The bus ride home was a slow, lurching pilgrimage through neighborhoods Leo usually only saw as a blur from his morning runs.
The adrenaline of the clinic, the shock of the video, had all burned away, leaving behind a fine, gray ash of exhaustion that coated his bones.
Next to him, Clara sat with her work bag on her lap, her gaze distant. She'd been quiet since collecting him from the clinic, but it wasn't a judging silence.
It was the quiet of a deep, shared weariness.
"Your father," she said suddenly, her voice soft against the rumble of the engine. "He could see a pass no one else could. He could diagram a defense to pieces on a napkin." She looked out the window at the passing shops. "But you know what he was worst at?"
Leo, leaning his head against the cool glass, shook it slightly.
"Stopping." She turned to him, her eyes serious. "He'd run a drill until his legs gave out. Study game tape until he fell asleep at the desk. He thought the mind could override the body's need for a break."
A sad, knowing smile touched her lips. "It can't. The body keeps score. And it always collects, Leo. Usually at the worst possible time."
She reached over and gently tapped the side of his head. "That brilliant brain of yours, your… focus… it's a gift. But it needs a strong house to live in. Rest isn't quitting. It's maintenance. It's what lets you do it all again tomorrow, better."
The words were simple, but they landed with the weight of truth. He thought of the clinic ceiling rushing up to meet him. The body keeps score.
He didn't argue. He just let his head drop sideways, resting it on her shoulder.
She stiffened for a half-second in surprise—he wasn't a shoulder-leaning kid anymore—then relaxed, bringing a hand up to pat his arm in a slow, steady rhythm.
They rode the rest of the way in that silent, healing truce.
Home was a sanctuary of familiar shadows and quiet. As Clara fumbled with her keys, Leo leaned against the doorframe, the weight of the day making him feel boneless.
The door swung open. The familiar scent of lemon polish and old books wrapped around them.
Clara stepped in, dropping her bag with a sigh of profound relief.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, a violent, insistent shudder. She looked at the screen, and her shoulders, which had just begun to soften, squared again. A deep, weary sigh escaped her.
"It's work," she said, her voice tight. "Something's blown up. I have to go in. Leo, please…" She turned to him, her eyes pleading. "Rest. Actually rest. I'll be back by evening, and we'll have a proper dinner, okay?"
He nodded, the motion making him dizzy. "Okay, Mum."
She pulled him into a quick, fierce hug, the kind that said everything she didn't have time to voice—I'm worried, I'm proud, please be careful.
Then she was gone, flagging down a taxi from the curb with a sharp whistle Leo never knew she had.
The silence of the house was absolute. Leo locked the door, the click of the bolt echoing in the hall. He trudged upstairs, his bag feeling like it was filled with stones.
He didn't make it to the desk. He didn't make it to the chair. He face-planted onto his bed, still in his jeans and t-shirt, and was swallowed by a sleep so deep and dreamless it felt like annihilation.
He woke to the sound of his own heartbeat. An hour had bled away. The light in the room had changed, softening into late afternoon gold.
He lay there, a spent battery, too tired to even consider the shower. His gaze drifted across the room, landing on the faded poster taped to the inside of his wardrobe door.
It wasn't a player he followed. He'd never seen him play a full match. But his father had several pictures of him, cut from old magazines.
Gareth Finley. A striker from his father's era, all coiled muscle and predatory snarl, frozen mid-volley. The caption read: POWER IS A SKILL YOU CAN BUILD.
Leo looked at his own arm, wiry and unremarkable.
Could I ever look like that? The thought felt absurd, vain. Then he remembered: he hadn't checked his stats since before the tryouts.
A flicker of his old, analytical self sparked through the fatigue.
He scrambled for his bag, dumping its contents onto the quilt. His father's glasses tumbled out. He picked them up, polished the lenses on the edge of his bedsheet—a small, reverent ritual—and settled them on his nose.
The world sharpened, but the system was silent. "What are my stats?" he whispered.
Nothing.
"Show me. Status screen. Show… biometrics?" He frowned, reaching back into his memory.
There was an old, text-based RPG he'd played where you had to type the exact command. "Display Stats."
A cool, blue chime sounded in his mind. Text scrolled into his vision.
USER: REED, LEO - APPRENTICE LVL 2
- STR: 06 -> 06.4
- AGI: 08.1 -> 08.6
- VIT: 07 -> 07.4
- INT: 84 -> 84.3
- PER: 92 -> 92.1
He stared. The changes were microscopic. Increments of decimals. To anyone else, it would be nothing.
But to Leo, it was a seismic shift. Proof. The grind was working. The system was quantifying his suffering and turning it into tangible, if tiny, gain. If 0.4 is possible, then 4.0 is possible.
A new prompt glowed softly.
[APPRENTICE LVL 2 ANALYSIS COMPLETE.]
[RECOMMENDED DAILY PROTOCOLS TO OPTIMIZE PROGRESSION TO LVL 3 GENERATED.]
[INCLUDES: NUTRITION GUIDE (BUDGET-AWARE), HYDRATION SCHEDULE, SLEEP CYCLES, FOUNDATIONAL STRENGTH ROUTINE (NO EQUIPMENT REQUIRED).]
[IMPLEMENT? Y/N]
It wasn't just telling him to get strong. It was showing him how, within the confines of his life. It was a coach that knew his bank balance.
"Yes," he said, feeling a new kind of determination, cold and clear, replace the exhaustion.
His eyes drifted back to Gareth Finley's frozen roar. Theory was one thing. He needed to see it. He could pull up highlights on his phone, but it wasn't the same.
His dad had always gone to a specific place for that. He stood up sluggishly, grabbing a $10 bill from his savings jar.
Mr. Habib's CD Emporium was a relic clinging to the side of a dying strip mall.
Half the neon sign reading "WORLD OF SOUND" was dark. Paint peeled from the facade like sunburnt skin.
Through the dusty glass door, Leo could see shelves crammed to bursting—a stark contrast to the empty street.
He was about to push the door when three figures detached themselves from the shadow of the adjacent alley.
They were older, college-age, with the worn leather jackets and bored eyes of guys who made their own entertainment. They fanned out, casually blocking the sidewalk.
"Easy, kid," the one in the middle said, holding up palms that were surprisingly clean. "No trouble." He fished a credit card from his wallet, holding it between two fingers like a ticket. "We'll pay for whatever you want in there. Small favor in return."
Leo's mind, still hazy, scanned them. Bigger. Louder. Saying no was a calculus with only bad outcomes. He gave a slow, careful nod.
The guy smiled, a flash of gold. "Smart. Under the bottom shelf in the back, baking section. Some reading material of ours. Owner got… prudish. Won't let us back in to fetch it. You grab it, slip it out, the card's yours for the transaction. He never needs to know."
Leo took the cool plastic card. Another nod. He slipped inside.
A bell jangled, announcing his entry into a tomb of stale air and dust. Behind a high counter, an old man with a magnificent white mustache looked up from a newspaper, nodded once, and went back to reading.
The store was a labyrinth of overstuffed shelves. Leo moved to the back, his heart hammering a guilty rhythm.
The baking section was a riot of CDs for cheerful desserts. He knelt, the linoleum cool through his jeans, and slid a hand into the dark gap beneath the bottom shelf.
His fingers brushed against slick, thin paper. He pulled out a small stack of magazines. The covers left little to the imagination. Obviously the only kind of magazines the college kids would read.
He sighed, a puff of pure exasperation, and quickly shoved them into the waistband of his trousers, his t-shirt falling to cover the bulge.
He then turned to the sports aisle. It was a chaotic archive. He bypassed the team compilations and went straight for the individual player discs, grabbing anything with the name of a legendary striker: Van Basten, Ronaldo, Shevchenko, Messi, Henry.
A treasure trove of finishing. He piled them into his arms, a tower of plastic cases, and carried them to the counter.
Mr. Habib set his paper down without a word. He took the stack, flipping each case with practised efficiency, his lips moving silently as he counted.
"Forty-two," he grunted. He began packing them into a large paper bag with a careful, almost reverent slowness. "That will be ninety-five dollars and ninety-nine cents."
Leo handed him the credit card. Mr. Habib slotted it into an ancient machine, the kind that made a satisfying ka-chunk sound. He handed it back, then the heavy bag.
As Leo turned to leave, a voice stopped him.
"Wait."
Leo froze. He turned back slowly. Mr. Habib's eyes, dark and sharp as a bird's, were fixed on him.
Leo's own gaze flickered—from the man's face, to the old, polished wooden police baton leaning against the counter, and back. A long, silent second stretched.
Mr. Habib's stern expression softened, just a fraction. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
"Thought you were someone else," he rumbled. He picked up a cigar from an ashtray, lit it, and the plume of smoke seemed to dismiss Leo entirely. "You can leave."
For a wild second, Leo thought the old man had seen the magazines.
Then he saw the man's eyes drift to the glasses on his face, to the shape of his jaw, and a flicker of something—recognition, memory—passed through them before being buried under the cigar smoke.
He clutched the bag to his chest and pushed out into the fading light.
The three guys materialized from the shadows again. Wordlessly, Leo pulled the magazines from his waistband and held them out with the credit card.
The leader took them, his smirk returning. "Cheers, kid. Enjoy the flicks. Just hope you didn't spend too much."
Leo shook his head and they melted back into the alley. He stood alone on the cracked sidewalk, the heavy bag of CDs in his hand.
The words echoed in the empty street. Too much. The concept was relative. For them, it was a joke.
For him, the number on that credit card slip was more than his monthly food budget.
A strange, giddy defiance rose in him. He'd just made their petty corruption fund his education. As long as $95.99 wasn't too much.
A slow, incredulous laugh bubbled up in his chest and escaped as a short, breathless sound. He'd just pulled off a ridiculous, nerve-wracking heist for a pile of obsolete plastic.
But inside that bag was a library of destruction. A syllabus for becoming the final word.
He wasn't holding discs. He was holding gigabytes of goal-scoring algorithms—first touches, feints, shot angles, celebrations.
The G.O.A.L. System could probably analyze them frame by frame, extract the principles, and build a training module.
He had just acquired the textbooks for his new major.