The fluorescent lights in the academy gym flickered, humming in patterns Mahmoud never paid attention to before. He sat on the edge of a weight bench, lacing his boots methodically—the same way every morning, but today, his fingers stumbled half a beat. In the far corner, Coach Muneer barked orders with military precision. New drills. New faces. The air smelled of disinfectant and coffee, mixed with the faint bitterness of liniment.
VALYS' voice chimed in quietly, an almost inaudible hum just behind Mahmoud's left ear:
"Initial pulse scan. Sync deviation detected. Adjust baseline."
Mahmoud didn't react. His focus was on the routine—count the laces, knot twice, right foot first, always. Out of habit, he glanced up at the digital clock by the entrance. 06:21 a.m. The same as always, except… the colon blinked three times before settling.
Was it last week or yesterday he noticed that? He shook off the thought, convinced it was just his mind replaying the mounting fatigue.
Warm-up started with the usual running circuit. Kareem jogged next to him, bumping shoulders in silent encouragement.
"You barely slept again, didn't you?"
Mahmoud smiled lightly. "Maybe the caffeine's just wearing off."
As they rounded the first curve, a faint black blur darted under the stands—familiar, but dismissed. Someone's stray dog, someone's shadow.
Ahead, the new recruit—Safi—tripped clumsily. The group's laughter followed, light, dismissive, normal.
Midway through the circuit, Mahmoud's monitor beeped a warning: "Pulse unstable. Recalibrating." For a moment, the numbers inverted: 128 → 821. He blinked, and the screen returned to normal.
Kareem muttered: "Cheap Chinese junk. Mine did that too last week."
Inside the training room, Mahmoud watched as the others completed the mobility ladder. Halfway through his set, he hesitated—two left, one right. The tape on the floor was a half-shade duller at the far end, a barely recognizable difference that nagged at him.
VALYS whispered again:
"Pattern mismatch detected. Disregard minor anomaly."
Mahmoud flexed his left ankle. No pain, just a phantom memory—rainwater, broken glass, a black jersey. The coach called the group in.
Coach Muneer's briefing was all business.
"Today, focus on possession under pressure. Mechanics win matches."
He handed Mahmoud the captain's vest—a faded green, the Velcro snagged and worn.
As the scrimmage began, Mahmoud scanned his teammates. Their movements fell into place, but for a fleeting second, Yasser looked away just before the pass, as if he'd predicted Mahmoud's feint before it even happened.
The game blurred—boots scraping, sweat stinging eyes, lungs burning. "Focus on the repetition," VALYS coaxed.
Mahmoud wasn't sure if it meant the drills or… something deeper.
The final whistle pierced the air, sharp and sudden. Mahmoud halted, chest heaving, vision tunneling on the clock as it blinked 07:36—then, for a split second, 67:13.
He grinned at Kareem, panting. "Did that clock just glitch?"
Kareem shrugged. "Probably. Or we're finally losing our minds."
Mahmoud chuckled, certain it was nothing. Just another day, another drill, another line blurred.
He never saw the black cat slip through the gate as he left the pitch, but he felt its eyes. Just for a second.
That night, as he drifted off, VALYS' voice was the last thing he heard:
"Pattern restored. See you at 06:21."
End of Chapter 31.