The spit hit his shoulder before he even registered the man's face.
Naoya Sato kept walking, head down, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. The grocery bag swung against his leg with each step, a bitter reminder that he still had to eat, still had to exist, even when the entire country wished he didn't.
"Useless!" The word followed him down the narrow Tokyo street.
He didn't turn around. He didn't need to. No, he had heard worse in the three weeks since the miss. Since the miss. The one that would define his entire existence, that would be replayed in montages and memes until the sun burned out. Naoya Sato, the half-Japanese, half-American striker who had grown up in Seattle, who had learned the beautiful game on rain-soaked fields in the Pacific Northwest, who had somehow earned the right to wear the Samurai Blue, only to crumble when it mattered most.
World Cup. Semi-finals. Japan versus Portugal. Penalties. The entire nation holding its breath.
He had sent it wide.
The apartment building loomed ahead, grey and unwelcoming, much like everything else in his life right now. Naoya climbed the stairs to the third floor, ignoring the elevator. The physical exertion felt like penance, though nothing could actually absolve what he had done.
Inside, the apartment was dark, as he hadn't opened the curtains in days. And as a result, the air smelled stale. He dropped the grocery bag on the kitchen counter, and the content; instant ramen, energy drinks, spilled out. Afterwards, he collapsed onto the couch.
His phone sat on the coffee table, the screen dark. Even without opening it, he knew what awaited him. Seventeen missed calls from his mother in Oregon. Twelve from his older sister, Yuki. Six voicemails he had never listen to. They meant well, he knew that. But their sympathy felt worse than the stranger's spit, because it confirmed what he already knew: his career was over. At twenty-four, he was finished.
The talking heads on Japanese sports networks had been ruthless. Why did we even let him represent us? one commentator had sneered. American-born, American-raised. He doesn't understand what it means to wear this jersey.
Maybe they were right.
Outside his window, the city hummed with life. Somewhere out there, people were celebrating. South Africa had won the whole damn thing, the first African nation to ever lift the World Cup trophy. It should have been beautiful, historic, inspiring. Instead, Naoya felt nothing but the hollow ache of his own failure.
He reached for the remote, then stopped. What was the point? Every channel would be showing highlights. Every highlight reel would eventually show him, frozen in that terrible moment, the ball sailing past the post, his body crumpling as Portugal erupted in celebration.
His phone buzzed.
Naoya stared at it, debating whether to throw it across the room. It buzzed again. And again. Not calls this time, notifications. Multiple notifications, all at once.
Against his better judgment, he picked it up.
APEX SPORTS TECH ANNOUNCES SYSTEM INTEGRATION PROGRAM
The headline splashed across his screen, followed by dozens of variations from different news sources. His thumb moved on autopilot, clicking through to the main article.
In a groundbreaking press conference held simultaneously in New York, London, and Tokyo, Apex Sports Tech, the world's leading biotechnology corporation, has unveiled the System Integration Technology, a surgical neural implant designed to enhance athletic performance beyond natural human limitations.
Naoya sat up straighter.
The company announced the formation of the Elite International League, a new football competition featuring players who have undergone the integration surgery. "We are not replacing traditional football," stated CEO Miranda Chen. "We are evolving it. Creating something humanity has only dreamed of, athletes operating at the absolute peak of human potential and beyond."
The article continued with technical jargon about neural pathways and muscle optimization, but Naoya's eyes skipped ahead to the part that made his heart hammer against his ribs.
Apex Sports Tech will be accepting 10,000 applications worldwide for the inaugural integration cohort. Selected participants will receive the surgery at no cost. Those who survive the procedure and secure positions in the Elite International League can expect earnings exceeding $50 million annually, with top players potentially earning ten times that amount.
However, the company has been transparent about the risks. Current projections estimate a 25-30% chance of death or permanent disability during the integration surgery.
Naoya read that line three times.
Twenty-five to thirty percent chance of death.
He looked around his dark apartment, at the life he had destroyed with one missed kick, at the future that had evaporated in a single moment. What did he have to lose? His career was already dead. His reputation was ruined. He was unemployed, unmarketable, a cautionary tale in the making.
His phone buzzed again. Another notification, this time showing the official Apex Sports Tech registration portal.
ELITE INTERNATIONAL LEAGUE - OPEN APPLICATIONS
Do you have what it takes to transcend human limitations?
Naoya's finger hovered over the link. Somewhere in the rational part of his brain, alarm bells were screaming. This was insane. A one-in-four chance of dying on an operating table, all for the possibility of redemption in a sport that had already chewed him up and spit him out.
But that same sport was all he had ever known. All he had ever loved. And right now, the only thing worse than dying on an operating table was continuing to exist in this half-life of shame and obscurity.
He clicked the link.
The registration form loaded immediately. At the top, a disclaimer in bold red text: BY PROCEEDING, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE THE SIGNIFICANT RISK OF DEATH OR PERMANENT INJURY ASSOCIATED WITH SYSTEM INTEGRATION SURGERY.
Naoya began typing his information, taking his time to answer every question accurately.
His finger paused over the final button: SUBMIT APPLICATION.
Naoya took in a deep breath.
And hit submit.