Chapter 4: The Ghost in the House
The walk back from West-Park was a lesson in biological reality.
Adrenaline is a liar; it masks the micro-tears in the muscle fibers and the inflammation blooming in the joints. As Luuk climbed the stairs to the third-floor apartment, the "God-Trap" felt a thousand miles away. Every step was a reminder that his 50 Agility and 60 Stamina were debts that had to be paid in full.
He pushed the door open quietly. The apartment was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a television in the small living room. The smell of fried onions and cheap tobacco hung heavy in the air.
Hendrik van den Berg was slumped in his armchair, a bottle of Grolsch on the side table. He didn't look up immediately. His eyes were fixed on an old Eredivisie highlight reel—Ajax vs. PSV from a decade ago.
"You're late," Hendrik said, his voice gravelly from a day at the docks.
"I was at the park," Luuk replied. He didn't stop to talk. He headed straight for the kitchen to start the "Nutritional Blueprint" the Screen was already projecting onto his retinas.
Hendrik turned his head then. He looked at his son's back—the way the boy carried himself, the steady precision of his movements. There was a lack of "noise" in Luuk's walk that hadn't been there forty-eight hours ago.
"The park? Doing what? Utrecht sent the letter, Luuk. It's over."
Luuk paused, a carton of eggs in his hand. He didn't turn around. "It's not over. They were just looking at the wrong things."
Hendrik sighed, the sound of a man who had long ago buried his own ambitions. "Don't do this to yourself. You're a big lad. You've got my frame. There's no shame in working the port. It's steady. It's real."
"I'm not working the port, Dad."
Luuk's voice was flat. Cold. It wasn't the voice of a defiant teenager; it was the voice of a man stating a mathematical fact. He cracked three eggs into a pan, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen.
Hendrik frowned, leaning forward. "What happened to your eyes?"
Luuk finally turned. Under the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen, his silver-gray eyes looked like polished steel. They didn't hold the disappointment or the hurt Hendrik expected. They held nothing but a terrifying, singular focus.
"I'm going to the top," Luuk said. "Go back to your game."
Hendrik opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. There was a pressure coming off his son—a psychological weight that made the small kitchen feel cramped. He watched as Luuk finished his meal with mechanical efficiency and disappeared into the bathroom.
Then the sound came
The sound of the shower hitting the tiles on the coldest setting.
Inside the bathroom, Luuk was shivering, but his mind was locked onto the Status Screen.
[Hyper-Recovery: Phase 1 (Cryo-Tactical Flush)]
[Status: 12% Complete]
[Warning: Neural Desync requires immediate Proprioceptive Realignment.]
The "0.04s Lag" felt like a grain of sand in a high-performance engine. To a normal player, 0.04 seconds was nothing. To Luuk, whose Ball Control was 100/100, it was an eternity. It was the difference between a perfect trap and a ball that bounced an inch too far.
He stepped out of the shower, his skin blue-tinged and steaming in the cold air. He didn't dry off immediately. Instead, he moved to his small bedroom, cleared the floor, and began the Bio-Grind.
This wasn't a normal workout. It was a brutal, agonizing attempt to "re-wire" his nervous system. Under the guidance of the Screen, he entered a series of isometric holds and eccentric stretches that forced his 183cm frame into positions that defied his current 50 Agility.
[Neural Path Correction: Initiated]
[Instruction: Maintain 'Crescent-Pivot' stretch for 180 seconds.]
[Penalty for Failure: Neural Reset. Progress lost.]
His muscles began to scream. Sweat poured off his forehead, stinging his eyes. His hamstrings felt like over-tightened violin strings, vibrating with the threat of snapping.
"Hold..." he hissed through gritted teeth.
In the living room, Hendrik stood outside Luuk's door. He had heard the heavy thuds, the ragged breathing, and the strange, rhythmic movements. He reached for the handle, intending to tell Luuk to go to sleep, but he stopped.
Through the crack in the door, he saw his son.
Luuk was trembling, his muscles corded and twitching under the skin. He looked like he was being tortured, yet his face remained a mask of silver-gray stone. He was pushing himself past the point of "training." He was rebuilding himself.
Hendrik pulled his hand back. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of fear. This wasn't the boy who had cried when he got the rejection letter. This was something else. This was a predator being forged in the dark.
Hours passed.
[Neural Path Correction: 100%]
[Lag Reduced: 0.04s -> 0.02s]
[Agility Progress: 50.1 -> 50.4]
Luuk collapsed onto his thin mattress, his chest heaving. The decimal points were insulting. All that agony for 0.3 of a stat point. But his mind, synchronized with the cold logic of the Screen, knew the truth.
Progress was exponential. The harder it was to earn a point, the more valuable that point became.
He lay there, staring at the dark ceiling, as the Sleep Optimization kicked in. His heart rate slowed to a steady, athletic rhythm.
"I'm coming back," he whispered to the empty room. "And this time, they won't be able to look away."
The next morning, Hendrik found Luuk already gone. On the kitchen table sat a single note in Luuk's sharp, precise handwriting.
Gone to the hills. Don't wait up.
Hendrik looked at the note, then at the empty egg carton. For the first time in years, he didn't reach for a beer. He walked over to the window and watched the rain wash over the city, wondering if he even knew his own son anymore.