The elite academy's cafeteria was a sanctuary of glass and arrogance, a world away from the rain-soaked concrete of Krow City. Inside, the air was still, scented with expensive roasted coffee and the quiet hum of privilege. Beyond the high windows, the city's smog felt like a distant memory, kept at bay by reinforced panes. Bill Maël, the captain, moved with a lion's confidence, leading Belt toward a mahogany table where the team's elite—the "Monsters"—sat in wait.
There sat Bobby, the vice-captain, lazily chewing gum with sharp eyes that missed nothing. Beside him were Vance, the restless winger, and Morgking, the "Titan," whose sheer mass seemed to anchor the room. Three other starters, including the stoic Kings, sat in respectful silence, watching the newcomer with a mix of curiosity and appraisal.
"Sit, Belt," Maël said, his voice a mix of authority and brotherhood. "You're part of the circle now."
Belt sat, his body a coiled spring. The friction with the guards at the gate still burned in his mind, a cold reminder that he was an intruder in this paradise. His gaze, analytical and unyielding, scanned the room. Everything here—from the silk-embroidered crests on students' blazers to the polished marble floors—screamed opulence. It was a sanctuary for the chosen, built by excluding the "unworthy."
So this is the view from the top, Belt thought, his jaw tightening as he felt the eyes of other students on him—the "outsider" who had dared to claim a seat at the royal table. He felt the plush leather of the chair beneath him, a texture so refined it felt alien against his skin, accustomed only to the rough edges of the streets. This wasn't just comfort; it was a distraction, a soft cage designed to dull the instincts of those who climbed too high.
In the streets, chaos reigned. But here, the system was a polished machine that favored the born-rich while ignoring those who truly bled for a chance. To Belt, this archaic hierarchy was a joke.
They think this is a divine right, he mused, a spark of predatory contempt in his eyes. If the heavens won't intervene to fix this broken system, then I will be the intervention. I'm the glitch they didn't see coming.
He didn't see himself as a lucky recruit. He was an emperor in exile, reclaiming a throne. He wasn't here to fit in; he was here to master their world, then dismantle it. His "Mirror Evolution" wasn't just a skill—it was his weapon to steal the crowns of those who sat too comfortably.
"Something wrong? You look like you're planning a coup," Maël's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and perceptive.
Belt blinked, his face returning to an unreadable mask. As he looked at the Captain, his "Mirror" instincts twitched. He noticed a specific stillness in Maël's posture, a way of grounding his weight that didn't quite belong to a football pitch. It was the stance of a fighter, someone who knew how to take a fall and rise before the count. "Just taking it all in," Belt replied simply.
The table was a feast fit for royalty: baskets of golden artisan breads still steaming from the oven, chilled carafes of fresh milk, and vibrant salads laid out with military precision. The steam from the food carried a richness Belt had never smelled before—a fragrance of comfort he hadn't known existed. Through the massive windows, the academy's manicured lawns glowed under a sun that seemed to refuse to let a single drop of rain touch this sacred ground.
I don't belong to this system, and I never will, Belt thought as he served himself with surgical economy. I am the loup in the fold. I'll peel back the skin of this academy until the raw truth is all that's left.
As the team began to eat, the tension of the morning's training eased into camaraderie. Suddenly, Maël flashed a wicked grin, leaning back to address the group.
"Hey, everyone! I almost forgot to introduce our guest of honor. The media is already obsessed with him." He looked at Belt, his eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. "They're calling him 'The Great White Shark'."
Vance nearly choked on his juice, the liquid splashing onto the table. "The what? Since when do freshmen get pro-league nicknames before they've even played a seasonal match?"
Maël tossed a folded newspaper onto the table. It slid across the mahogany, stopping in front of Vance and Kings. The headline was bold: A NEW APEX PREDATOR ARRIVES AT KROW HIGH. Below it was a photo of Belt—captured in a moment of icy stillness, looking majestic and utterly intimidating.
"The school press is losing its mind," Maël said. "They're comparing his biomechanics to the legends. They say he's the most lethal winger Krow City has seen in a decade."
Vance scanned the article, his envy clashing with genuine awe. "Man... I spend three years building a name, and this freak gets a front-page spread on day one. You hit the jackpot, Belt. Every girl in the academy will be chasing you now. Success is practically begging you to take it."
Belt didn't even glance at the paper. He continued to eat, the fame acting as nothing more than background noise. He didn't need a journalist to tell him he was a shark; he felt the hunger in his blood every time his cleats touched the grass.
"Check this out!" Vance nudged Morgking. "They're calling the Number 13 jersey a 'fatal weapon.' Like the coach is hiding a tactical nuke on the bench just waiting for the right moment to strike."
Morgking let out a low, tectonic rumble of a laugh that made the glasses on the table vibrate. He looked at Maël with a mocking glint. "Poor Captain... I think your Number 10 is about to lose its shine. People might forget who actually runs the midfield if this kid keeps stealing the headlines."
Maël met the challenge with a smirk, though his eyes remained sharp. "We'll see about that on the pitch. But since Vance is so worried about the spotlight, Morgking, remind me to give him fourteen extra laps this afternoon. The extra cardio might help him find his own focus."
Vance went pale, his jaw dropping. "Wait! Fourteen laps? I'll be dead before the scrimmage even starts!"
Bobby, the vice-captain, slapped the table, laughing so hard he nearly spat out his gum. "You have a god-given gift for finding trouble, Vance. You should've just stayed quiet and enjoyed the steak."
As the laughter died down, a heavy curiosity took over. The sun seemed to dip behind a cloud, and the air in the cafeteria grew suddenly still, as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees. Vance leaned in, his voice dropping to a serious whisper.
"But seriously... why does the mood get so heavy whenever we talk about the team's history? This school has always been a powerhouse, hasn't it? I mean, look at this place. It's perfect."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Maël put his fork down with a slow, deliberate click against the porcelain. The humor evaporated from his eyes, replaced by a weary darkness, like a veteran recalling a war he had tried to bury.
"Fine," Maël said, his voice a low rasp that commanded absolute silence at the table. "I'll be straight with you. The team you see today—the power, the luxury, the arrogance—it rose from the ashes of a total wreck."
Belt stopped eating, his fork hovering mid-air. He felt the "pressure" radiating from the seniors—a thick, suffocating aura of past trauma. "Troubles?" he asked, his voice cutting comme un rasoir through the tension. "What kind of troubles?"
Bobby nodded, his face etched with grim memories that seemed to age him in an instant. "The prestige is just a mask, kid. A very expensive, very new mask. Last year, this club was a graveyard. We were disorganized, rotting from the inside. We were the laughingstock of Krow City, on the verge of being banned from the national leagues for our lack of results."
Vance's eyes widened. "How is that possible? With these facilities? With this kind of money?"
"It wasn't about money," Maël added, his voice barely a whisper, yet it carried to every ear at the table. "It was about a darkness in the locker room. A betrayal that nearly destroyed everything. It's a time I'd rather forget... back when I was first named captain and the world was falling apart around me."
Morgking broke the hesitation, his voice deep and solemn. "They're part of the squad now, Bill. They deserve to know about the 'Fall.' If they don't know where we came from, they'll never understand the price of where we're going."
Captain Maël looked at every player, his gaze finally locking onto Belt's icy eyes. In that moment, the captain didn't look like a star; he looked like a survivor who had crawled out of a nightmare.
"Very well," Maël said, his voice hardening into cold steel. "This is how this team was forged in blood and betrayal. And why, last year, before we became the kings of the district, they called us... The Trio of Angels."
.