"Oy! You! You trying to catch your death?"
The beam of a flashlight burned through Kwame's eyelids. He groaned, shielding his face with a mud-caked forearm. He could finally move around, and for some reason, he no longer felt as wrecked as he did seconds ago. The weird golden light had left a lingering warmth in his bones.
"It's three in the morning, lad! Again!" the voice rasped. It was one of the night security staff, a gruff older man named Clive. "Get inside before I report you to Mr. Callan."
Kwame sat up, blinking. The golden light? The spirit? The voice of the universe?
Gone.
Wait, did I just meet God? he thought, looking puzzled as he scratched his bristly, shaven head.
It was just the cold, damp training pitch of the Reaseheath complex and the smell of wet fertilizer.
It was a dream, he thought, pulling himself to steady feet. Probably just a hallucination from doing too much today.
"Sorry, Clive," Kwame mumbled, limping towards the dormitory block. "Won't happen again."
"I've heard that for sixty nights straight," Clive grumbled, keeping the beam fixed on Kwame. The guard lowered the light slightly, his tone shifting from annoyance to grudging respect. "I've been watching you, son. Every single night for two months. You used to look like a stiff breeze would blow you over. Now..."
Clive shook his head. "You've changed, son. But be careful. Running yourself into the grave won't make you the next Nick Powell. Go to sleep."
Kwame collapsed into his bed five minutes later, still wearing his training kit. He didn't dream this time. He just blacked out.
07:30 AM
The alarm on his phone felt like a physical blow to the head.
Kwame peeled his face off the pillow. Every muscle fiber screamed. His calves were tight knots of pain, and his hamstrings felt like guitar strings tuned two octaves too high. The acute fatigue of the night's suicide sprints was setting in.
"Morning, Psycho," a voice chirped from the other side of the room.
It was Callum "Cal" Sterling, his roommate.
Cal was already dressed, sitting on the edge of his bed applying hair wax with surgical precision. His neon pink boots were polished and sitting by the door. He looked fresh, rested, and annoying.
"You look like you went twelve rounds with a truck," Cal grinned, checking his reflection in the mirror. He glanced over at Kwame, and his grin faltered slightly.
For the last two months, Cal had watched his roommate transform. Kwame had shaved off his twists into a severe, menacing buzz cut. He had eaten everything in sight. And he had grown.
"Serious question, Kwam," Cal said, abandoning the hair wax. "Have you measured yourself lately? You look taller. And your neck..." Cal gestured vaguely. "You look thick. Like, armored. You trying to scare the opposition to death?"
Kwame ignored the comment, forcing his aching body upright to begin preparing.
"I'll give you this, Kwam, you're probably the hardest worker in the team," Cal said, leaning back on his hands. "But you know it's not just about the hard work. You need a bit of luck. You need Lady Fate to smile on you."
Cal stood up and grabbed his kit bag, looking down at Kwame with a mixture of pity and arrogance. "And looking at the state of you right now... I don't think she's smiling. I think she's laughing."
Kwame paused, towel in hand. "What do you mean? What's happening today?"
Cal's grin widened. "Lee Bell is here."
Kwame froze. The First Team Manager.
"Apparently," Cal continued, enjoying the look of panic on Kwame's face, "half the senior midfield is out with knocks. Bell and Kenny Lunt are watching practice this morning. They need to pick a body for the bench against Bradford City this weekend."
Cal pointed a finger gun at Kwame. "Don't worry, mate. I'll make sure to wave at you from the dugout."
Kwame stood frozen as the door slammed shut.
Lee Bell. The Gaffer. A man who played over 140 games for the club and knew exactly what a gritty midfielder looked like.
Any other day, this would be the news of a lifetime. But today? Kwame looked at his trembling hands. He could barely make a fist. He had spent his energy reserves last night training.
I ruined it, he thought, a wave of nausea hitting him. My one chance, and I'm too sore to even run.
The morning air was crisp, but Kwame was sweating before warm-ups even finished.
The U18 squad was gathered in the center circle. Standing on the sideline, arms folded, wearing a club puffer jacket that looked two sizes too big, was Lee Bell. Standing next to him was his assistant, Kenny Lunt. They weren't taking notes. They were just watching, their eyes scanning the group like hawks looking for a field mouse.
Ryan Dicker, the U18 Manager, walked down the line of players. He stopped in front of Kwame.
"Aboagye," Dicker barked. He leaned in close, looking at him in the eye, "You look exhausted"
"I'm fine, Boss," Kwame lied, straightening his back despite the pain in his lumbar.
"Don't lie to me," Dicker scowled, keeping his voice low so the First Team staff wouldn't hear. "The security guard told me you were out there until 3 AM again. I've told you to take it easy, haven't I? I've told you that recovery is a weapon."
Dicker sighed, his expression softening just a fraction as he looked at the physical specimen Kwame had become. "Look, I'm not blind. You've transformed, son. Two months ago, you were just making up the numbers. Now? You're arguably the most physically dominant player in this academy. You're faster, stronger, and you're hungry. You're on your way to being the best I've got."
He shook his head, looking at the dark circles under Kwame's eyes. "But what good is it if the tank is empty? You're burning the candle at both ends. You've done the work to get here, don't throw it away by being too tired to show it."
He poked a finger into Kwame's chest. "If you collapse out there, don't expect sympathy. Now wake up."
Dicker stepped back and clapped his hands. "Alright, listen up! Scrimmage. 11 vs 11. Intensity high. The Gaffer is watching, so don't embarrass me. Show him you're ready for League Two football."
Kwame was put on the 'B' team. His job was simple: mark Cal Sterling, the star of the 'A' team.
Great, Kwame thought, pulling on the yellow bib. I have to chase the fastest kid in the academy while my legs feel like lead.
The whistle blew.
The game started at a frantic pace. The 'A' team dominated possession immediately. Kwame tried to press, but his legs felt heavy. He was half a second late to every ball. The exhaustion from the 2:00 AM session was overriding his new physical gains.
"Too slow, Kwam!" Cal taunted, flicking the ball past Kwame's outstretched leg and sprinting into space.
Kwame turned to chase, his lungs burning. He watched Cal glide past another defender and fire a shot just wide.
"Wake up, Aboagye!" Ryan Dicker yelled from the sideline, frustration evident. He knew Kwame was better than this. "You're playing like you're in quicksand! Move your feet!"
Kwame bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. He was done. Ten minutes in, and he was finished. He looked towards the sideline. Lee Bell was shaking his head, turning to say something to Kenny Lunt. Lunt looked equally unimpressed.
That's it, Kwame thought bitterly. Back to the shadows. Back to being invisible.
He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the ground would swallow him whole.
BZZT.
A sharp, electric static noise buzzed in his ear.
Kwame's eyes snapped open.
Floating in front of his face, translucent but unmistakable against the grey sky, was a blue rectangular box.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING COMPLETE.][USER: KWAME ABOAGYE CONNECTED.][PHYSIOLOGICAL STATUS: CRITICAL EXHAUSTION.]
Kwame stumbled back, swatting at the air. "What the..."
"Kwam! Focus!" a teammate yelled.
The box didn't move when he swatted it. It was anchored to his vision.
[EMERGENCY PROTOCOL INITIATED.][ACTIVATING SKILL: 'SECOND WIND' (TEMPORARY)][DURATION: 10 MINUTES.]
A sudden jolt like a shot of pure caffeine mixed with ice water slammed into Kwame's chest. The burning in his lungs vanished. The lead in his legs melted away. His vision sharpened, colors becoming hyper-vivid.
He stood up straight, his breath coming easy.
[UNLOCKED QUEST: THE AUDITION][OBJECTIVE: INTERCEPT THE BALL FROM THE TARGET 'CALLUM STERLING'.][REWARD: STARTER PACK UNLOCK.][FAILURE PENALTY: SYSTEM SHUTDOWN.]
Kwame looked around wildly. Nobody else was reacting. Nobody saw the blue text hovering over Cal's head that read: [TARGET - THREAT LEVEL: HIGH].
The goalkeeper kicked the ball long. It was heading towards Cal.
Cal trapped the ball on his chest, spinning to face Kwame. The old Kwame would have backed off, cautious of being dribbled past.
But the new Kwame saw something else.
A red line appeared on the grass, projecting out from Cal's feet.
'What is that?' Kwame wondered as he looked at it.
It was a trajectory. An arrow pointing exactly where Cal intended to pass.
He's going to fake left and pass right to the winger, Kwame realized. The thought wasn't his, it was information being fed directly into his brain.
Cal dropped his shoulder, feinting left. The defender behind Kwame bit on the fake.
But Kwame didn't move. He took one step to the right, planting his feet directly in the path of the invisible red line.
Cal grinned, thinking he had space, and played the pass.
THWACK.
The ball didn't find the winger. It slammed directly into Kwame's instep.
The sound echoed across the silent pitch.
Kwame controlled the ball instantly, looking up. The entire pitch was a grid of data. He saw passing lanes lighting up in green. He saw threat radiuses in red.
He didn't just play the safe pass he always used to play. He saw a green line cutting through the entire defense, leading to a striker with the highest possibility of scoring.
Without hesitating, Kwame swung his leg. A forty-yard ping, perfectly weighted, sliced through the air, landing right at his striker's feet.
[QUEST UPDATE: INTERCEPTION COMPLETE.][ASSIST POSSIBILITY: 85%.]
The striker buried it in the net.
Silence.
Ryan Dicker's whistle hung loose around his neck. Cal stood frozen, mouth slightly open.
And on the sideline, Lee Bell stopped talking to Kenny Lunt. He took a step forward, his eyes locking onto the kid in the yellow bib who had just read the game like a professional.
Kwame looked at his hands, then at the blue box fading in his peripheral vision.
It wasn't a dream, he realized, a terrifying thrill shooting down his spine. Then with a slight grin, "Game on."