Stadio Renato Dall'Ara. Press Conference Room.Tuesday Afternoon.The Day Before the Match.
The camera flashes were blinding, a strobe-light effect that turned the crowded room into a disorienting rave. But Jurgen Klopp, the manager of Liverpool, didn't blink. He sat behind the microphone with his signature cap pulled low and a smile that was both charismatic and terrifying.
Beside him sat Trent Alexander-Arnold. The Liverpool vice-captain looked relaxed, leaning back in his chair, wearing the red training kit that struck fear into teams across Europe.
A journalist from La Gazzetta dello Sport raised his hand. "Herr Klopp, Bologna has surprised everyone. They drew at Anfield. They beat Real Madrid with ten men. Do you consider them a threat to your top spot in the group?"
Klopp leaned into the microphone, his voice booming with that familiar German baritone. "Bologna is a wonderful story. Truly. What they did against Madrid was... heavy metal football. Pure passion. But we are not Madrid. We do not play with tuxedos. We play with hammers."
Klopp paused, letting the metaphor sink in. "We heard rumors that their captain, the kid, Valdes, is injured. Maybe he plays, maybe he doesn't. It doesn't matter. We are here to fix the mistake of the first leg. We are here to dominate."
The journalist turned to Trent. "Trent, you faced Rio Valdes at Anfield. He chipped Alisson. What do you think of him?"
Trent didn't smile. He looked straight into the camera lens, his eyes cold. "He has good tricks. The chip was... cute. But at Anfield, we were asleep. Tomorrow, we are awake. If he plays, I hope his hip is ready. Because I'm going to make him run for ninety minutes."
Rio's Apartment.Tuesday Evening.
Rio turned off the TV. The image of Trent's confident face faded to black, but the words hung in the air like smoke. Cute.
Rio stood up from the couch. He winced slightly. The pain in his hip was no longer a sharp knife; it was a dull, throbbing bruise. The ten days of cryotherapy and mental visualization had done their work. The inflammation had subsided, but the structural weakness remained.
He walked to the full-length mirror in the hallway. He looked thinner. The stress of the "Mutation" and the sleepless nights of pain had eaten away at his muscle mass.
He opened the System Interface. The status window floated beside his reflection. His Lifespan was stable at 536 Days. His Physical Condition was marked as Recovering (Hip Integrity: 94%). But the most chilling part was the System Advice: Avoid high-impact collisions. Use of The Mirage Strike is restricted to 1 Usage before critical failure risk increases to 80%.
One usage.
He had one bullet in the chamber. If he missed, his gun would explode in his hand.
His phone buzzed. It was a message from Kenjiro in the hospital.
I saw the press conference. Klopp is scared. He talks too much about 'hammers'. A man with a hammer sees every problem as a nail. But you are not a nail, Rio. You are water.
Rio smiled. Even with a torn ACL, Kenjiro was the wisest person he knew.
I'm not water tomorrow, Ken, Rio typed back. Tomorrow, I'm a ghost.
The Tunnel.Wednesday Night. 20:55 PM.
The atmosphere in the Dall'Ara was heavier than anything Rio had ever felt. It wasn't the festive party of the Inter game or the hostile anger of the Madrid game. It was pure, distilled anxiety. The fans knew the stakes. A win puts them through. A loss sends them to the Europa League death spiral.
The Liverpool players lined up in the tunnel. They looked massive. Virgil van Dijk stood at the front, a literal giant. Mohamed Salah was bouncing on his toes, his eyes focused on the distance. Darwin Nunez looked like he wanted to fight someone immediately.
And there was Trent Alexander-Arnold.
Rio walked up to stand beside the referee. He was wearing the captain's armband again.
Trent turned his head. He scanned Rio from head to toe, his eyes lingering on Rio's right leg, looking for signs of weakness, a limp, a grimace.
"You made it," Trent said, his voice low so the cameras wouldn't pick it up. "I thought your doctor locked you in a cage."
"I broke out," Rio replied, staring straight ahead.
"Brave," Trent scoffed. "Or stupid. You know we watched the tape, right? We know about the backheel. We know about the chip. We know about the 'snap shot'. You have no secrets left, magician."
Rio turned to look at the Englishman. "If you know everything, why do you look so worried, Trent?"
Trent's jaw tightened. He didn't reply. He just faced forward as the Champions League anthem began to swell from the stadium speakers. Zadok the Priest. The music of the gods.
System Notification: Match Start Cost: 5 Days Deducted. Remaining Lifespan: 531 Days. Objective: Avoid Defeat. Bonus Objective: Humiliate a "World Class" Defender.
The Locker Room (Flashback to 30 Minutes Prior).
Dr. Ricci held the syringe in his hand. The needle was long and menacing.
"This is a Corticosteroid and Lidocaine blend," Ricci said, his voice grave. "It will numb the acetabular rim for about 120 minutes. You won't feel the pain."
Rio sat on the treatment table, his shorts rolled up. "But the damage?" Rio asked.
"The damage will still happen," Ricci warned. "Pain is your body's alarm system. I am turning off the alarm. You could shatter your hip and you wouldn't know it until the adrenaline wears off. If you feel a 'pop', you stop. Immediately. Do you understand?"
"Just give me the shot, Doc," Rio said.
Ricci shook his head, muttering a prayer in Italian, and plunged the needle into Rio's hip joint. The cold liquid flooded the joint. The throbbing ache vanished instantly. It felt like his leg had been replaced by a hydraulic piston.
"Remember," Ricci whispered as Rio hopped off the table. "One shot. Only one."
Minute 1.The Red Press.
The whistle blew, and Liverpool didn't wait. Jurgen Klopp's "Heavy Metal Football" was not a myth. It was a physical assault.
Before Bologna could even complete three passes, three red shirts were swarming the ball carrier. Alexis Mac Allister smashed into Freuler. Dominik Szoboszlai intercepted the loose ball. He passed it instantly to Salah.
Salah didn't dribble. He flicked it first time into the box. Darwin Nunez was there. He shot.
BOOM.
The ball hit the side netting. The wind from the shot rippled the mesh.
The crowd gasped. It had been fourteen seconds.
"Wake up!" Skorupski screamed at his defense. "They are trying to kill us!"
Rio stood in the center circle. He hadn't touched the ball yet. He looked at Van Dijk. The Dutch defender was standing on the halfway line, squeezing the pitch.
The space was nonexistent. This isn't football, Rio thought. This is a bar fight.
Minute 20.The Trap.
Bologna survived the first wave, barely. Rio dropped deep into the midfield, trying to find a pocket of space. But everywhere he went, a shadow followed. Wataru Endo, the relentless engine in Liverpool's midfield, was glued to him. Endo wasn't fast, but he was persistent. He was pulling Rio's shirt, stepping on his toes, disrupting his rhythm.
"Is that all you got?" Endo whispered in English. "The ghost?"
Rio received a pass from Lucumi. Endo lunged in. Rio wanted to turn. He wanted to use [Elastic Hips].
But his mind flashed back to Dr. Ricci's warning. Don't use the torque.
Rio hesitated. That split second was enough. Endo poked the ball away.
"Too slow!" Trent Alexander-Arnold shouted, picking up the loose ball.
Trent looked up. He didn't run. He launched a sixty-yard diagonal pass. It was a laser guided missile. It flew over the entire Bologna defense and landed perfectly on the chest of Luis Diaz on the left wing.
Diaz cut inside. He curled it. Skorupski dove. The ball shaved the post.
Rio stood in the midfield, frustrated. The painkillers were working—he felt no pain. But the fear of injury was slowing his reaction time. He was playing at 90%, and against Liverpool, 90% was a death sentence.
I have to trust the body, Rio told himself. The alarm is off. Just play.
Minute 42.The Mistake.
The deadlock was broken, but not by a goal. By a System Error.
Rio finally found space. He drifted wide left, entering Trent's zone. Trent attacked him. This was the duel everyone wanted to see. The Creator vs The Magician.
Trent didn't dive in. He jockeyed, waiting for Rio to make a move. Rio executed a step-over. Then another. [Skill: The Ghost] flickered. Rio tried to vanish to the right. Trent didn't buy it. He stuck his leg out.
But Rio had anticipated this. He chopped the ball back through his own legs—the Ronaldo Chop.
He beat Trent. The crowd roared.
Rio accelerated toward the box. He was free. Van Dijk was coming across to cover.
This was it. The moment for [The Mirage Strike].
Rio planted his foot. He prepared the hip snap. He engaged his obliques, just like Adrian taught him. Visualise. Snap.
But as he wound up, a red blur slid across the grass.
It was Virgil van Dijk.
The tackle was clean. It was majestic. Van Dijk took the ball, the man, and the grass. Rio went flying. He spun in the air and landed hard on his right side.
CRUNCH.
The stadium went silent. Rio lay on the grass. He waited for the pain. He waited for the scream. But there was nothing. Just the numbness of the Lidocaine. He moved his leg. It moved. He stood up.
Van Dijk stood over him, towering like a colossus.
"Good try, kid," Van Dijk said, his voice deep and calm. "But you broadcasted the snap. You tensed your abs too early. I saw it coming a mile away."
Rio froze.
Adrian's modification... the core engagement... it had saved his hip, but it had created a "tell." A defender of Van Dijk's level could read the muscle tension in his stomach before the leg even moved.
Rio looked at the scoreboard. 0 - 0.
He had used his "One Bullet." And Van Dijk had caught it with his bare hands. Now, he was empty.