Stadio Renato Dall'Ara, Bologna.Tuesday Night. 44th Minute.Score: Bologna 0 - 1 PSG.
Blood in the water changes everything.
Five minutes ago, Paris Saint-Germain moved with the arrogance of untouchable royalty. They were faster, stronger, and possessed a weapon that defied the laws of physics. But now, the weapon was jammed.
Kylian Mbappé was still on the pitch, but he was no longer a predator. He was a liability.
Rio Valdes watched him closely. But watching came at a price. A spike of white-hot agony drove itself into his temples, a physical reminder of the forty days of lifespan he had sacrificed to activate The Eye of the Storm. His brain felt like a CPU running without a cooling fan, overclocking to process the micro-movements of twenty-one other players.
Through the haze of this supernatural migraine, Rio saw the truth. The Frenchman was walking near the halfway line, trying to shake off the stiffness in his right leg. Every time Mbappé put weight on his heel, there was a micro-flinch in his jaw muscles. It was subtle—invisible to the cameras, invisible to the fans—but to Rio's burning eyes, it was a neon sign flashing a single command: TARGET HERE.
"Press high!" Rio shouted to his teammates, his voice cutting through the humid air like a whip. "Don't let them breathe! He can't run behind us anymore!"
The Bologna players, sensing the shift in their captain's confidence, surged forward. The fear that had paralyzed them after Mbappé's supersonic goal evaporated. They realized the monster had been declawed.
The Hesitation.
Achraf Hakimi, PSG's right-back and Mbappé's best friend, controlled the ball deep in his own zone. Usually, his first instinct was to look for Kylian's run down the channel. He looked up, his eyes scanning the field. He saw Mbappé making a movement to sprint.
But then, Hakimi hesitated.
He saw Mbappé's grimace. He saw the lack of explosive burst, the hesitation in the stride. That split-second of doubt was fatal.
Swipe.
Lewis Ferguson, emboldened by the high press, lunged in and poked the ball away from Hakimi's feet. The turnover was sudden, violent. The PSG defense was expanded, expecting an attack of their own, leaving massive gaps in their transition defense.
"RIO!" Ferguson screamed, launching the ball forward.
It wasn't a perfect pass. It was bouncing awkwardly toward the left flank. Rio sprinted for it. Marquinhos, PSG's captain, rushed over to cover. But Rio didn't trap the ball. He let it run across his body, using his Grade A Balance to shield Marquinhos away without even touching the leather.
Now, Rio was facing the goal. Thirty meters out. Between him and the penalty box stood one man.
Kylian Mbappé.
The superstar had tracked back to help the defense, trying to compensate for his injury with sheer effort. It was a cruel twist of fate. The two System Users were face-to-face again.
Rio slowed down. He didn't sprint past. He stopped the ball dead and looked Mbappé in the eye. The throbbing in Rio's head intensified, a rhythmic drumming that synchronized with his heartbeat. Use it, the pain whispered. Use the time you bought.
It was the ultimate disrespect. It was a challenge. Come and get it.
Mbappé's pride flared. The blue aura of his System flickered dangerously around him. He stepped forward to tackle, ignoring the screaming pain in his hamstring.
Rio waited for the weight transfer. With his time-dilated perception, he watched Mbappé plant his injured right leg to pivot. He saw the fibers of the thigh muscle tremble under the strain.
Now.
Rio executed a La Croqueta.
He shifted the ball from right to left lightning fast. Mbappé tried to follow. His brain sent the signal to turn left. His muscles obeyed. But his damaged tendon rebelled.
SNAP.
The sound was sickeningly audible to Rio. Mbappé's right leg buckled under the torque. He collapsed to one knee, not because of a tackle, but because his own body refused the command. Rio breezed past the fallen god without a backward glance.
The crowd roared. It wasn't just a dribble; it was an execution.
The Phantom Strike.
Rio was now at the edge of the box, forcing the pain in his head to the background. Marquinhos had recovered and was blocking the shooting angle. Gianluigi Donnarumma, the giant Italian goalkeeper, covered the near post, his massive frame making the goal look impossibly tiny.
Rio had no clear path to shoot. Or so it seemed.
The System confirmed the activation of The Mirage Strike, marking his second usage of the day.
Rio raised his right leg. His body shape suggested a curler to the far post. Marquinhos extended his leg to block the far corner. Donnarumma shifted his weight to his left, anticipating the curve.
It was a lie.
At the very last millisecond, Rio didn't wrap his foot around the ball. He snapped his ankle and struck the ball with his laces, cutting underneath it with a dry, violent motion. He didn't aim for the far post. He aimed for the near post—the space Donnarumma had just vacated by shifting his weight.
THWACK.
The sound was like a gunshot.
The ball didn't curve. It didn't dip. It traveled in a perfectly straight line, like a laser beam, hovering ten centimeters above the grass. Donnarumma tried to correct his footing. He saw the ball coming to his near side. He threw his massive hand down.
But the shot had a unique property: No Spin.
Because it wasn't spinning, the air resistance created a knuckleball effect. Just before it reached Donnarumma's hand, the ball erratically twitched downward. It slipped under the goalkeeper's glove, kissed the white post, and nestled into the net.
GOAL.Bologna 1 - 1 PSG.
The Renato Dall'Ara didn't just cheer. It detonated. Thirty thousand people jumped as one, the vibrations shaking the concrete foundations of the old stadium.
Rio didn't run to the corner flag. He didn't take off his shirt. The headache was blinding now, spots of light dancing in his vision. He turned around and walked slowly toward the center circle, his face devoid of emotion. He walked past Mbappé, who was still on one knee, clutching his hamstring.
Rio stopped for a second next to his rival. He didn't look down. He stared straight ahead at the scoreboard.
"Get up," Rio said, his voice cold steel. "If you go off now, they'll say I only beat you because you were hurt."
He didn't wait for a response. He walked away, leaving the Speed King kneeling in the grass.
Halftime.Locker Room.
The adrenaline was starting to fade, replaced by the dull ache of fatigue. Rio sat on the bench, staring at his boots. The cost of forty days of lifespan was paid, but the mental toll lingered like a hangover. His head felt light, his vision slightly blurry at the edges.
"Drink," Adrian Vance said, shoving an isotonic gel into Rio's hand.
Rio looked up. Adrian wasn't smiling. He was looking at the tablet with a deep frown.
"What is it?" Rio asked.
"Mbappé hasn't been subbed off," Adrian said quietly. "I'm checking the live feed from the tunnel. He's refusing medical treatment. He's screaming at Luis Enrique to let him play."
Coach Italiano clapped his hands to get the room's attention. "Listen to me! The job is half done! They are wounded, but a wounded animal is the most dangerous. In the second half, they will try to kill the game. They will play dirty. They will try to break Rio."
Italiano looked at his captain. "Rio, can you continue? Your eyes... you look exhausted."
Rio squeezed the gel packet until it burst. "I'm fine, Coach."
Rio stood up, wiping the gel from his hand. He didn't need to say more. His silence was louder than any speech.
The Tunnel.Second Half.
As the teams walked back out, the atmosphere had curdled. It was no longer a sporting event; it was a street fight.
Mbappé was there. His thigh was heavily strapped with thick black kinesiology tape that looked like war paint. He wasn't limping anymore. He was walking with a stiff, robotic gait, fueled by pure painkillers and desperation.
Rio walked beside him. "You're stubborn," Rio noted.
Mbappé didn't look at him. His eyes were fixed on the pitch, dark and hollow. "I am Host Number 04," Mbappé whispered. "Do you know what my penalty for failure is?"
Rio paused. He had assumed only his System had death penalties. "Tell me."
"If I lose this duel..." Mbappé turned, and for the first time, Rio saw genuine terror behind the defiance in those eyes. "My System takes my legs. It triggers permanent nerve damage. End of career. I will never run again."
Rio stopped walking. The noise of the crowd seemed to fade away into a distant hum.
Mbappé smiled, a broken, tragic smile. "You fight for your life, Anomaly. I fight for my art. Without football, I am dead anyway."
Mbappé walked onto the pitch, dragging his damaged leg into the arena.
Rio watched him go. A chill ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the night air. He realized then that this "Game" the Systems were playing was crueler than he ever imagined. It didn't just want winners. It wanted sacrifices.
A notification flickered in his mind, confirming the stakes. The update to the Predator vs Predator mission added a chilling context: The loser loses everything. The Mercy Option was explicitly DISABLED.
Rio clenched his fists. "Fine," he whispered to the empty tunnel. "If one of us has to fall... it won't be me."