Ryzen had always believed that humans could be sorted, not by talent or intelligence, but by hunger.
There were people who wanted comfort, who shaped their lives to avoid pain and called it peace, moving gently through days like nothing was worth bleeding for.
There were people who wanted recognition, applause, noise, chasing eyes more than goals, mistaking attention for purpose.
There were people who wanted control, not over others, but over outcomes, obsessed with reducing uncertainty even if it meant becoming rigid and predictable.
And then there were the rare ones who wanted growth so badly it scared them, who chased discomfort because stagnation felt worse than failure.
Most people lived their entire lives inside one category and never noticed the walls.
Ryzen rinsed his mouth, stared at his reflection briefly, eyes steady, unreadable.
And then there's me, he thought.
A simple CDM in football… or just nobody in real life.
Everyone would hate being in my shoes. I know.
The shower water hit his shoulders hard, steam filling the small bathroom of the apartment, the sound steady and grounding, washing away the leftover tension from yesterday.
He moved efficiently—no wasted motion—drying off, pulling on clean clothes, something casual and neutral since school was off today, nothing that asked to be noticed.
The apartment was quiet, almost too quiet, but he was used to it.
He cracked eggs into a pan, toasted bread, moved like he did on the pitch—simple, functional, precise.
Breakfast wasn't a ritual; it was preparation.
When the tea finished steeping, he stepped out onto the narrow balcony, mug warm in his hands, the city stretching beneath him in layered noise and movement.
Cars flowed like passing lanes, people crossing streets in diagonal runs, vendors setting up, shutters lifting, lives starting without ceremony.
The narrator's gaze pulled back, rising above Ryzen's building, above the block, above the district.
The city was dense and restless, a place where ambition lived beside exhaustion, where people woke early not because they loved mornings, but because survival demanded it.
Office workers packed buses with blank faces.
Students clustered around corners, loud and hopeful.
Street vendors argued over prices like midfield battles that never ended.
Everyone moving, everyone wanting something, everyone convinced their struggle was unique.
Football mirrored it all.
And tucked between concrete and routine sat the academy—cleaner, quieter, fenced off like a promise with rules.
Inside, players existed in fragments.
There was the striker who smiled constantly, charming off the pitch, ruthless inside the box, measuring his self-worth in goals and reactions.
The winger who lived on social media, explosive pace matched by explosive mood swings, confidence fragile as glass.
The center-back who said little, lived alone, trained like a machine, carrying family expectations heavier than his own body.
The goalkeeper who laughed too much, hiding fear behind humor, terrified of silence after mistakes.
Midfielders with different addictions—control, creativity, dominance—each convinced their version was the correct one.
And overseeing them all was the manager.
A man shaped by years of decisions, not emotion, eyes trained to see patterns rather than players, someone who believed systems mattered more than stars, but knew stars sold dreams.
The perspective narrowed again.
Ryzen locked the apartment door and stepped into the street, the city swallowing him instantly, footsteps steady as he walked toward the academy for the first time not as an observer, but as a participant.
The gates were taller up close.
He entered, spoke briefly at the front desk, his name already logged, directions given without fuss, and followed the path toward the training grounds where voices echoed and boots met grass.
He slowed for a moment, taking it in—the size of the pitch, the order, the silence between instructions.
Then he walked forward.
"Hey, coach?" Ryzen called.
The man turned. "Oh… oh, Ryzen," he said, smiling slightly. "Like what you see so far?"
"Yeah," Ryzen replied honestly. "It's a nice place. When do I start?"
"Straight to business," the coach said with a nod. "Good. First, go inside the lockers and change into sports clothes. I put one aside—it's yours."
Ryzen moved without hesitation, found the locker, changed quickly, tying his boots tighter than necessary, grounding himself through routine.
When he returned, the coach looked him over once.
"Good to see you fit and ready," he said. "First, go introduce yourself to the team, okay?"
Ryzen nodded.
As he stepped forward, something shifted inside him—not excitement, not fear, but awareness.
This is where I reshape myself, he thought.
Not into someone louder… but into someone undeniable.
Someone who doesn't just stop the game—someone who bends it, scores in his own way, and becomes impossible to ignore.
He took another step toward the group, breathing steady, eyes sharp.
The players turn to him. Ready to get a new teammate or a new challenge to beat...