The whistle blew for halftime.
For Class B-7, it felt less like a whistle and more like mercy.
Their legs were heavy, lungs burning, sweat sticking jerseys to their backs. The score still glowed across the dome:
C-9 – 0 | B-7 – 0
No goals. But every second of those thirty minutes had felt like a battle.
They walked off in silence, the crowd's roar chasing them into the tunnel.
Boots scraped stone, shoulders sagged. Some heads were low, some still defiant. Daren muttered under his breath, fists clenched tight as if he was still fighting defenders in his mind.
Inside the locker room, the air was hot and damp, filled with the sour bite of sweat and turf.
Benches creaked as players dropped onto them. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of panting and water bottles being drained too fast.
Jory pulled his shirt away from his chest, wheezing. "They're… machines. Every time I move, one of them's already there."
Callen leaned back against the wall, eyes shut, hair dripping. "And they never foul. Not once. Just—clean tackles, perfect angles. Like they've rehearsed this their whole lives."
Felix, who hadn't sat at all, kept pacing in front of them. His jaw was tight, his voice low but firm. "Doesn't matter. Machines break when you hit them hard enough. We just need to find where."
Daren slammed a fist into his palm. "I almost had it. Twice. Give me one more and I'll bury it."
Feine Rennard, their coach, had stood silently the whole time. His arms folded, his notes still clutched tight. Finally, he spoke.
"Sit up."
The squad obeyed, straightening despite the ache in their bones.
"You're holding," Feine said evenly. His eyes moved from one to the next. "C-9 move like one body, one mind. If you panic, if you lose your shape, they'll cut you apart. But if you stay calm? You'll break them."
He tapped the board, where simple dots glowed to represent their positions. "They rely on rhythm. Predictable rhythm. That means if you can force one mistake, just one… their whole system wobbles."
He turned his eyes on Bram. Steady. "And that starts with you. Faster decisions. Don't just move the ball—bend their rhythm. Make them chase you."
Bram's chest tightened. Sweat rolled down his temple, but he nodded once. "Understood."
Feine glanced at Felix. "Keep the backline iron. No dives, no rash tackles. Hold."
Then to Daren: "When the chance comes—and it will—you finish. No second guessing."
Daren's grin returned, fierce despite the fatigue. "Won't need a second chance."
Silence settled again, broken only by the faint thud of drums from the stadium above, the crowd still buzzing even through the stone walls.
Feine finally straightened. "You've lasted thirty minutes against a perfect team. Now you show them. You're players."
The words hung heavy. Not loud. Not fiery. But sharp.
Felix nodded once, jaw set. Callen exhaled, shaking out his legs. Jory muttered, "Right. Response, not mistakes…" as if reminding himself.
Bram sat still for a moment longer, staring at the floor. Then he rose, slow but certain. His heartbeat was loud, but steadier than before.
The whistle outside blew again, calling them back.
They all stood as one. And as the door swung open, the roar of the crowd surged back in.
The second half was waiting.
The players walked back onto the pitch.
The crowd's roar rolled down like a wave, filling every corner of the dome. Flags shook in the stands, chants clashed, names echoed. The scoreboard above glowed steady:
C-9 – 0 | B-7 – 0
Thirty minutes left.
Felix clapped his hands once, sharp. "Lines tight. Don't drift."
The whistle shrilled.
The ball spun into play. C-9 moved instantly, as so a B7 lost the ball. It was intercepted by C-9. passes sharp as knives.
Left, right, back, forward—every touch smooth, rehearsed. They didn't sprint. They didn't panic. They flowed.
B-7 dropped into shape. Felix barked at Callen to track wide. Percy slid closer to midfield, eyes scanning. Bram stayed in the center, watching, waiting, like a stone in a river.
In the 32nd minute: A pass darted toward C-9's striker. Jory lunged, missed by inches. The striker turned—only to meet Felix's shoulder slamming hard into his side. The ball spilled loose.
"Mine!" Bram's voice cracked out. He scooped the ball and turned in one motion. A white jersey closed on him instantly. One heartbeat, two—Bram stabbed a pass sideways to Percy before the trap closed.
Percy carried, smooth and calm. He slipped it down the flank to Callen, who sprinted for space.
The crowd surged, sensing a chance—
But C-9's fullback was already there. Clean tackle. Ball gone.
Groans rippled through B-7's section of the stands.
Felix shouted, "Recover! Reset!"
They pulled back, lines tight again.
34th minute: C-9 pressed higher. Two midfielders boxed Bram, shadowing him step for step. Every time he touched the ball, a foot snapped out, forcing him faster.
The System whispered in his ear, sly and cruel:[ they've marked you, Ashcroft Jr. You're not a ghost anymore. Can you still dance? ]
"Shut up! For once will you," Bram furiously muttered.
His jaw clenched. He turned, faked left, slipped right, and fired a short pass to Percy before the trap snapped shut.
The rhythm dragged on. Pass, press, recover. C-9 dominated the ball, but B-7 refused to crack. Felix's voice was iron, pulling them back into shape again and again.
Jory finally intercepted one pass and launched it high, long. Daren exploded forward, chasing it like a hunting hound. The ball bounced once, twice—he muscled past his marker—
But the C-9 keeper sprinted out, sliding low to scoop it before Daren's boot could swing.
Close. Too close. The crowd gasped.
Daren slapped his thigh, frustrated, but Bram's shout cut through. "Next time! Keep running!"
Daren nodded fiercely.
In the 37th minute C-9 struck again, switching flanks in an instant. Their winger burst down the right, crossing fast and flat. For one breath it looked deadly—
But Percy had tracked all the way back. He stretched, toeing the ball just enough to break the pass. It spun loose into Felix's waiting boot.
"Out!" Felix barked, clearing hard.
Callen received it wide. His first touch carried him forward, but the defender closed fast. Callen feinted, cut back inside, and sent a curling pass toward Bram.
Bram took it—pressure snapping down on him again. He didn't hesitate this time. One touch forward, one glance up—then a through-ball threaded into Daren's stride.
The crowd leapt to its feet—
Daren surged, broke the line—only a step behind the last defender.
Flag. Offside.
Half the dome groaned. The other half roared.
Bram exhaled hard. Not fast enough. Not precise enough.
The System purred in his mind:[ Close, but close means nothing. Precision, Bram. Precision or nothing. ]
He shoved it aside. Focus.
40th minute, C-9 slowed the tempo, pulling the ball back, making B-7 chase shadows. Their midfield triangle worked like gears, spinning possession away from any challenge.
B-7 tightened, but the strain showed. Shoulders sagged. Breaths grew harsh.
Then—C-9's striker slipped through a seam. One clean pass split Felix and Jory—
He was through. Alone.
The crowd roared.
And that's where the danger truly began.
The pass came rolling toward Bram.
Soft, steady. But the moment his boot touched it, the pressure closed in.
A C-9 midfielder darted at him from the front, eyes sharp, steps light like a predator.
Another shadow moved behind him, closing the gap.
Bram bent low, his knees flexed. The ball stayed close at his boot. He lifted his head once—Percy on the left, free. Callen on the right, running inside.
The first defender lunged. His boot stabbed forward, the studs shining under the dome lights.
Bram twisted his hips. Left shoulder dipped, right boot hooked the ball across his body. The ball rolled sharp, brushing the green grass, sliding away from the reaching foot.
Sweat broke down his cheek. His eyes stung. He blinked hard.
The second defender stretched his leg, long and desperate. For a breath it looked like he would cut the ball.
Bram reacted—fast. Ankle flick. The ball nudged half a step forward, spinning. Just enough. The boot missed. The defender stumbled.
Space opened. The sound of the crowd swelled. Bram pushed forward, heart hammering, the ball tied to his stride.
He carried it two steps more before another C-9 jersey slid across.
Not rushing. Calm. Balanced.
The defender bent low, knees wide, waiting. His eyes said: Come on then. Try me.
Bram slowed, chest heaving, ball rolling between his feet. He tapped left, tapped right, testing.
Behind him, he heard Felix shouting, "Keep it safe!"
But ahead—he saw Daren. Sprinting. Arm raised. Calling.
Bram's jaw clenched. He leaned right, pushing the ball forward like he would dribble. The defender shifted, blocking.
That was the moment. Reply Vision flickered. For a heartbeat, he saw it — a thin line threading between C-9 players.
Bram snapped his boot sideways, stabbing a pass straight down the line. The ball skimmed the turf, spinning fast toward Daren's run.
The crowd's noise broke into shouts.
Daren thundered forward, chasing. His boots pounded the grass. He lowered his shoulder, pushing past the last marker.
The ball bounced once, rolling into his stride.
One step. Two steps. He pulled his leg back to strike—
But the C-9 keeper was already there.
Sliding. Hands out. Ball scooped clean just before the kick.
Daren leapt over him to avoid the clash, landing hard, fists clenched.
The chance was gone.
The keeper rose with the ball clutched tight to his chest. He didn't even celebrate the save. Calm.
He jogged two steps forward, then kicked long—high, arching, sailing over half the field.
The ball dropped fast, spinning in the air. Jory leapt to meet it. His forehead smacked it, but the angle was wrong. Instead of clearing, it bounced awkward, skidding sideways.
A C-9 midfielder was already there. His first touch was smooth, like the ball belonged to him. He didn't rush. He turned, lifted his head, scanned. One flick of his boot and the ball slipped past Percy's reach, moving like water between rocks.
Bram chased back. His breath came harsh, chest heavy, but he forced his legs to pump. Grass tore under his boots as he tried to close the gap.
The midfielder carried it, shoulders relaxed, every step confident. A second white shirt joined him, triangle forming again. Pass. Return. Pass. The ball never stopped moving.
The crowd's noise swelled, the rhythm of drums echoing. Danger pressed down like weight.
In the 44th minute: The pass broke through. Quick, sudden. The striker in white spun, chesting the ball down inside the box.
Felix was there. He slammed shoulder-first into him before the striker could shoot. The ball rolled loose, spinning away.
Jory dove, clearing with his boot. Hard, far, anywhere but here.
The ball flew high, bouncing near the halfway line.
Callen sprinted for it, hair whipping behind him, mouth open as he dragged air into his lungs. His boots slapped the turf, each step a desperate race.
The C-9 fullback came too, cutting in from the side. They met shoulder to shoulder. The ball rolled between them, slow for one heartbeat. Then both kicked—hard, the clash echoing loud.
The ball spun up, wobbling, falling again like it couldn't decide.
Callen twisted his body, chesting it down. The ball thudded against him, then rolled a step forward. His eyes lit. He dashed.
The crowd screamed as Callen broke free, green grass opening in front of him.
He sprinted, chest heaving, pushing the ball with his stride. His legs burned, lungs clawing for air, but he didn't stop. Not now.
Ahead—Daren raised his arm again, waiting.
Behind—boots thundered, defenders chasing.
Callen's touch was heavy. The ball rolled a little too far. His eyes widened. He stretched, forcing his toe to reach—just enough to push it again into space.
"Go! Go!" Bram's voice rang behind him.
Callen crossed the halfway line. The defenders were closing. Their shadows stretched long over the grass.
One chance. That's all.
He lifted his head, swung his foot—ball rising, flying toward Daren's run.
The dome held its breath.
**
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