The cold from the polished concrete floor seeped through his training pants, but it was nothing compared to the ice forming in his veins. A quiet, early retirement. The words echoed in the cavernous silence of his mind, each syllable a nail in his coffin. They weren't just going to fire him; they were going to erase him. Declare the great Kaelan Valtieri mentally unfit, a tragic casualty of a reckless lifestyle, and pension him off with a generous severance package and a non-disclosure agreement. The brand would be protected. The legend would remain untarnished. And Leo Mears would be buried alive inside it.
He didn't remember getting home. The journey was a blur of panic and paralyzing fear. The gilded cage now felt like a death row cell. He stood in the middle of the vast, empty living room, the trophies in their cases seeming to mock him with their silent, gleaming judgment.
What am I going to do?
The question was a scream with no sound. He had no answer. He was a mediocre footballer trapped in the body of a genius, and his incompetence was a death sentence.
Driven by a desperate, morbid curiosity, he wandered into Kaelan's private study—a room he hadn't dared enter before. It was less sterile than the rest of the house. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf was filled with a mix of tactical analysis books, philosophy texts, and classic novels. A solid oak desk held a state-of-the-art computer. And on the wall, a single, large, framed photograph: a younger Kaelan, maybe 16, with a man who shared his jawline and green eyes, his arm wrapped around his son's shoulders. Both were smiling, but it was the father's smile that caught Leo's attention—it was proud, but there was a sharp, calculating intensity in his eyes that made Leo shiver.
This was a glimpse of the man, not just the brand. And it was infinitely more terrifying.
His eyes fell on a small, discreet door next to the bookshelf. A private gym? A wine cellar? He turned the handle.
It was a small, soundproofed room. The walls were lined with whiteboards, covered in a chaotic spiderweb of tactical diagrams, player movement patterns, and complex mathematical equations relating to ball trajectory and physics. In the center of the room stood a strange, sleek device he recognized from a sports tech magazine: a Neuro-Link Motion Capture Simulator. It was a VR rig, but one used by top-tier athletes to mentally rehearse perfect technique, building neural pathways without physical strain.
< < [New Environment Detected: 'The Mind Room'] >>
**<< [Compatibility with Host's Neurological Signature: 3%... 5%...] >> **
The phantom system in his mind flickered, the numbers stuttering uncertainly. This room, this tech… it was meant for Kaelan's unique mind.
A wild, desperate idea, born of absolute hopelessness, took root. If the body wouldn't remember on its own, maybe he could force it to learn. Maybe he could hijack the genius's tools.
With trembling hands, he powered on the simulator. A helmet descended, and haptic feedback gloves were pulled onto his—Kaelan's—hands. The world dissolved into a perfect digital recreation of the Etihad Stadium, empty and silent. A single football materialized at his feet.
"Begin Basic Ball Control Module: Level 1," he whispered, his voice echoing in the virtual space.
A holographic timer appeared. The objective was simple: keep the ball in the air for 30 seconds.
He tried. He really did. But his mind was a cacophony of fear and overcalculation. He kicked too hard, too soft, his timing was off. The digital ball clattered against the virtual turf again and again.
< < [Simulation Failed. Neural Sync: 7%] >>
**<< [Error: Cognitive interference detected. High levels of amygdala activity inhibiting motor cortex function.] >> **
"Shut up!" Leo screamed at the disembodied voice in his head, tears of frustration welling in his eyes. He was failing in a fake world, too. There was no escape.
He ripped the helmet off, throwing it onto the plush carpet. He was hyperventilating, his powerful body shaking with sobs. He was going to lose everything. He was going to be exposed, discarded, and the real Kaelan would wake up in a coma ward to find his life stolen and then destroyed by an imposter.
He slumped against one of the whiteboards, his shoulder smudging a complex diagram. The pressure, the fear, the sheer impossibility of it all became a physical weight on his chest, crushing the air from his lungs. He couldn't breathe. He was going to die here, in this secret room, in a body that wasn't his.
I can't... I give up... he thought, the surrender a dark, welcome relief. There's no point.
And in that moment of total, abject surrender—the moment he stopped trying to be Kaelan Valtieri and simply accepted that he was lost—something shifted.
The frantic, screaming voice in his head quieted.
The tension in his muscles dissolved.
A strange, profound silence descended upon his mind. It was like the calm at the eye of a hurricane.
And then, a whisper. Not a voice, not a system alert. A feeling. An impulse. A ghost in the machine.
His right foot twitched. Then his left hand rose, fingers splaying as if gauging an invisible weight. A series of images flashed behind his eyes—not his memories, but echoes: the feel of a perfectly weighted pass hitting the laces, the specific angle of the ankle when striking a ball with the inside of the boot, the minute shift of balance required to change direction at full speed.
It was faint, like a radio signal from a distant star, but it was there.
< < [Neurological Dissonance Reduced.] >>
< < [Foreign Synaptic Echoes Detected. Accessing…] >>
**<< [Skill Fragment Acquired: 'First Touch' - Rudimentary.] >> **
Leo's eyes snapped open. He scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering, but not with panic this time. With a terrifying, exhilarating hope.
He ran out of the Mind Room, through the house, and into the vast backyard. There, on a pristine patch of artificial turf, sat a football.
He didn't think. He didn't calculate. He just… did.
He kicked the ball against the high wall. It rebounded towards him. Instead of bracing for the clumsy impact, he let his body go loose. He focused on the feeling from the echo, the ghost of a memory.
The ball arrived. His foot rose to meet it, his ankle locking at an instinctual, perfect angle.
THUMP.
It wasn't the silent, deadly control of Kaelan Valtieri. It was heavier, a little awkward. But the ball didn't bounce away. It settled, obediently, at his feet. It was the first clean first touch he had made since the accident.
He stood there, staring at the ball, then at his foot. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in his throat. It was a small, pathetic thing by Kaelan's standards, but for Leo Mears, it was a miracle.
He could access it. The real Kaelan's knowledge wasn't gone. It was dormant, a locked library in his mind. And the key wasn't force or fear. It was… letting go.
He spent the next two hours in the fading twilight, just passing the ball against the wall, over and over. Each time, he would quiet his mind, seek that silent place, and listen for the echo. Sometimes it was there, a flicker of impossible grace. Most times it wasn't, and the ball skidded away. But the percentage was improving.
He wasn't Kaelan Valtieri. But he wasn't just Leo Mears anymore, either. He was something in between. A conduit for a ghost.
Exhausted but buzzing with a new, fragile resolve, he walked back inside. The fear was still there, a cold stone in his gut. David and Thorpe were still a threat. The Juventus game was still a looming execution date.
But he had a weapon now. A secret.
As he closed the patio door, his phone, Kaelan's phone, buzzed on the kitchen island. It was a message from David.
David: Meeting at my office tomorrow. 9 AM. We need to discuss your "recovery plan." Don't be late.
The cold fear returned, sharper than ever. The "recovery plan." The plan to sideline him.
He looked at his hands, then out at the darkening garden where he had, for a few fleeting moments, touched greatness.
He had a weapon. But as he read David's message again, a chilling realization dawned.
They think they're meeting a broken man... but what if they're meeting something else?