The café was tucked in a quiet corner of São Paulo's old district, far from the stadium lights and the noise of rising fame. Rafael arrived early, hoodie up, head low.
Noah Kent was already there—seated in the back, sipping coffee like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
Noah looked older now—leaner, quieter, sharper in the eyes. He wore no club jacket, no flashy gear. Just a faded shirt and a stare that cut straight through Rafael the moment he sat down.
"It's really you," Noah said. Not a question. A confirmation.
Rafael didn't speak. He just watched him, measuring every word, every flicker of doubt.
"You're different. Face, voice, skin. But it's you. I don't know how I know… I just do."
Still, Rafael said nothing. Just waited.
Noah leaned in. "Eli Ward died that night. I saw what they did. I heard Kyle and the others planning it. I was too scared to speak up. And then you were gone."
A pause.
"I thought about coming forward. But who would've believed me? I was a benchwarmer. Kyle was the captain. Jayden had friends in high places. And you—"
Rafael's eyes narrowed. "—was just another dead kid."
That silenced the air between them.
Noah swallowed. "When I saw your match… your footwork, your eyes—I knew. And then that message you left on the USB? I still had it. All this time."
Rafael finally spoke. "Why now?"
"Because I never got to do the right thing back then," Noah said, voice firm. "Maybe I still can."
They talked for over an hour. About that final season. The pressure. The jealousy. The moments Rafael (as Eli) couldn't fully remember until now—when the locker room turned cold, when the laughs got quieter, when eyes started to follow him, not admire him.
It all came flooding back.
And so did the rage.
Before leaving, Noah placed something on the table. A flash drive.
"What's that?" Rafael asked.
"Surveillance footage," Noah said quietly. "From the academy grounds. The night it happened. Not all of it survived, but enough. The fight. The moment you went down."
Rafael's breath hitched.
Noah met his eyes. "You said you wanted revenge. Here's proof. But you need more than just skill to take them down. You need timing. And help."
A beat.
"I'm in."
Rafael left the café that night with a new fire burning in his chest. He wasn't alone anymore. Someone believed him. Someone was with him.
But belief was dangerous.
Because belief led to truth.
And truth could tear everything down.
Meanwhile, across town, Jayden Mott sat in a Bluefield meeting room watching Rafael's latest highlight reel.
He paused the video. Leaned back.
And whispered, "We didn't kill him hard enough."
Would you like Chapter Eleven to dive into Bluefield's paranoia and internal fractures—or Rafael beginning to plan his move against his first true target: Jayden?
The notebook sat open on Rafael's desk.
Five names.
Five ghosts.
All written in red ink.
Jayden Mott
Kyle Harper
Lucas Brandt
Tariq Silva
Miles Rocha
Each name carried a memory.
A blow. A betrayal. A smile that hid a knife.
And now, each one would carry a price.
Rafael didn't believe in mercy. Not anymore. He'd tasted blood once—his own—on the cold floor of that locker room. They had laughed while he bled. Moved on like he never existed.
Now he was going to make sure they never forgot.
But this wouldn't be about violence. Not yet.
This would be about destruction—from the inside out.
He started with Jayden. The ego. The golden boy. The one who smiled in press conferences and flirted with fans while hiding the blood on his hands.
Rafael had already sent out signals.
One match. One clip. That was all it took.
He knew Jayden had seen the footage. Knew it because fear has a rhythm, and Jayden's movements on the pitch were starting to falter. He was slower. Quieter. Checking over his shoulder like he could feel something chasing him.
That was intentional.
Rafael wanted him scared.
Next, he leaked something small—harmless, but sharp. An anonymous message to a sports blogger:
"Jayden Mott once assaulted a teammate behind closed doors.
The club covered it. No one asked questions.
Ask Bluefield's 2019 roster about Eli Ward."
No name. No sender. Just a crack in the glass.
Rafael didn't want to expose Jayden yet.
He wanted to isolate him.
Let paranoia fester. Let whispers multiply.
Let him start to wonder:
"Who else knows?"
"Is he back?"
"Did we really kill him?"
Then came Kyle Harper.
Captain. Charmer. The mastermind.
Rafael hacked into his past—not through violence, but through Noah.
Noah still had access to Bluefield's youth archives.
He found audio recordings—locker room mic tests that had captured Kyle's voice the night before Eli's death.
"We end this tomorrow.
He either learns his place… or he's done."
Rafael played it on loop. Again. And again.
This wasn't just revenge. It was warfare. Psychological. Personal. Silent.
Back in his apartment, Rafael taped the five names to the wall, above the desk. He circled Jayden's name in red.
Then drew a line through it.
Not because Jayden was done.
But because his fall had already begun.
And as each domino tipped, the others would feel the tremors.
He sat back, watching the names like a general overlooking a battlefield.
Let them guess. Let them sweat.
The best part?
They still didn't know who they were playing against.
And somewhere in Bluefield's training facility, a coach found Jayden in the locker room—hands trembling, headphones off, staring at the mirror.
"Everything okay?" the coach asked.
Jayden didn't look away from his reflection.
"I think he's back," he whispered.
"Who?"
Jayden swallowed. "Someone we buried."