I'm running laps or talking tactics. Big difference in prep, you know? I need to know what kind of shoes to wear, at least."
"It's not my job to brief you on anything," the driver repeated, his voice like ice. "My job is to drive. Nothing more, nothing less."
Rocco leaned back against the worn seat, exhaling a short, humorless laugh that betrayed his nervousness. "You know, for a guy driving someone to the biggest trial of his life, the opportunity that could make or break my career, you're not exactly the friendly type. A little conversation wouldn't kill you. Might even make the ride a little less awkward."
The driver shrugged without looking back, his shoulders barely moving under his dark jacket. "You want small talk, call your mum. She probably misses you and would appreciate the company. I'm sure she has plenty to say."
Rocco scoffed and shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips despite his apprehension. "Nice. Real nice. You're a real comedian, Leon."
He looked out the window again, the city lights now completely replaced by long, desolate stretches of dark highway, broken only by the occasional passing car. A gas station zipped past in a blur, its flickering neon lights bouncing off the windshield in a series of quick flashes, momentarily illuminating the interior of the van. Something about this whole ride felt off—not overtly dangerous exactly, but... sterile. Empty. Too quiet and impersonal, completely devoid of any human connection, for something so important that could decide the entire trajectory of his future.
The driver's phone buzzed on the dashboard, breaking the strained silence once more.
He tapped the screen to answer the call and put it on speaker, his movements economical and precise, as if every action were carefully calculated.
"Yeah," he said, his voice devoid of any inflection, betraying no emotion whatsoever. "Picked him up. Heading out now. ETA as scheduled."
Rocco's ears perked up at the phrasing—picked him up. Like he was some kind of inanimate object, a package to be delivered. Like he was cargo, not a person.
He frowned, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. "You always talk like that about people you drive? 'Picked him up' like I'm a parcel to be shipped? Got a name, you know. It's Rocco."
The driver completely ignored the comment, offering no acknowledgement whatsoever. He hung up the phone with a sharp click, then reached over and pressed a button near the vents, his actions deliberate and unsettlingly calm.
The air conditioning came on with a soft hiss, sending a sudden, cool draft sweeping through the van, washing over Rocco. He blinked and rubbed his arms, surprised by the sudden and unexpected chill that permeated the air
"Didn't realize it was that hot," he muttered, pulling the edges of his hoodie closer together to trap some warmth. "Standard temperature," the driver said, his eyes still locked firmly on the road ahead, unblinking, his focus absolute. "Optimal for travel."
The cold seemed to deepen unnaturally fast, permeating every corner of the van and seeping into Rocco's bones. Not biting, just… smooth and all-encompassing, an almost unnatural cold that felt wrong. Too smooth, almost artificial, like the temperature in a meat locker. Rocco adjusted his hoodie again, trying to find a comfortable position, then shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a growing sense of unease washing over him.
"You sure this AC don't got a filter issue or something?" he asked, suddenly aware of a strange, metallic taste at the back of his throat, a taste that sent a shiver of premonition down his spine. "Feels a bit… off. Almost…chemically."
His voice caught in his throat, a sudden constriction that made it difficult to speak. He swallowed hard, trying to clear his throat, his brow furrowing in concern as his anxiety spiked.
His fingers tingled first, a prickly sensation that spread quickly from his fingertips up to his hands. Then his forearms began to feel numb, as if they were slowly going to sleep, followed by his legs, which felt heavy and unresponsive.
He tried to sit up straighter, to say something more, to demand an explanation, but the words seemed to get stuck halfway up his chest, trapped by a growing sense of panic and an inexplicable feeling of dread.
"Leon…" he managed, his voice noticeably quieter now, strained and weak, barely a whisper.
The driver didn't look back, his focus unwavering, his silence more terrifying than any threat.
The italian's breath slowed, grew shallow and uneven, each gasp for air becoming more difficult than the last. The edges of his vision began to cloud, the world around him dissolving into a hazy blur. The dashboard lights, once sharp and distinct, were now blurring and warping into hazy, indistinct circles, dancing before his eyes.
A dull thud echoed in the van, muffled by the carpeted floor—his duffel bag sliding off his lap and hitting the floor with a soft, almost pathetic sound.
His head lolled to the side, his chin dropping towards his chest, vision fading rapidly, the darkness closing in. His thoughts, once racing with anxiety and questions, were now scattering like leaves in a strong wind, fragmented and incoherent.
And then, finally, everything went dark, plunging him into an absolute and all-encompassing blackness, leaving only silence and the faint, monotonous hum of the van's engine as it sped through the night.
***
Jackie's consciousness flickered back to life, a low groan escaping his lips as he became aware of the oppressive hum of sterile lights. The sound, an incessant, high-pitched buzz, seemed to burrow its way directly into the core of his skull, mercilessly amplifying the dull ache that was already beginning to take root there. His eyelids fluttered open, adjusting to the stark, unwavering brightness that revealed a vast, almost disturbingly pristine expanse of soft white. He was staring up at ceiling panels so flawlessly clean, so unnaturally smooth, that they couldn't possibly belong to any ordinary airport terminal he'd ever encountered. They stretched out seemingly forever, an unbroken, monotonous sea of white, devoid of any of the usual vents, sprinklers, or light fixtures that might dare to interrupt the seamless surface.
His spine, protesting the indignity of its position, throbbed in complaint against the unyielding surface of the molded plastic recliner beneath him, an object designed more for sterile efficiency than for human comfort. The last fragmented memory he could grasp was the sensation of being swallowed by the plush back seat of a sleek, black car, the windows tinted to obscure the outside world. He remembered the unnerving chill that had emanated from the vents, a subtle yet persistent cold that had gradually seeped into his bones, chilling him from the inside out. He recalled the fleeting blur of city lights as they streaked past the darkened windows, a kaleidoscope of urban luminescence, and then…nothing. A sudden, absolute void.
With a deliberate, cautious movement, he attempted to sit up, only to be met by a dizzying wave that threatened to pull him back into the depths of unconsciousness. He instinctively reached out a hand, seeking to steady himself against the cool, smooth surface of the armrest. The sensation of the cold, unyielding plastic was a strange and unwelcome contrast to the clammy sheen of sweat that had broken out on his palm, a testament to the lingering disorientation that clung to him.
As his vision cleared, he began to take in the details of the room, realizing it was more akin to a high-end lounge than any airport terminal he had ever seen. An unsettling silence permeated the air, broken only by the persistent hum of the lights. The space was sleek, almost aggressively so, and impossibly pristine, radiating an aura of sterile perfection. The room stretched out in perfect rectangular symmetry, a carefully curated environment designed to soothe rather than excite, to lull its occupants into a state of placid compliance. It was bathed in what appeared to be natural light, yet there were no windows to be seen, the illumination seeming to emanate mysteriously from the very walls themselves, casting a soft, ethereal glow.
Potted plants, meticulously placed in each corner of the room, stood in perfect, unwavering stillness, spaced with the precision of polite attendants. Their leaves were a vibrant, almost artificial green, adding a touch of manufactured life to the otherwise sterile environment. The floors gleamed, spotless and bone-colored, reflecting the ambient light in a way that forced Jackie to squint, the polished surface almost blinding in its intensity. A set of tinted glass doors, their surfaces subtly glowing, stood sentinel along the far wall, promising entry to some unknown and potentially unsettling destination. The silence was heavy, almost suffocating—no rumble of rolling suitcases, no garbled boarding calls echoing through the cavernous hall, no chaotic symphony of sounds that usually defined an airport. Just the distant, rhythmic click of heels against the polished floor, growing steadily closer with each passing moment. He could hear the distinct cadence, the measured pace that hinted at purpose and control.
Jackie's throat felt parched, scratchy, as if he had been shouting into the void for hours, though he had no recollection of uttering a single word. He swallowed hard, the oppressive fog in his mind gradually beginning to thin, though the sensation felt less like a cloud dissipating in a clear sky and more like a dense swamp reluctantly relinquishing its grip. He made a conscious effort to bring details into sharper focus, clinging to any tangible element that might ground him in reality, but his brain felt resistant, slow to cooperate, as if deliberately shielding him from some unknown truth.
There were no departure screens flashing flight information, no bustling crowds of hurried travelers, no garish advertisements vying for attention. Just smooth, pale surfaces and a disconcerting, all-encompassing quiet that seemed to press in on him from all sides.
"Señor Terrezas?"
The voice, soft yet undeniably firm, sliced through the oppressive silence like a well-honed blade, demanding attention. It was accented faintly, with a subtle inflection that hinted at an exotic origin—Japanese, perhaps? Or something subtly similar, yet indefinably different. It was difficult to place, further contributing to his growing sense of unease and disorientation. Jackie slowly raised his head, his neck stiff and protesting, his gaze still unfocused and struggling to adjust.
A woman had materialized a few paces from him, as if she had simply coalesced from the very walls of the room, appearing without warning or sound. Her hands were loosely clasped in front of her, a picture of composed stillness and unwavering control. She was impeccably dressed in a crisp gray overcoat layered over a charcoal suit that appeared to have been tailored to her precise measurements. Not a single wrinkle marred the flawless fabric. Her straight black hair was pulled back and tied neatly into a low, severe bun, emphasizing the sharp, angular lines of her face, and her dark eyes met his with a kind of practiced calm, a detached professionalism that one might expect from someone greeting a guest in a place built to never reveal its secrets, a place meticulously designed to conceal its true purpose.
He pushed himself slowly to his feet, the muscles in his legs screaming in protest after their period of enforced inactivity. He instinctively gripped the handle of his worn duffel bag, the familiar texture of the canvas providing a small measure of comfort in this alien and unsettling environment. "Yeah. I'm Terrezas."
The woman advanced a step closer, her movements fluid, economical, and utterly devoid of wasted energy, and extended a hand in greeting. "Ms. Miyazashi," she said, her voice smooth and controlled. "I'll be assisting your departure."
Her fingers were cool to the touch, yet her grip was firm and professional, brief but undeniably present. Jackie nodded once, blinking through the lingering haze of jet lag—or whatever peculiar form of disorientation this was. It felt distinctly different from the usual transatlantic grogginess, sharper, more disorienting, as if his senses had been deliberately scrambled.
"How long was I asleep?" He struggled to keep the question from sounding accusatory, acutely aware of the vulnerability that any hint of accusation might betray.
"You arrived ninety-seven minutes ago."
"I don't remember…landing. Or checking in." Fragments of the drive to wherever he was were missing, blank spaces in his memory that he couldn't fill, gaps in his recollection that were deeply disturbing.
"There was no check-in." Her tone was flat, devoid of any hint of explanation or apology, offering no further insight into the unusual circumstances.
He cast his gaze around the room once more, taking in the stark, minimalist aesthetic of the space. The walls were seamless, unbroken by any visible joints or seams, the lighting indirect, casting no shadows that might offer a sense of depth or perspective. "Is this place even real?" Or was he trapped in some elaborate, meticulously crafted, and deeply unsettling dream?
She allowed herself the faintest hint of a smile, a subtle curve of her lips that might have been genuine amusement or merely a carefully calculated response. "You'll find that it is. Please—this way."
Jackie hesitated for a moment, his instincts screaming at him to resist, to question, to demand answers, but the sheer implacability of Ms. Miyazashi's demeanor, the subtle yet undeniable air of authority that surrounded her, ultimately compelled him to comply. He followed her lead, his boots clicking faintly on the polished floor as they moved towards the tinted glass doors, which hissed open silently at her approach, revealing a glimpse of the unknown that lay beyond. The air changed immediately—cooler, quieter, carrying a faint metallic scent that he couldn't quite place. A long corridor stretched forward, its walls equally featureless and sterile, opening up to a short set of stairs that led down to a flat gray runway. The entire perimeter felt…controlled, meticulously managed and monitored. There was no sign of a ground crew, no baggage handlers, no bustling activity, no service vehicles in sight except for a single, spotless black van idling discreetly under the shadow of a private jet's wing.
The jet sitting on the tarmac made no attempt to impress anyone. It was simply matte white, a practical color chosen for blending in and avoiding unwanted attention, with gleaming silver turbines that hinted at the immense power contained within. Minimal markings adorned its fuselage, nothing to draw the eye or distinguish it from any other aircraft. It was the kind of craft that one wouldn't give a second glance to in a sky crowded with commercial flights, easily lost in the routine air traffic. Yet, despite its unassuming appearance, it possessed a certain presence, a silent authority that spoke of purpose and capability. It wasn't built for show or to be admired; its sole purpose was to deliver, to get something—or someone—from point A to point B with unwavering efficiency and absolute discretion.
The van door slid open with a smooth, almost imperceptible hiss, releasing a puff of slightly stale air. The sound was mechanical and precise, like everything else about this carefully orchestrated operation.
"Your seat is 1B," Ms. Miyazashi said, her voice remaining even and professional, betraying no hint of emotion. "You'll find refreshments and relevant documents pertaining to your assignment waiting for you onboard. In Manchester, a separate contact will meet you at the designated arrival point. Please do not attempt to exit the aircraft upon landing until you are specifically instructed to do so. There will be further instructions given at that time.
Jackie paused, a flicker of uncertainty momentarily clouding his eyes, and turned back to face her. "You're not coming with me?"
"I'm not part of that leg of the journey," she replied, her expression remaining unreadable, an impenetrable mask of professional detachment.
He studied her for a moment, his gaze searching her face for any clue, any hint of information that might help him decipher her role in this bizarre and unsettling situation. "What are you, then? Some kind of…handler?"
Her head tilted slightly, a subtle movement that betrayed nothing of her thoughts or feelings. "The transition," she stated simply, as if that single word was sufficient to explain everything, encompassing her purpose and function in this elaborate game.
And just like that, without another word or glance in his direction, she turned away and stepped back towards the terminal building. The automatic glass doors slid open silently and swallowed her whole, seamlessly integrating her back into the anonymous flow of travelers, erasing her presence as if she had never been there at all. Jackie stood still for a moment, the low engine noise of the jet pulsing gently in the background, a constant, rhythmic thrumming that vibrated through the soles of his feet, a tangible reminder that this was, in fact, happening. He then turned and climbed into the back of the waiting van, resigning himself to the inevitable.
It rolled just a few meters forward, the tires crunching slightly on the tarmac, before stopping precisely beside the portable staircase that had been wheeled into position. He stepped out of the van, the cold tarmac air brushing against his skin, a stark contrast to the stuffy, stale interior of the vehicle. He climbed the narrow, slightly unsteady steps, each footfall echoing slightly in the vast, empty space, and entered the jet, stepping into the unknown that awaited him within.
Chapter 6
The cabin of the private jet was an enclave of opulence, a hushed sanctuary where wealth whispered through every meticulously chosen detail. Soft, diffused golden light bathed the interior, casting a warm glow upon the plush charcoal carpet that seemed to absorb every footstep. The walls, paneled in supple suede, acted as acoustic sponges, silencing the outside world and creating an atmosphere of serene exclusivity. Instead of rows upon rows of cramped seating, the cabin boasted a mere twelve wide, extravagantly comfortable leather recliners. These were strategically spaced, affording each passenger an almost theatrical illusion of absolute privacy, as if they were the only soul on board. A subtle, sophisticated fragrance permeated the air—a delicate blend of invigorating citrus notes interlaced with a richer, more grounding aroma, reminiscent of fine leather gently warmed by the sun's embrace.
His assigned seat, 1B, awaited him with an almost palpable sense of anticipation, situated next to a tinted, oval-shaped window that offered tantalizing glimpses of the world outside. On the adjacent tray table, a pristine glass of mineral water shimmered invitingly, reflecting the soft light like a captured star. Next to it rested a slim, impeccably white envelope, bearing his name—J. TERREZAS—printed in clean, crisp black letters, a stark minimalist contrast to the luxurious surroundings.
Across the aisle, occupying seat 1C, sat another individual clearly part of the same mysterious trial. This man possessed a striking presence—tall and powerfully built, with skin the color of roasted sugar, hinting at a life lived under a warm sun. His thick dreadlocks were gathered and tied back into a substantial ponytail, revealing the strong lines of his face. He exuded an air of casual confidence, dressed in a loose-fitting hoodie in a vibrant Carolina blue. Rings adorned his fingers, catching the light with subtle flashes of gold and silver, and a pair of obviously expensive-looking headphones hung casually around his neck, a silent testament to his discerning taste. He offered Jackie a quick, almost imperceptible nod, accompanied by a disarming, easy grin that suggested a friendly, approachable nature.
"You made it," he observed, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.
"Apparently," Jackie muttered in reply, setting his bag down with a soft thud. He felt a prickle of curiosity, wondering how much this stranger knew.
"I saw you come in with that Miyazashi lady," the man continued, his eyes twinkling with intrigue. "For a second, I thought maybe you were an agent or something—some kind of handler overseeing the whole operation."
Jackie let out a slow, deliberate breath, deflating the man's speculation with a hint of wry amusement. "Nah. Player. Left wing," he clarified, stating his position with a quiet confidence.
The guy's eyebrows rose slightly in genuine surprise, acknowledging Jackie's revelation with a newfound respect. "Ah, no kidding. Got that winger build, I guess. Lean, quick, ready to explode."
"Something like that," Jackie agreed, offering a cryptic smile that revealed nothing more.
The man grinned again, a wider, more genuine expression this time, then leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms languidly above his head. "Name's Andre. Played a little academy ball back in Atlanta. Thought they'd forgotten all about me, to be honest, till this whole trial thing came up out of the blue."
Jackie gave a small, acknowledging nod, indicating he understood the sentiment. "Same here, in a way. Was based in New York for a while. Born in Sevilla, though, originally."
"You Spanish?" Andre inquired, his voice laced with sudden interest, his eyes gleaming with a shared connection.
Jackie smirked, a flicker of pride crossing his features. "Half. Mom's side. That's where I learned to ball, kicking it around dusty fields under the Andalusian sun."
Andre chuckled, a warm, resonant sound that filled the small space. He then tilted his head subtly toward the rear of the cabin, directing Jackie's attention. "Third guy just came in. Seems like our little party is complete."
Jackie turned in his seat, swiveling to observe the new arrival.
The boy behind them slid silently and gracefully into seat 2A, moving with a quiet economy of motion that suggested a deep-seated self-discipline. He was slim and almost unnervingly quiet, possessing an aura of intense concentration. Long, black hair was tied back into a low, austere knot at the nape of his neck, accentuating the sharp, almost severe angles of his cheekbones. His eyes were dark and unreadable, like polished obsidian, hinting at hidden depths. He was dressed simply in a plain black T-shirt and practical athletic pants, and his boots, though clearly well-worn, spoke of diligent care and maintenance. Every movement he made was precise and deliberate, as if energy was a precious commodity to be conserved and measured out with meticulous care.
Andre, never one to shy away from conversation, called back to the boy. "What's up, bro? You one of the trialists they plucked from obscurity?"
A curt nod was the only response. "Yes."
"Position? Where do you play on the pitch?" Andre persisted, his curiosity piqued.
"Left wing," the boy stated simply, his voice devoid of inflection.
Jackie's gaze sharpened, his eyes meeting those of the newcomer.
The boy's eyes lingered on him for just a half-second too long—cool, assessing, almost predatory. Then, a flicker of something unreadable—a flash of tension, perhaps, or a hint of suppressed emotion. His jaw tightened imperceptibly. He abruptly looked away, breaking the connection as if it had been a dangerous spark.
Jackie adjusted himself in his seat, suddenly and acutely aware of the charged air that now crackled between them. He could feel the unspoken rivalry, the silent challenge hanging heavy in the air.
"You got a name, or are we just going to call you 'Mystery Man'?" Andre asked, breaking the tense silence with his characteristic levity.
"Elias," the boy replied, his voice low and resonant, with a faint rasp that hinted at a life lived outdoors, exposed to the elements. "Elias Vargas."
"Where you from, Elias?" Andre continued, maintaining his friendly interrogation.
"Mendoza," Elias said, offering the single word like a carefully guarded secret. "Argentina."
Andre leaned over conspiratorially to Jackie, a glint of excitement in his eyes. "South America always brings the sauce, man. The flair, the passion, the unpredictable magic. It's gonna be a battle, for sure."
Jackie didn't reply, his mind still replaying the intensity of Elias's brief but pointed glare.
No one said it out loud, but the unspoken truth hung in the air like a tangible presence. Two left wingers. One spotlight. An inevitable collision course.
The lights in the cabin dimmed subtly, casting long, dramatic shadows, and a soft, almost ethereal chime rang overhead, signaling an impending change. The engines outside the aircraft grew louder, transitioning from a gentle purr to a steady, powerful thrum that vibrated through the floor beneath their feet. The anticipation in the cabin was almost palpable, thick enough to taste.
Jackie glanced down at the crisp white envelope that sat beside his untouched glass of water. He hadn't opened it yet, a subconscious act of procrastination.
He reached for it tentatively—then paused, his fingers hovering over the pristine surface.
He noticed that Elias hadn't touched his envelope either, further fueling his growing unease.
And nobody, it seemed, had any concrete idea of what this mysterious "evaluation" would even entail.
The jet began its ascent, lifting off the ground with the smooth, effortless grace of silk being pulled taut.
Jackie leaned back in his seat, his eyes fixed on the slowly turning clouds visible beyond the window. They didn't look quite real, more like layers of soft, gray cotton drifting aimlessly in the vast expanse of the sky. The seatbelt across his lap felt strangely looser than necessary, adding to the sense of surreal detachment. The air in the cabin smelled faintly of citrus and cold metal, a peculiar combination of freshness and sterile anonymity. A faint hiss filled the cabin—ventilation, perhaps, or something else more hidden and less easily identifiable, contributing to the overall sense of mystery.
He glanced across the aisle. Andre had already kicked off his shoes, revealing brightly colored socks, and pulled a luxurious-looking satin blanket over his lap. A half-eaten packet of almonds sat open on the tray beside him, suggesting a relaxed, almost nonchalant attitude. He looked completely at ease, as if he'd done this a dozen times before, perfectly comfortable in this rarefied environment.
Jackie, on the other hand, wasn't sure how.
Every part of this experience felt surreal, disconnected from the reality he knew. First the unmarked van, then the unsettling blackout, and now this opulent private jet soaring through the sky. He'd taken plenty of flights in his life, but never like this. Not surrounded by an almost oppressive silence, not shadowed by this much secrecy and veiled anticipation.
The white envelope, the key to understanding this entire charade, still sat unopened on his tray table, an object of both fascination and apprehension.
He finally tore open the flap, careful not to wrinkle the pristine edges of the heavy paper. Inside, he found a single card. Heavy stock, as expected. Clean, minimalist design. No address, no company crest, no identifying marks of any kind. Just a brief message printed in a thin, elegant serif font:
"This is your opportunity. Play with clarity. Compete with courage. The decision will come swiftly."
No instructions. No schedule of events. No specific date. No signature. No name.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a mixture of frustration and mounting anxiety swirling within him. The cryptic message offered no real guidance, only vague platitudes that intensified the sense of unease.
Across from him, Andre stretched languidly and turned his head, fixing Jackie with a curious gaze.
"So what's your story, Jackie?" he asked, his voice friendly but probing.
Jackie looked up, momentarily startled by the directness of the question. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—why're you here? What're you hoping this whole thing becomes? What's driving you to chase this crazy dream?" Andre elaborated, clarifying his earlier inquiry.
Jackie paused, carefully considering his response, resting his fingers thoughtfully on the armrest.
"I want to play. Really play. Not just train endlessly, going through the motions. Not sit on some dusty reserve bench somewhere, watching my skills atrophy until I'm past my prime at 28. I want the real thing. The roar of the fans. The pressure of meaningful fixtures. The intensity of genuine competition. I need it, almost like I need air to breathe."
Andre nodded slowly, considering Jackie's impassioned words, recognizing the burning desire that fueled his ambition. "I feel that, man. I was stuck in the cycle myself—academy dropout, bouncing between pick-up leagues, hustling in those low-stakes tournaments in Atlanta. My coach told me I was too creative, too individualistic. Not disciplined enough to fit into their system. Then this opportunity came out of nowhere, like a lightning bolt from a clear sky."
Jackie's brow lifted slightly, intrigued by Andre's story. "They didn't tell you much either, yeah?"
"Not a damn thing," Andre confirmed, grinning wryly.
"Got a vague call out of the blue. Got a location, shrouded in secrecy. Then here we are. At first, I thought I was finally being scouted by some big-name team. Now I'm starting to think we're just pawns in some elaborate, high-stakes scheme."
Behind them, Elias stirred in his seat, his movement barely perceptible but enough to draw their attention.
"You're not wrong," he said quietly, his voice cutting through the comfortable hum of the jet.
Jackie turned fully in his seat, facing Elias directly. "You got more info than you're letting on?"
Elias shook his head slowly, his dark eyes betraying nothing. "Only what they didn't say. The omissions, the carefully worded phrases, the unsettling silences. That's what worries me the most. The things they're deliberately keeping hidden."
His voice was calm and measured, but his posture remained unnervingly tight, his hands folded rigidly in his lap. His boots were planted firmly on the floor, as if he was bracing himself for unexpected turbulence.
"We're competitors. That's all they see. That's all that matters to them. Our individual hopes and dreams are irrelevant."
Jackie caught the barely concealed edge in his voice, the underlying threat that simmered beneath the surface of his carefully chosen words.
Andre leaned over, his brow furrowed in curiosity. "Where'd you play last, Elias? What kind of teams have you been a part of?"
"Amateur league in Mendoza," Elias said, his tone clipped and dismissive. "Street matches too. Pick-up games, fiercely contested battles on dusty turf. No cameras, no scouts, no glory. Just players, driven by passion and raw talent."
"What about your family?" Jackie asked, his tone deliberately casual, trying to glean some insight into Elias's background.
"I didn't tell them about this," Elias said, his jaw tightening slightly. "They would've tried to stop me. Suffocated my ambition before it even had a chance to bloom."
Jackie raised a brow, intrigued by this revelation. "Why?"
Elias's jaw shifted subtly, a telltale sign of inner turmoil. "They're careful people. Cautious. Risk-averse."
Andre frowned, sensing the underlying complexities. "Careful? Or scared? Is there something in your past that they're trying to protect you from?"
"Same thing, in the end," Elias replied cryptically, then abruptly closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, effectively shutting down the conversation.
Silence drifted back into the cabin, heavier and more oppressive than before. Only the steady, unwavering hum of the engines remained, a constant reminder of their isolation.
Jackie looked out the window again, seeking solace in the vastness of the sky. The sun had risen higher now, breaking triumphantly through the cloudline, spilling molten gold across the horizon. For a fleeting second, it looked like a breathtaking canvas, a painting too wide and magnificent to fully take in.
But even such profound beauty couldn't settle his restless thoughts, couldn't quell the growing sense of unease that gnawed at his insides.
He glanced back at Elias, who was still pretending to sleep, his face turned away from the aisle.
There was no question in Jackie's mind now—Elias was undeniably gunning for the same coveted spot on the pitch. Left wing. That intense, almost hostile glare earlier wasn't casual, wasn't a fleeting moment of curiosity. It was deliberate, calculated. He saw him as a direct threat, a formidable obstacle standing between him and his ultimate goal. Maybe he saw Andre as a threat too.
This wasn't going to be some friendly training camp, a collaborative environment where they could hone their skills together.
It was a culling. A brutal winnowing process designed to separate the wheat from the chaff, to identify the one truly exceptional player among them.
And they'd all been flown here, pampered and indulged, for the sole purpose of participating in it.
Chapter 7
The hands on Jackie's watch seemed to mock him, crawling forward with agonizing slowness as the interminable hours dripped away. The captain, a ghost in his own cockpit, remained resolutely silent, creating a vacuum of unspoken dread that filled the confined space of the small cabin. Each tick of the clock felt like a hammer blow, resonating with the growing unease that spread like a contagion among the passengers. This protracted silence, heavy and suffocating, felt deliberate, almost malevolent, ratcheting up the already mounting tension to an almost unbearable degree. It was a silence pregnant with unspoken questions and simmering anxieties.
There was no comforting announcement to break the oppressive atmosphere, no cheerful intercom chatter to lighten the mood, to offer even a sliver of reassurance. Not even a perfunctory mention of their estimated arrival time to quell the rising tide of apprehension that threatened to engulf them. Just the monotonous, almost hypnotic hum of the jet engines, subtly shifting in pitch, a mechanical lullaby that offered no solace, and the barely perceptible lean forward of the aircraft that telegraphed to Jackie the undeniable fact that they were, at long last, descending. This complete and utter lack of communication from the flight crew only served to amplify their collective anxiety, leaving them adrift in a sea of uncertainty, completely in the dark about their ultimate destination and the meticulously planned schedule that governed their movements.
Outside the small, scratched window, the sky presented a depressing vista, the color of old, tarnished tin – flat, lifeless, and utterly devoid of warmth or vibrancy. A meager few pale beams of sunlight managed to weakly penetrate the oppressive layers of thick clouds, diluted and weak, like milk carelessly streaked with water. Somewhere far below, obscured by the thick, impenetrable blanket of cloud cover, the rolling green hills of England awaited, a promised land depicted in glossy brochures and whispered in hopeful dreams. Yet, there was absolutely no sense of welcome or vibrant life emanating from the dull, gray, monotonous view. It was a desolate landscape, utterly devoid of cheer, a panorama of bleakness that mirrored the growing unease in Jackie's heart.
Jackie, seeking some semblance of control in this disorienting situation, sat up straighter in his seat, adjusting his posture in a futile attempt to ward off the creeping anxiety. He exhaled slowly and deliberately, his breath momentarily fogging the cold, smooth glass of the window in front of him. He wiped away the condensation with the sleeve of his worn jacket, trying desperately to focus on something tangible, something real, to ground himself in the present moment. Elias, as enigmatic and silent as ever, stared blankly ahead, his gaze fixed on some distant, unseen point, seemingly lost in the labyrinthine corridors of his own thoughts. Andre, his face a mask of barely suppressed nervousness, cracked his knuckles one by one, a repetitive, almost frantic habit that betrayed his inner turmoil, then sat back abruptly, as if bracing himself for an unknown impact, a sudden jolt that would shatter the fragile illusion of control.
The flight, which had begun with a modicum of polite, if perfunctory, early introductions, had descended into an almost unbearable silence. No in-flight service broke the monotony of the journey, no clatter of carts, no forced smiles from flight attendants. No check-ins from the crew to offer even a modicum of comfort or reassurance to the increasingly anxious passengers. Just three young players, each grappling with their own individual fears and a growing, insidious sense of being led somewhere they hadn't explicitly asked to be taken, their initial excitement and anticipation slowly but surely fading into a palpable apprehension. They exchanged furtive, worried glances, communicating volumes with a single, fleeting look, but no one dared to break the heavy, suffocating silence that had descended upon them like a shroud.
As the plane continued its descent, the clouds began to gradually thin, offering tantalizing glimpses of the landmass below. Patches of saturated green, intensely vibrant against the backdrop of the perpetually gray sky, were crisscrossed by a network of thin, winding roads and dark, imposing hedgerows, forming a complex and intricate patchwork quilt that stretched out as far as the eye could see. A distant sprawl of industrial gray, a cluster of concrete and steel, loomed on the horizon, its buildings stark and uninviting, casting long, ominous shadows in the weak sunlight.
Manchester.
As the wheels of the plane unfolded beneath them with a loud, mechanical groan that resonated through the cabin, Elias muttered, almost inaudibly and without turning his head, the simple but loaded phrase:
"Here we go."
The touchdown was unnervingly smooth, almost silent, as if the plane had kissed the earth rather than collided with it. A perfect glide, executed with flawless precision, as if the pilots had been meticulously rehearsing it all week, carefully designed to minimize any possible disruption or jarring movement. Jackie caught a quick, fleeting glimpse of the runway through the window – narrow, isolated, and strangely devoid of activity. Not the sprawling, bustling main airport he had expected to see. A private strip, far removed from the chaotic energy of the commercial terminals. There was no control tower in sight, no evidence of commercial traffic, only an unsettling emptiness that seemed to stretch on forever. Just a lone, menacing black SUV parked at the far edge of the tarmac, its headlights glowing pale and ghostly in the murky morning mist.
A woman stood beside it, her figure still and composed against the backdrop of the cold, biting wind, a stark contrast to the bleakness of the surrounding environment. She exuded an undeniable air of quiet authority, a sense of command that seemed to radiate from her very being.
The plane's door unlatched with a sharp, hissing sound, releasing a rush of stale, recirculated cabin air that carried the faint scent of disinfectant and jet fuel. No stairs emerged to greet them, no welcoming ramp to ease their transition to the ground – just a hydraulic lift that clicked smoothly and efficiently into place with clean, almost surgical precision, as if every single detail had been meticulously pre-arranged and calculated with the utmost care.
Jackie, his heart pounding in his chest, grabbed his small bag from the overhead compartment and hesitantly followed Elias and Andre into the open air, stepping out of the confines of the aircraft and into the daunting unknown that awaited them.
The air outside hit him instantly, a sensory assault of sharp, damp, northern air. It tasted of fog and concrete, a stark and unpleasant departure from the sterile, recycled atmosphere of the cabin. Jackie instinctively zipped his collar up to shield himself from the biting wind that whipped across the tarmac and blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision as the woman stepped forward to meet them, her expression unreadable in the dim light.
She wore a navy wool coat, impeccably tailored and neatly belted at the waist, subtly emphasizing her slender form. Her hands were encased in black gloves that appeared to be crafted from the finest leather, and her boots were polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the bleak surroundings with unsettling clarity. Her hair, a deep, rich auburn color, was coiled meticulously into a classic French twist, a hairstyle that suggested a carefully cultivated blend of elegance and unwavering efficiency.
She possessed the unmistakable bearing of someone accustomed to giving orders in places where questions simply weren't asked, a subtle but powerful aura of dominance.
She extended a gloved hand to Elias first, her movements precise and economical. "Welcome to Manchester. I'm Maureen Livingston."
Her grip was firm, businesslike, and devoid of any unnecessary warmth. One brief, perfunctory shake per person – no pleasantries, no small talk, just cold, hard efficiency.
"I'll be your handler for the travel duration of your evaluation process," she added, her voice clipped and professional, turning briskly towards the waiting SUV. "Please enter."
They obeyed without a word, their silence born not of respect, but of a growing unease.
Jackie slid into the rear row of seats, pressing himself against the cold window, seeking a sense of security in the familiar. Elias claimed the passenger side, his gaze fixed on Maureen as she moved around the vehicle. Andre took the middle seat, resting his elbows on his knees, his posture suggesting a coiled spring ready to unleash.
The SUV purred smoothly to life, the quiet hum of its engine a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within Jackie. Maureen pulled onto a narrow service road that fed directly into the main motorway, her movements precise and deliberate. As the jet disappeared in the rear window, swallowed by the oppressive low fog, Jackie felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the outside temperature.
"Where exactly are we going?" Andre asked after a long, pregnant beat, his voice betraying a hint of the anxiety they all felt.
"The Etihad Stadium," Maureen answered evenly, her tone leaving no room for further inquiry. "You'll be briefed there."
Elias glanced back at Jackie, his expression unreadable in the dim light, a silent question passing between them.
Jackie had seen the Etihad on TV countless times. He had seen the spotless blue seats, the perfectly manicured pitch, the roaring wall of fans. But something about the way she had said it, the cold, detached tone in her voice, made it sound… clinical. Like the name of a laboratory. A cold, echoing chamber.
"Who's briefing us?" Jackie asked, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer.
Maureen didn't even bother to look back, her eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. "Your overseers."
That word – overseers – sat wrong in his stomach, a heavy, indigestible weight that fueled his growing apprehension.
The highway rolled by in silence, the landscape a blur of gray and brown. Buildings flashed past. A sprawling railway yard, filled with rusting carriages and forgotten cargo. A patch of stagnant brown canal water, reflecting the bleak sky above. Manchester wasn't a beautiful city, but it had a certain gritty charm, a palpable sense of history behind its grime and decay. Still, Jackie wasn't sightseeing.
None of them were.
Elias finally broke the silence, his voice low and hesitant. "You ever think maybe we should've asked more questions before boarding the flight?"
Andre gave a faint, nervous laugh. "They flew us first class, man. You think I was gonna ruin it by hesitating?"
Jackie didn't answer, his gaze fixed on the ominous clouds clustering around the horizon like dark, angry bruises.
He didn't know what this trial was supposed to be, what challenges lay ahead. But he knew one thing, with a growing certainty that chilled him to the bone:
Whatever it was, it had already started the very second they stepped onto that plane, the moment they surrendered control and placed their trust in the hands of strangers.
Chapter 8
The bus rumbled steadily through northern Italy, its tires humming a constant, low song against the smooth asphalt of the highway. Green valleys slowly transitioned into flat, industrial plains dotted with factories and warehouses. The sky was a flat, ashen color, like a faded photograph, holding onto the lingering cold of the early morning. Winter's chill hadn't quite released its grip, even as spring approached.
Rocco sat near the back, tucked away in a corner seat. His phone, its screen dimmed to its lowest setting, provided a small island of light in the pre-dawn gloom. His thumbs hovered over the virtual keyboard, hesitating over the words. His message remained unfinished, incomplete:
Sono in viaggio. Sto... sto bene.
He took a breath and sent it anyway. Nonna didn't need perfect words, just the simple reassurance that he was alright. She always worried, fretting over him like a mother hen, even though he'd told her countless times, with a patient smile, "It's just football, Nonna. I'll be fine." He knew she'd be picturing him on some dangerous adventure, instead of just a bus ride to a tryout.
The bus was crowded, packed with strangers all heading to the same destination. Each one different: different shirts, different boots, different languages muttered or shouted into phones or to their companions. Some wore full soccer uniforms, advertising their local clubs with pride. Others had on hoodies and gym shorts, looking like they'd been abruptly woken up and thrown headfirst into this journey, still half-asleep and disoriented.
Rocco noticed the boy across the aisle was watching him with an open curiosity. Short, black hair neatly combed, a slight squint when he smiled, giving him a friendly, approachable look. He seemed eager to strike up a conversation.
"You play forward too?" the boy asked, his voice clear and bright, cutting through the low hum of the bus.
Rocco nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Striker."
"Same here bro." The kid held out his hand, a gesture of instant camaraderie. "Oscar."
"Rocco. From Rome."
"Barcelona." Oscar smirked, a flash of competitive spirit in his eyes. "Hope you're not slow."
Rocco laughed back, accepting the challenge. "Hope you can keep up."
The initial tension, the unspoken rivalry, broke. Laughter eased things a little, filling the small space between them with a sense of shared purpose.
Behind them, a tall boy with long, flowing dreadlocks leaned forward, speaking with a distinct London accent. "You guys talk like you already made the team." He was clearly amused by their banter.
Oscar turned, his eyes sparkling with confidence. "We're just sizing each other up before we compete, getting a feel for the competition."
"Good Stuff mate." The boy grinned, pulling out a protein bar from his backpack. "Name's Shay. I'm just here for the fans and a contract."
They chuckled. Some didn't find it as funny. A few others on the bus who were also trying out didn't appreciate the levity.
A few rows ahead, someone hissed, "Keep it down G," the voice low and menacing.
Rocco glanced up and met the gaze of a silent figure in a pale-blue Lyon training shirt. Arms crossed tightly over his chest, stare intense and unwavering. No words were spoken, just pure, unadulterated pressure radiating from him. He seemed determined to intimidate anyone who dared to make noise.
Oscar leaned over, whispering conspiratorially. "That's Jules. He's been glaring at everyone since we left. Thinks he's the best striker here. Apparently he's already played professionally"
Rocco nodded slightly, saying nothing. He knew that look all too well. It was the look of boys trying to assess the competition, trying to assert dominance before even stepping onto the field. The pressure of expectation weighing heavily on those who'd known disappointment before and were desperate to avoid it again.
The driver turned on the speaker, the sudden noise cutting through the chatter. His voice crackled through the microphone, amplified and slightly distorted. "Alright, listen up, everyone."
Conversations stopped abruptly. Heads turned towards the front of the bus, all eyes focused on the driver.
"We're about twenty minutes away from the training center. When we arrive, begin grouping by position. Defenders, Midfielders, and Forwards.
Shay slid over to sit beside him, a friendly grin on his face. He made eye contact with a guy in a Corinthians jersey—short, wiry, with a silver chain glinting around his neck—who sat on Rocco's other side.
"Victor," he said with a quick nod, his voice carrying a distinct Brazilian accent. "From São Paulo."
They shook hands quickly.
Twenty-two spots were available on the team. Rocco didn't know exactly how many players were on the bus, but he knew it was far more than that. The odds were stacked against them all.
Outside, the landscape changed again. Green fields gave way to urban sprawl. Concrete became more prevalent, dominating the scenery. Roads narrowed, becoming more congested. Wires crossed overhead like black veins against the gray sky, a stark reminder of the urban environment.
A high wall of fencing came into view, topped with razor wire. New gates stood imposing and unwelcoming. Security cameras, encased in black bars, swiveled silently, watching their approach. White letters stood out starkly against the gray wall:
JUVENTUS TRAINING CENTER
Rocco's stomach tightened into a knot. This was it. The moment he'd been working towards for years.
The bus slowed, its brakes hissing, and finally stopped.
No one moved at first. A collective holding of breath, a shared moment of anticipation and dread.
Then the door opened with a pneumatic hiss, letting in a blast of cold air and an even colder silence. The air was heavy with expectation.
Rocco looked down at his cleats. Untied. He knelt to tie them, fingers slow and deliberate, breathing steady and controlled. He focused on the simple task to calm his nerves.
When he stood up, Oscar was already on his feet, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, a picture of nervous energy. Shay stretched, long and loose, preparing his muscles for the trials ahead. Victor murmured something in Portuguese under his breath, then kissed his silver chain for good luck.
One by one, they stepped off the bus and onto the cold asphalt.
Turin waited, along with the trials that would determine their futures.
Chapter 9
The bus lumbered to a stop, its air brakes sighing loudly, right in front of a dark, modern compound. It looked more like a fortress than a football academy, framed by silent, watchful hills and tall, swaying trees that whispered secrets in the breeze. The light spilling from the building's vast glass entryway was an unsettling sterile white, humming with a faint, high-pitched frequency that suggested advanced technology. It felt more like the entrance to a high-tech laboratory than a welcoming clubhouse or even a training ground.
Rocco stepped carefully down with the others, each of them a bundle of nerves and anticipation. The loose gravel crunched faintly under his worn boots, the sound amplified in the otherwise complete silence. He instinctively scanned the perimeter, his eyes searching for any familiar signs of a football environment. No cheering crowds. No welcoming banners or signs. And most conspicuously, no football pitch in sight. Just a menacing building promising something other than a game.
Behind him, Victor, Oscar, and Shay, moved with the same quiet, almost hesitant steps. Even the more outwardly confident trialists, the ones who had been joking and boasting on the bus, had now fallen silent, their bravado replaced by a palpable unease. The imposing atmosphere seemed to suck the very words from their mouths.
They entered a vast, echoing lobby—glossed white tile stretched out endlessly underfoot, reflecting the harsh light back up, and black and white walls created a stark, almost clinical contrast. Glowing strip lights coiled above them like exposed veins, pulsing with an unnatural brightness. The air had that bitter, astringent clean scent of chemicals and perpetual chill, more like a sterile clinic than a warm and inviting clubhouse. Their footsteps echoed eerily in the cavernous space, each footstep sounding louder than it should.
Rocco's eyes flicked nervously to the corners of the room—he spotted small, almost unnoticeable cameras in every one, constantly watching, constantly recording. He felt a prickle of discomfort at being under such intense surveillance.
A soft, almost musical chime echoed through the lobby, then sliding doors at the far end hissed open with a smooth, silent efficiency. Four men emerged in matching, impeccably tailored black jackets, their faces grim and unreadable. Their formation was too neat, too symmetrical, as if choreographed. One of them stepped forward slightly—a man whose very presence seemed to fill the room like a sudden wave of cold.
He wore a tailored overcoat, immaculate and dark, worn proudly over a crisp white shirt and a subtle Juventus crest pin, gleaming faintly on his lapel. His hair was trimmed close to his scalp, silvering at the edges, and his features were sharp, almost severe. He remained silent, his gaze unwavering, until he came to a complete stop directly before the nervous group of trialists.
"My name is Sergio Carrington," he said, his voice resonating in the silent lobby. "I am the Manager of the Juventus Null Squad."
No one dared to speak. The silence was thick and heavy, broken only by the almost imperceptible hum of the building. Even the ones who had fidgeted restlessly earlier now stood ramrod straight, their eyes fixed on Carrington, a mixture of awe and apprehension etched on their faces.
"You were invited here not because of your past accomplishments, but because of a latent potential we believe can be refined, molded, and unleashed," he continued, his gaze sweeping across their faces. "However, the next step in this selection process is not about the game you think you know."
His voice carried easily in the unnerving stillness of the room, each word precise and deliberate.
"You will not be touching a ball today. There will be no familiar drills. No tactical exercises. You are here to be thoroughly evaluated—physically, psychologically, and neurologically. This is not a test of your skill on the field. It is a test of something far deeper."
His gaze swept the room again—calculating, assessing, dissecting each of them with an almost clinical detachment.
"We are assessing your inherent compatibility with a level of performance and unwavering discipline far beyond the scope of conventional play. Not all of you will meet that stringent threshold. In fact, most of you will not."
No one moved, not even to swallow. Even breathing felt too loud, too intrusive in the oppressive silence.
"At precisely midnight, those who meet our exacting standards will be contacted via the phone you provided. You will return to this facility to immediately sign your contracts and officially join the Null Squad. You will compete in a highly secretive internal league. You will train apart from the main academy and the youth system. This is a different path altogether—a path few are ever offered."
His tone stayed perfectly even, devoid of warmth or hostility—just cold, hard truth, delivered with chilling certainty.
"Those who are not contacted will be summarily dismissed and immediately escorted from the program. That decision will be final. There will be no appeals. No explanations will be offered."
With a slight, almost imperceptible flick of his fingers, a woman appeared silently through a doorway to the right, her expression neutral, gesturing wordlessly for them to follow. She was dressed in a similar black uniform to the men, completing the image of a slick, professional organization.
Carrington added, his voice still carrying that unnerving chill, "You may speak to no one about what you experience here today. Not your family. Not your closest friends. No one. The Non-Disclosure Agreement you signed covers every aspect of this process, no matter how insignificant it may seem. We expect your complete and utter silence as a fundamental show of discipline and loyalty."
He stepped back, his movement precise and controlled. The other agents behind him hadn't moved once—statues carved from black stone.
The group was released with a quiet nod, and the woman beckoned them forward.
Only when they started walking again, following the woman deeper into the facility, did the almost unbearable tension crack just slightly. Rocco glanced surreptitiously at his friends. Victor's jaw was clenched tight, a muscle ticking nervously in his cheek. Oscar exhaled long and quiet, trying to release some of the pressure that had built up in his chest. Shay, usually the most talkative and boisterous of the group, was, for once, completely silent.
As they were led further into the labyrinthine facility, Rocco risked a quick glance at his phone, tapping out a short message:
"Still moving forward. Will call when I can. Ti voglio bene."
He watched the message stubbornly refuse to send, the signal bars stubbornly empty. No signal.
Chapter 10
The Manchester City Trialists were led down a spiral of steel corridors and freight-sized lifts, descending beneath the belly of the Etihad. Each turn felt like entering deeper into a maze of cold metal. Jackie didn't speak much—just kept his eyes glued to the strange glow of blue strip lights that pulsed erratically along the bare, concrete walls. The lights flickered, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with their movement. The air got cooler, heavy with a metallic tang, the deeper they went, until the final set of blast doors rolled open with a hydraulic hiss that echoed through the silent corridors.
The complex stretched out before them like a hidden world, a secret facility buried beneath the stadium. Turf fields lined with stark white chalk markings spread out, meticulously maintained. Motion sensors blinked red from the walls, and security cameras tracked every corner, their lenses glinting ominously. Dozens of staff stood in neat ranks near equipment stations—each dressed identically in fitted black athletic gear without a single club logo or identifying mark. They were silent and still, like statues waiting for a command. No introductions were made. No greetings exchanged.
Just a piercing whistle cut through the silence, and movement began.
"Stations. Let's begin."
The voice came from hidden overhead speakers—sterile, metallic, and devoid of any emotion. It felt automated, like the facility itself was speaking.
Jackie fell in with the others, all funneling into designated lanes and quadrants. The field was precisely carved into specialized zones: sprint tracks with electronic light gates, vertical jump rigs measuring every inch, force plate zones analyzing balance and power, narrow tunnel runs testing agility, and wall reaction tests designed to gauge speed and reflexes. In every corner, trialists began to run, jump, lift, and twist, pushing their bodies to the limit.
They weren't told specifically what was being measured or analyzed—but they all instinctively knew they were being assessed, judged, and scrutinized in every possible way. Every movement, every breath, was being recorded.
At first, Jackie focused intently on form. On smooth starts, perfect landings, and controlled movements. On planting his feet just right to maximize power. But that calculated mindset slipped fast as the minutes dragged on and the physical demands increased exponentially. Sweat stung his eyes, and his muscles began to burn. The black-clad proctors stood without expression, emotionless, tapping silently on tablets, speaking only to direct movement with curt, precise instructions. One motioned Jackie forward and sent him through a timed agility gauntlet, weaving between cones at breakneck speed. Another barked for repeat broad jumps, demanding maximum distance until his legs trembled with exhaustion.
Some players shouted through the intense pain, their faces contorted in agony. Others collapsed mid-drill, clutching their calves in spasm or pressing their palms desperately to the ground to keep from tipping over. One midfielder threw up violently in the corner and was silently dragged away by two staff members, disappearing down a corridor, never to return. He became a ghost in the machine.
Jackie powered through, chest burning with each ragged breath. His lungs flared, begging for air. His skin was soaked in sweat, plastering his hair to his forehead. At one point, during a weighted sled sprint, he caught a quick glance of Andre ahead of him—leaning forward like a charging bull, teeth gritted so hard he looked like they might snap. Andre's eyes were wild with determination.
They were both left wincing in shared silence on the turf after a brutal round of resistance-band shuttle sprints, their muscles screaming, when the tap came on Jackie's shoulder.
"You two—stand up."
The voice was firm but flat, carrying an undeniable weight of authority. A man in a dark blue-black coat stood near the sideline, arms crossed tightly. His frame was lean but carried a heavy presence, a quiet command that radiated outwards. A streak of salt-and-pepper hair curled rebelliously beneath his hood. Jackie didn't recognize him at first until he stepped forward into the light and slowly pulled the hood back.
It was Andrew Pascal.
He wasn't just a former player, a legend in his own right. He was the one who ran the Man City Null Squad—a secretive experimental team, built from the ground up with cutting-edge technology and unconventional training methods.
Pascal's intense eyes scanned them both like complex puzzles he was halfway through solving. He looked for weakness, for potential.
"You've kept up," he said plainly, his voice betraying nothing. "More than most."
Jackie didn't know what to say, his breath still sawed in and out of his burning lungs. He glanced over at Andre, who gave a slight nod of acknowledgement but stayed resolutely silent, conserving his energy.
Pascal stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. "You're still not done. But I want to see how you perform under instructions that won't be public. Instructions that you will not share. You'll run with the other selected trialists soon."
Jackie swallowed hard, is throat suddenly dry. "Selected?"
Pascal ignored the question, his focus absolute. "You'll be sent to a holding room to recover. You have one hour."
He motioned curtly to two staff members nearby.
"Get them prepped."
As Jackie and Andre followed the staff, the artificial turf blurred beneath his aching feet. Every inch of his body screamed in protest. But in the ache, in the exhaustion, there was an undeniable clarity.
Something real was happening here—something far bigger, far more significant than just football. Something that went beyond the game.
And he was still standing.
The hallway swallowed them whole, the white light pulsing rhythmically on every polished surface, creating an almost hypnotic effect.
Behind them, the doors hissed shut with finality, sealing them off from the outside world.
The Manchester City Trialists were led down a spiral of steel corridors and freight-sized lifts, descending beneath the belly of the Etihad. Jackie didn't speak much—just kept his eyes on the strange glow of blue strip lights that pulsed along the concrete walls. The air got cooler the deeper they went, until the final set of blast doors rolled open with a hydraulic hiss.
The complex stretched out like a hidden world. Turf fields lined with white chalk, motion sensors blinking from the walls, cameras tracking every corner. Dozens of staff stood in neat ranks near equipment stations—each dressed in fitted black athletic gear without a single club logo. No introductions. No greetings.
Just a whistle, and movement.
"Stations. Let's begin."
The voice came from overhead speakers—sterile, metallic.
Jackie fell in with the others, all funneling into lanes and quadrants. The field was carved into zones: sprint tracks with light gates, vertical jump rigs, force plate zones, narrow tunnel runs, wall reaction tests. In every corner, trialists began to run, jump, lift, twist.
They weren't told what was being measured—but they all knew they were being measured.
At first, Jackie focused on form. On smooth starts. On planting his feet right. But that mindset slipped fast as the minutes dragged and demands increased. The black-clad proctors stood without expression, tapping on tablets, speaking only to direct movement. One motioned Jackie forward and sent him through a timed agility gauntlet. Another barked for repeat broad jumps until his legs trembled.
Some players shouted through pain. Others collapsed mid-drill, clutching their calves or pressing palms to the ground to keep from tipping. Elias had thrown up in the corner and was silently dragged away by two staff members, never to return.
Jackie powered through, chest burning. His lungs flared. His skin was soaked. At one point, during a weighted sled sprint, he caught a glance of Andre ahead of him—leaning forward like a charging bull, teeth gritted hard enough to snap.
They were both left wincing in silence on the turf after a round of resistance-band shuttle sprints when the tap came.
"You two—stand up."
The voice was firm but flat. A man in a blue-black coat stood near the sideline, arms crossed. His frame was lean but heavy with quiet command, a streak of salt-and-pepper hair curling beneath his hood. Jackie didn't recognize him until he stepped forward and pulled the hood back.
Andrew Pascal.
He wasn't just a former player. He was the one who ran the Man City Null Squad—rumored to have built it from the ground up.
Pascal's eyes scanned them both like puzzles he was halfway through solving.
"You've kept up," he said plainly. "More than most."
Jackie didn't know what to say, his breath still sawed in and out. He looked over at Andre, who gave a slight nod but stayed silent.
Pascal stepped closer. "You're still not done. But I want to see how you perform under instructions that won't be public. You'll run with the other selected trialists soon."
Jackie swallowed. "Selected?"
Pascal ignored the question. "You'll be sent to a holding room to recover. You have one hour."
He motioned to two staff nearby.
"Get them prepped."
As Jackie and Andre followed, the turf blurred beneath his feet. Every inch of his body ached. But in the ache, there was clarity.
Something real was happening here—something more than football.
And he was still standing.