Ethan Cross sat on the far end of the locker room bench, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
Around him, Westbridge High's football team moved with easy confidence—laughing, shoving, arguing about music playlists and weekend plans. Jerseys were pulled on. Cleats tightened. Someone blasted a song from a speaker, bass thumping against the lockers.
Normal.
Too normal.
Ethan felt like an outsider in his own skin.
A faint red glow flickered at the edge of his vision.
He ignored it.
"Alright, listen up!"
Coach Aaron Whitlock's voice cut through the noise. The room quieted immediately. Whitlock stood tall at the center, clipboard tucked under his arm, whistle hanging from his neck. He was the kind of man who believed discipline built champions—and that excuses were for the weak.
His eyes scanned the room.
"State League opener today," he said. "Crowd's going to be big. Scouts will be watching."
That single sentence changed the air.
Some players straightened. Others grinned.
Ethan didn't move.
Whitlock continued. "Starters, you know your roles. Bench—be ready when called."
Ethan's jaw tightened.
When called.
Whitlock's gaze flicked toward him for a brief second—just long enough for Ethan to feel seen.
Then the coach looked away.
"Lucas," Whitlock said. "Lead the warm-ups."
Lucas Vance rose smoothly from his seat, captain's armband already wrapped around his arm. He glanced at Ethan as he passed, lips curling into a smirk.
"Try not to fall asleep over there, Cross."
A few chuckles followed.
Ethan stared at the floor.
A notification slid silently into view.
[HUMILIATION DETECTED]
[MENTALITY +1]
His heartbeat slowed.
That scared him more than the laughter.
The stadium was packed.
Parents. Students. Alumni. Scouts with sunglasses and notepads.
The California sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the pristine green pitch. Westbridge banners fluttered proudly, blue and silver catching the light.
Ethan stood near the technical area in a training bib, watching the starters jog onto the field.
Lucas raised a fist to the crowd.
They roared.
Ethan's stomach twisted—not with jealousy, but with something sharper.
That should've been me.
The referee blew the whistle.
The match began.
From the bench, the game looked different.
Ethan noticed things he never had before.
Spacing. Timing. Gaps between defenders that opened for half a second before vanishing.
He followed the ball's movement like it was traced in red lines across the field.
Lucas received a pass, tried to dribble through two defenders—
Lost the ball.
"Idiot," Ethan muttered under his breath.
Westbridge recovered possession seconds later, but the opportunity was gone.
Another red flicker.
[FIELD VISION: DORMANT — SYNCHRONIZING]
Ethan blinked.
His breath caught.
"What…?"
He pressed his fingers into his temples.
The match continued.
Lucas missed a header. A winger overhit a cross. The opposing team's midfield cut through Westbridge's formation with ease.
Coach Whitlock shouted instructions, frustration growing.
At the thirty-second minute, the opposing team scored.
Silence swept through the stadium.
Then murmurs.
Lucas slammed his fist into the turf.
Ethan felt a strange sensation—like gears clicking into place.
[TEAM FAILURE DETECTED]
[MENTALITY +1]
[COMPOSURE +1]
He exhaled slowly.
The system wasn't just watching him.
It was watching everything.
At halftime, the locker room buzzed with tension.
Whitlock paced like a caged animal. "You're playing scared," he snapped. "They're faster, yes—but they're not smarter. Lucas, you're forcing plays."
Lucas bristled. "I'm trying to create chances."
"You're trying to be a hero," Whitlock shot back.
Ethan watched silently.
Part of him expected the familiar ache—that feeling of being invisible.
Instead, he felt… calm.
Cold.
The red glow pulsed once.
[EMOTIONAL SUPPRESSION: ACTIVE]
That explained it.
Whitlock's eyes landed on Ethan.
For a moment, the room held its breath.
"You," the coach said.
Ethan straightened.
Whitlock hesitated—just long enough to betray doubt.
Then he shook his head. "Stay ready."
The words landed like a slap.
Lucas smirked again.
The red notification appeared instantly.
[REJECTION CONFIRMED]
[COMPOSURE +2]
Ethan's lips twitched.
So this is how you want to play it.
In the stands, Nova Reyes scribbled notes furiously.
She wasn't watching Lucas.
She was watching Ethan.
From the way his posture never slumped… to the way his eyes tracked the field with unnatural focus.
"That's new," she murmured.
Beside her, a classmate nudged her. "Who? The bench guy?"
Nova frowned. "Yeah. Him."
The second half started worse than the first.
Westbridge conceded another goal.
The crowd grew restless.
Whitlock cursed under his breath.
At the sixty-fifth minute, an opposing defender clipped Lucas during a sprint. Lucas went down hard, clutching his ankle.
The stadium gasped.
Medical staff rushed in.
Lucas tried to stand—failed.
Whitlock's face darkened.
"Sub!" the fourth official shouted.
The bench stirred.
Whitlock scanned his options.
His eyes landed on Ethan.
Time slowed.
The red card icon flared violently.
[CRITICAL OPPORTUNITY DETECTED]
[SYSTEM WARNING:]
FAILURE WILL ACCELERATE GROWTH
Ethan rose to his feet.
Whitlock opened his mouth—
Then closed it.
His jaw clenched.
"…Cross," he said reluctantly. "You're in."
The world snapped back into motion.
The crowd murmured.
Some laughed.
Lucas stared at Ethan, disbelief etched across his face. "You?"
Ethan met his gaze.
No words.
Just a look.
Lucas looked away first.
As Ethan stepped onto the field, something shifted.
The grass felt different beneath his cleats.
Every sound sharpened—the crowd, the whistle, the thud of the ball.
The red system interface unfolded fully.
[FIELD VISION: ACTIVE]
[COMPOSURE: STABLE]
[MENTALITY: ELEVATED]
Lines appeared.
Invisible paths traced player movement, predicting where the ball would be.
Ethan sucked in a breath.
This wasn't luck.
This was… terrifying.
"Just keep it simple!" Whitlock shouted.
Ethan nodded.
The ball came to him almost immediately.
A defender closed in.
Normally, panic would've hit.
Instead—
Time slowed.
Ethan shifted his weight, tapped the ball left, spun right.
The defender stumbled.
A gasp rippled through the stands.
Ethan passed forward—perfect weight, perfect timing.
The winger broke free.
Missed the shot.
Ethan didn't react.
[ASSIST OPPORTUNITY FAILED]
[NO PENALTY APPLIED]
Of course, he thought.
He pressed on.
Another touch. Another pass.
Westbridge looked sharper—hungrier.
Then it happened.
Ethan received the ball near midfield.
Lucas's replacement called for it.
Ethan ignored him.
He saw the gap.
Threaded a pass straight through two defenders.
Goal.
The stadium exploded.
Ethan stood still, chest heaving, eyes wide.
He hadn't even celebrated.
From the bench, Whitlock stared in disbelief.
From the stands, Nova's pen froze mid-air.
And somewhere near the VIP section, Scarlett Monroe leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
"Well," she said softly. "That's interesting."
Westbridge still lost the match.
2–1.
But as Ethan walked off the field, sweat-soaked and breathing hard, he didn't feel defeated.
The red card pulsed once more.
[MATCH RESULT: LOSS]
[SYSTEM REWARD:]
FIELD VISION — PARTIALLY UNLOCKED
MENTALITY +3
Pain flickered through his chest.
He welcomed it.
As the crowd dispersed, Madison Hale stood near the exit, frozen in place.
She had seen it.
That pass.
That calm.
Her phone buzzed with messages—clips already circulating.
She swallowed.
"…Ethan?"
He walked past her without stopping.
For the first time, she felt something she hadn't expected.
Fear.
That night, Ethan lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
The red interface hovered above him.
[SYSTEM STATUS:]
YOU HAVE STEPPED ONTO THE PATH OF FAILURE-DRIVEN ASCENSION
He closed his eyes.
"Do your worst," he whispered.
The system responded instantly.
[OBSESSION MODE — PREVIEW UNLOCKED]
Ethan smiled in the dark.
Slow.
Dangerous.
Question for Readers:
Did Ethan deserve to be subbed in… or is the Red Card System already bending fate in his favor?