The whistle cut sharp.
Callen didn't hesitate. One touch, then a booming clear. His voice followed it: "Reset! Don't rush!"
The ball pinged out of danger, rolling loose into midfield again.
The match had barely begun, but sweat already dotted foreheads. Breath came sharper.
And the noise in the dome never stopped—chants, shouts, whistles, a storm that pressed against their ears.
Bram exhaled slow, wiping sweat off his brow as he tracked the next A-3 buildup.
"Yeah," he whispered under his breath, voice steady despite the storm. "I feel it."
The ball rolled again. The storm swelled.
The match had only just started.
Minutes slid by. Not fast—heavy, grinding, like each one was stretched thin.
A-3 had the ball. Again. Always.
Pass. Touch. Run. Pass. Switch. Pass again.
Their rhythm wasn't flashy. It wasn't wild. It was measured. Like they'd written the match down in a notebook before stepping on the pitch, and now they were just reading the pages aloud.
Feline barked orders constantly on the sideline, voice cutting through the noise. "Left! Hold the line! Don't bite!"
B-7 shifted, shuffled, lungs burning. Every time the ball rolled across the pitch, they moved with it—chasing shadows.
Callen was the first to crack. A burst of frustration in his legs, a dive to win the ball—missed. The A-3 winger skipped past him with a tap of the heel, leaving Callen stumbling on the turf.
"Damn it!" Callen spat, scrambling up.
Jory yelled from behind, "Stay on your feet!"
The winger whipped in a low cross. For a heartbeat, it cut through B-7's defense like a knife.
But Felix was there. His boot stabbed out, blocking it just enough. The ball spun wide, skidding out for a corner.
The A-3 fans roared, their chant pounding against the dome walls.
Bram jogged back into the box, chest tight, eyes darting. He felt the pressure squeezing closer with each second.
The System's voice purred:
[ you see it now, don't you? They don't chase fire. They choke with water. A steady tide, endless. Will you drown? Or… adapt? ]
Bram set his jaw. He crouched low, marking his man. "We won't drown."
The corner kick curled in—perfect spin, perfect height. Boots clashed, bodies slammed. Felix rose again, head smashing through the air. The ball bounced out to the edge of the box.
An A-3 midfielder pounced—shot! Low, hard, skipping on the grass.
Bram lunged, body stretching, boot tipping it just enough. The ball deflected wide.
The crowd gasped, then clapped, noise rolling like waves.
Daren clapped Bram's back as they jogged out. "That's it, Bram! Keep sticking your foot in!"
Bram didn't smile. His eyes stayed locked on A-3 jogging calmly back to position. No rush. No panic. Just… inevitability.
They don't care if they miss once. They'll try again. And again.
The whistle blew—throw-in A-3.
The game reset.
Minutes kept dripping away. B-7 hadn't touched the ball long enough to breathe. Percy tried to wriggle free once—instantly double-marked. Daren made a sprint—cut off by a wall of bodies. Even Bram's quick passes were smothered before they could open.
Every attempt looked like a spark. Every spark—snuffed out.
And still, the clock ticked.
Twenty minutes gone. Ten left in the half.
The crowd could feel it too. The rhythm. The pressure. The inevitability.
B-7 were surviving. Just surviving.
For now.
The dome was louder now. Not cheering—buzzing. Murmurs. Foot tapping. A kind of restless electricity that spread every time A-3 touched the ball.
Twenty-five minutes gone.
Still 0–0.
But the way the game looked… it felt like a dam about to split.
Felix's voice was hoarse already. "Stay compact! Don't break!" His arms chopped the air, pushing the line back and forth like a gatekeeper holding against a flood.
Jory stumbled twice in two minutes, legs screaming. Percy kept biting his lip, fighting not to cough up his lungs. Callen was muttering curses under his breath every time his man slipped free.
Even Daren—the wild one—was silent now. His grin was gone, replaced by gritted teeth. Sweat dripped from his chin like rain.
And Bram? His heart thudded. His legs ached. But his eyes—sharp, fixed.
Every pass A-3 made, he tracked. Every step, he remembered.
The System whispered:
[ The wall is cracking, Host. You feel it, don't you? One more hammer strike… and boom. ]
Bram clenched his fists. "Then let's not let it break."
The crowd gasped.
A-3 had slipped through. One-two. Quick as lightning. Their striker broke free, tearing toward the box.
"Mark!" Felix roared.
But it was too late. The striker raised his foot—shot!
Bram lunged.
Not thinking. Just moving. His boot swung, nicking the ball just as it flew. The shot lost power, spinning crookedly.
Mhed dived, arms stretching—saved.
The dome erupted. Half cheers, half groans.
The striker screamed into the air, furious. His teammates swarmed him, patting his back. "Next one! Next one!"
Bram lay on the grass for a second, chest heaving. His ears rang. His body shook from the impact.
Felix hauled him up with one hand. "Good foot."
Bram nodded once, breath ragged. Not yet, he thought. Not today.
The referee's whistle shrilled—two minutes of added time.
Two minutes to survive.
The crowd leaned forward, waiting for the crack.
The clock ticked toward thirty. Just one more push. One more breath.
"Hold!" Felix barked. His voice cut through the roar.
B-7 packed tight, chasing shadows. A-3's passes flickered—quick, sharp, vicious. Bram's lungs burned, but his eyes stayed locked. If they could just reach halftime…
Then it came.
A-3 feinted left, dragged right. A burst through midfield—too fast. Percy dove, missed by a hair. The winger tore down the flank, one last cross curling in.
Time slowed.
The striker rose above Daren. Higher. Stronger. His forehead met the ball with a brutal crack.
Thud.
Net. Rippling.
The dome exploded. Cheers hammered the walls like thunder.
1–0.
B-7 froze where they stood. Jory's hands hung limp at his sides. Percy's jaw locked. Daren slammed a fist into the turf, teeth bared. Even Felix—stone-faced, unbreakable—shook his head once, eyes narrow with fury.
Bram stared. His chest heaved, ears ringing.
The whistle shrieked.
Halftime.
The scoreboard glowed above them:
B-7: 0 — A-3: 1
B-7 walked off the pitch like men trudging through mud. Boots heavy. Shoulders tight. Not one word between them.
The scoreline burned in every step: 0–1.
The tunnel swallowed them, shadows stretching long under the buzzing lights. The cheers from the crowd still poured in behind them, muffled but sharp enough to pierce. Laughter. Shouts. Mock chants of "A-3! A-3!"
Jory dragged his feet, jersey clinging with sweat. His lips twisted, muttering curses no one could make out. Daren's fists were balled so tight his knuckles shone white, the veins in his forearms jumping. Percy's usual calm was cracked—jaw clenched, eyes down, not a word.
Callen walked in silence, but his gaze darted sideways, scanning each teammate, measuring the weight pressing on them.
Felix… Felix was stone. Back straight, eyes hard, but the stiffness in his walk betrayed how much he felt it.
And Bram?
Bram was quiet. Not slumped, not raging—just quiet. His head bowed slightly, his breath slow. Inside, the fire was there, licking, but he let it burn steady, not wild.
The System's voice slipped in, sly and smooth:
[ silence all around. Feels heavy, doesn't it? ]
Bram didn't answer. His boots thudded softly against the tunnel floor.
[ They glare at the floor, clench their fists, curse the sky… and you? You breathe. Why? ]
His lips moved barely, a whisper swallowed by the tunnel. "Because the match isn't over."
[ Hoh… and yet, A-3 has you pinned. A lead is a chain, little Ashcroft. Will you drag it… or snap it? ]
Bram's eyes lifted, just a fraction. Ahead, the locker room door waited, a square of light at the end of the tunnel.
He clenched his jaw, steady. "We'll see."
The door swung shut behind them, the roar of the crowd cut off like a candle snuffed. The room felt too small, the air hot, every breath thick.
Daren kicked a stool, the crack echoing. "Damn it! We had them. One slip—just one—and they punish us!"
Jory flopped against the bench, burying his face in a towel. His voice came out muffled. "We're cursed. It's always us. Always."
"Shut it, Jory," Callen snapped, sharper than usual. "You talk like that, we've lost already."
Percy finally spoke, low. "They're quicker to second balls. That's it. That's the difference."
"Difference?!" Daren's laugh was raw, bitter. "The difference is they're A-3. Pedigree. Class. We're just scraps fighting for breath!"
The words hit like stones. For a moment, silence.
Then, Felix's voice cut through, quiet but sharp as steel. "Stop."
Everyone froze.
Felix didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. His eyes locked on Daren, then swept to Jory, then to all of them. "They scored once. That's all. Nothing more."
His words hung heavy. A command, not comfort.
The coach Feine finally stepped forward, arms crossed, gaze firm. "Felix is right. You're playing their name, not their players. Forget A-3. Forget standings. Thirty more minutes. Show me you can fight."
The room breathed again.
Bram sat on the bench, hands clasped, head bowed just enough to look like he was praying. But he wasn't praying. He was listening—to the words, to the fire in the room, to the burn in his chest.
The System hummed, low:
[ Fire flickers again. Good. But fire alone doesn't win. Show me rhythm, Ashcroft. Show me if you can dance in the storm. ]
Bram raised his head. His eyes were steady.
He exhaled through his nose. Then he tilted his head back, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
"If they think one goal's enough to bury us…" His voice broke the silence, light but steady. Everyone turned."…they don't know how stubborn we are."
For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then Daren laughed first, loud and raw. "Hell yeah! That's what I'm talking about!"Jory blinked, then muttered, "Damn right. Stubborn's our only talent anyway."Callen smirked, shaking his head. "You just love throwing sparks, don't you, Bram?"Percy's lips twitched upward. Almost a smile.And Felix… Felix finally lifted his head. His eyes met Bram's for a second, and he gave the smallest nod. Approval.
The weight in the room cracked, just a little. Not gone—but shifted. Lighter. Sharper.
The System hummed softly, almost amused.[ Half-jester, half-warrior… dangerous mix. I approve. ]
Bram just leaned back, towel still hanging loose, the grin not leaving his face."Then let's go prove it," he said.
**
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