The evening sun stretched its orange glow across the cracked asphalt of the old school ground. Dust floated lazily in the air, stirred by the pounding feet of children chasing after a weathered football. Their shouts echoed through the near-empty neighborhood, innocent and carefree.
At the edge of the field, Marcus stood beside Coach Davor, his jaw tense.
"You will not believe what you're about to witness," Marcus said, his eyes sharp with a mix of pride and desperation.
Davor crossed his arms, skeptical. He had heard Marcus' story the night before, this strange claim of being able to "copy" the skills of others. To him, it sounded like the rambling of a boy who'd been wronged too many times. Expelled unfairly, betrayed by powerful forces… perhaps Marcus had created a fantasy to keep his spirit alive.
"I've seen many young men claim greatness," Davor said flatly. "Prove it."
Marcus didn't argue. Instead, he pulled out his phone and opened a clip he had saved. The video was of Neymar, that famous flick over a defender, the elegant turn, and the perfect strike into goal. Marcus played it in silence, both of them watching the fluid brilliance on the screen.
"That," Marcus said, sliding the phone back into his pocket, "I will replicate."
Davor raised a brow. "Neymar, huh? You've chosen no easy idol."
"I don't need easy." Marcus jogged toward the cluster of kids and joined their game.
At first, nothing about him seemed extraordinary. Marcus played the way Davor remembered, clean touches, crisp passes, the occasional dribble. He wasn't dominating, but he wasn't fading either. Just… Marcus.
The children laughed and ran circles around him, showing no fear of the older boy. Some even tried tackling him harder, eager to embarrass the fallen academy player who had once walked these same grounds.
Minutes ticked by. Davor was already shaking his head when the opportunity came. Marcus found himself with the ball at his feet, a defender blocking his path, the goalkeeper crouched and waiting.
Perfect. The stage. The moment.
Marcus inhaled deeply, recalling every frame of Neymar's flick. His body tensed as he prepared the motion. He lifted the ball, but his timing was off. Instead of soaring gracefully over the defender, the ball clattered against the boy's shin and rolled away.
Laughter erupted around the pitch. The kids clutched their stomachs, some pointing fingers.
"Nice try, Marcus!" one jeered. "Thought you were Neymar? More like his di-" another shouted.
On the sidelines, Davor sighed. "I knew it… just that incident messing with his head. Ah... Poor child."
Marcus froze, humiliation burning his cheeks. He felt the rage bubbling inside him again, the same fury from the night he lost everything. The betrayal, the unfairness, Kael's mocking message: You'll never know. His fists clenched.
The match rolled on. Moments later, Marcus was nutmegged by one of the cheekiest kids on the field. The small boy darted past him, the ball slipping between Marcus' legs with an audacious grin. The children howled with laughter again, the jeers cutting deeper than any wound.
Marcus' teeth ground together. But instead of storming off, he chased the ball, snatched it back, and squared up against the same boy. With deliberate precision, he mirrored the exact nutmeg he had suffered, sending the ball sliding between the kid's legs. Then he walked away casually, no celebration, no smirk.
Davor narrowed his eyes. Coincidence? Maybe. Nutmegs were easy tricks. But the exact timing, the cool dismissal afterward… there was something unsettlingly deliberate about it.
The minutes slipped away. The game neared its end when the chance came again. Marcus had the ball. One defender in front of him. The goalkeeper beyond. The same scenario.
His heart pounded, but this time he was calm. The first failure had burned him, but he had learned. The nutmeg had awakened something raw inside him, proof that his ability worked, even if imperfectly.
He locked eyes on the defender. His mind replayed Neymar's motion. Every detail, every flick, every turn. His body moved on instinct.
The ball lifted, smooth, elegant, perfect, arcing just above the defender's head. Gasps erupted from the sidelines.
Marcus spun, catching the ball on the other side with a dazzling turn, leaving the defender completely frozen. He charged forward and unleashed a strike. The ball whistled through the air and slammed into the net.
GOAL.....
Silence.
The kids stopped in their tracks, wide-eyed. The laughter died instantly, replaced by awe.
"What… what was that?" one boy whispered. "He actually did it…" another muttered.
Coach Davor's mouth hung open. He had seen many goals in his life, but this wasn't just a goal. This was an imitation, no, a replica, of Neymar's artistry. The same flick. The same spin. The same flawless execution.
Marcus jogged back slowly, his face unreadable, but inside his chest his heart roared. He had done it. Again.
After the match, Marcus approached Davor on the sidelines, sweat dripping down his brow.
"Well?" Marcus asked, half-smiling, half-daring the coach to deny what he had just seen.
Davor didn't answer immediately. His mind raced. He had doubted, mocked, pitied this boy. But what he had just witnessed defied explanation. It wasn't just talent. It wasn't even practice. It was… something else.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low but steady. "If this is real… then you're not just going to redeem yourself, Marcus. You're going to change football."
Marcus' chest swelled with pride at the words. For the first time in months, someone believed in him.
But Davor wasn't finished. He leaned closer, his tone sharpening. "Yet there's a problem. Why did you fail the first time you tried Neymar's skill? Why succeed the second time? Until you master this ability, it's nothing more than luck."
Marcus nodded. "I don't know why it failed. But I'll figure it out."
"Not alone," Davor said firmly. "If you have this gift… we must train it. Test it. Push it until it becomes unstoppable."
Marcus' eyes glimmered. "And when I do?"
Davor's lips curved into a grim smile. "Then no one can stop you from destroying the Premier League."
For a moment, silence hung between them, filled only by the distant laughter of the children.
Then Davor placed a hand on Marcus' shoulder. "The first step won't be here. Not in school grounds. Not even in academies that turned their back on you. There's a place… a hidden place where the forgotten, the outcasts, the broken go. A place where redemption is earned."
Marcus frowned. "What place?"
Davor's eyes darkened. "THE UNDERGROUND FOOTBALLING LEAGUE".
The words hung in the air like thunder.
Marcus' pulse quickened. An underground league? What could that even mean? Before he could ask more, Davor turned away.