The first full day at the Ghost Factory dawned with a cold, unforgiving light. The air in the bunker-like living quarters was thick with the scent of unwashed clothes and nervous energy. The boys, all sixteen of them, stirred restlessly in their bunk beds, their bodies aching from the previous day's brutal drills. There was no gentle wake-up call, no sunlight streaming through a window. Only a jarring, mechanical buzzer that blared at precisely 5:00 AM, a sound as sharp and merciless as Kelvin's voice.
Miracle Johnson was the first to rise, his legs screaming in protest as he swung them off the top bunk. His mind, still foggy with sleep, replayed the brutal drills from the day before. The endless laps, the punishing sprints, the way Kelvin's cold eyes had followed his every move, a silent judgment that was more effective than any scolding. He looked at Eric, his closest friend, who was still asleep, his face a mask of exhaustion. Miracle reached out and shook him gently. "Eric, wake up," he whispered. "It's time."
The other players, groaning and moaning, began to stir. They moved with a slow, deliberate grace, their bodies a symphony of pain. They all knew what was coming. The Confessional. The room where they would be forced to face their demons.
Kelvin stood in the center of the Confessional, his grey tracksuit a silent specter in the dimly lit room. He was a force of nature, a storm in human form, and the air around him crackled with a silent, terrifying energy. He held a small, black notebook in his hand, a pen tucked behind his ear. He was not smiling. He was not talking. He was simply waiting. The boys, one by one, shuffled into the room, their faces pale with fear and dread.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Kelvin's voice was a low, chilling whisper that carried across the entire room. "Welcome to the first day of the rest of your lives. Today, you will confess your greatest football sin. You will tell me about your mistakes, your failures, your fears. And I will use them to build your strength."
He gestured to a small, enclosed booth in the corner of the room. "That is the Confessional Booth," he said. "You will go in one by one and tell me your story. The rest of you will listen. There will be no secrets here. No lies. Only the truth."
The boys looked at each other, their faces a mix of shock and awe. This was not a training camp. This was a form of psychological warfare.
Kelvin then pointed to the first boy in line. "You," he said, his eyes fixed on the boy. "Step forward and tell me your story."
The boy, a tall, lanky defender named Mfoniso, walked to the center of the room, his face a mask of fear. He looked at Kelvin, who was watching him with a cold, unforgiving stare. He took a deep breath, and his story came out in a torrent of words. He told them about his constant blunders in a match, his habit of letting go of his man and costing the team a goal. He told them about the way he froze on the pitch, his mind a blank slate when he was under pressure. He told them about the shame, the fear, the anger. He told them everything.
Kelvin did not speak. He simply listened, his face a mask of cold indifference. When Mfoniso was done, Kelvin simply gestured for him to move on and pointed to the next boy.
One by one, they all confessed. Gideon, the striker, talked about how he always choked in front of goal. Godson, the defensive midfielder, talked about his fear of losing the ball. Hanson, the attacking midfielder, talked about his habit of showing off and his selfish style of play. They all had a story to tell. A story of a weakness, a flaw, a sin that had haunted them on the pitch.
When it was Frank's turn, he walked to the center of the room, his head held high. He looked at Kelvin, his eyes filled with a defiant fire. "My greatest sin is a red card," he said, his voice a low growl. "I let my anger get the better of me. I got a red card and I cost the team the match. I am a beast. A monster. And I am not ashamed of it."
Kelvin simply smirked. "You are not a beast," he said, his voice a cold whisper. "You are a little boy who cries when he doesn't get his way. You are a coward who hides behind his anger. You are a ghost, and I am the exorcist who will set you free."
Frank's face, a mask of defiance, crumpled. He looked at Kelvin, his eyes filled with a mix of shock and anger. He wanted to say something, to fight back, but the words were stuck in his throat.
When it was Miracle's turn, he walked to the center of the room, his head held high. He looked at Kelvin, his eyes filled with a mix of defiance and respect. "My greatest sin is that I am not good enough," he said, his voice a low, steady whisper. "I am an all-rounder. A jack-of-all-trades. I am not a striker, not a defender, not a midfielder. I am a little bit of everything. I am nothing."
Kelvin simply nodded. "You are not nothing," he said, his voice a cold whisper. "You are a blank slate. A ghost. And I am the exorcist who will turn you into a god."
Miracle's face, a mask of defiance, crumpled. He looked at Kelvin, his eyes filled with a mix of shock and awe. He wanted to say something, to fight back, but the words were stuck in his throat.
Kelvin then turned to the last person, Prince. The towering goalkeeper walked to the center of the room, his head held high. He looked at Kelvin, his eyes filled with a stoic defiance. "My greatest sin is my confidence," he said, his voice a low growl. "I am too confident. I am too sure of myself. I am a god, and I do not make mistakes."
Kelvin simply smirked. "You are not a god," he said, his voice a cold whisper. "You are a statue. A monument. A ghost who is frozen in time. And I am the exorcist who will set you free. But first, you must die."
Prince's face, a mask of defiance, crumpled. He looked at Kelvin, his eyes filled with a mix of shock and awe. He wanted to say something, to fight back, but the words were stuck in his throat.
The boys, their confessions out in the open, were now ghosts. They had nothing to hide, nothing to fear. Their sins were laid bare, their weaknesses exposed. And Kelvin, the Exorcist, had just begun his work. The first session of the Ghost Factory was not about training. It was about psychological warfare. A brutal, unforgiving process that would either turn them into soldiers or bury them as ghosts.
The sun was now a distant memory, its light replaced by the harsh, unforgiving glare of the dome's floodlights. The boys, their bodies bruised and battered, were forced to play a full 11-a-side match. Kelvin did not officiate. He simply watched from the sidelines, his eyes fixed on every player, every move, every mistake. The boys played with a sense of purpose, a sense of desperation, a sense of fear. They played until their bodies were on the verge of collapse. And when they were done, they were met by Kelvin's cold voice.
"Tomorrow," he said, his voice a chilling whisper. "You will wake up and do it all again. And again. And again. Until you are no longer ghosts."
The boys, their bodies broken, their minds exhausted, simply nodded. They were not a team. They were an army. An army of ghosts who had a long way to go before they could rise to glory.