It was two in the morning, but sleep was a stranger to Belt Konp. The darkness of his room felt like a physical weight pressing against his chest. He woke up with a violent start, his skin covered in a cold, sticky sweat. His heart was hammering against his ribs, still echoing with the strange, raw emotion from the previous evening. That feeling—the moment the ball hit the net—was like a virus in his system.
Unable to close his eyes again, he walked toward his desk. In the corner of his solitary room, the small computer glowed with a predatory blue light. This wasn't a normal student's laptop; it was a powerful beast of a machine, the kind of hardware a secret service agent would use to hunt an international criminal.
Belt sat down, his fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard. Clack. Clack. Clack. The sound was the only thing breaking the heavy silence of the night. He began his mission: tracking "Uncle Jisk." He searched for everything—place of birth, professional history, tax records, old sports articles. He needed to destroy the mystery of the man who had invaded his thoughts.
One hour passed. Then two.
The result was not just frustrating; it was terrifying.
Absolutely nothing. No digital footprint. No social media. No records of a "Jisk" in the coaching databases. In an era where every human leaves a trail of data like breadcrumbs, Uncle Jisk was a ghost. A vacuum.
Furious, Belt slammed the laptop shut. The silence returned, more aggressive than before. He felt a new heaviness in his mind. "He's a liar," Belt whispered to the dark. "A living lie. And I let him play with my head."
The Jungle of the Hallway
The next morning, Krow High School felt like a loud, chaotic jungle. The noise of lockers slamming and students laughing felt like static in Belt's brain. In the middle of the crowd, he saw the only person who dared to break his solitude: Quiena.
She was radiant, her presence so strong it felt unreal. She was surrounded by a group of boys, each one repeating the same tired line: "Quiena, please, will you be my girlfriend?" She declined each one with a smile that was polite but clearly exhausted.
Suddenly, her eyes locked onto Belt. She cut through the crowd like a knife through paper.
"Hi! My favorite sniper!" she shouted, her voice bright and loud.
Belt's face turned into a mask of ice. "Sniper? You have the wrong person."
Quiena burst into a melodic laugh. "Don't act like a robot, Belt! Do you think I forgot what happened yesterday? I'm pretty sure the crossbar is still shaking from that hit!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Belt replied, his voice flat.
"I didn't know you were a monster on the field!" she continued, ignoring his coldness. "In my opinion, the team is missing a genius like you. You'd make an incredible vice-captain. You have the aura for it."
Belt felt a hot surge of anger. "I remind you that you forced me to play!"
He stopped suddenly. The memory of the strike—that perfect mix of rage and pure, addictive pleasure—flashed in his mind. It haunted him.
"It's okay if you're not ready to talk about it," Quiena said softly, her voice suddenly serious. She saw the conflict in his eyes. "Let's go. Class starts in five minutes."
The Shadow in the East Aisle
At noon, Belt sought the only sanctuary he had left: the library. He needed the calm. He needed the smell of old books to settle his nerves.
He stood up to find a specific text on advanced logic in the East aisle. He spotted the spine of the book on a high shelf, but as his fingers reached for it, a hand—faster and more fluid than his own—grabbed it first.
Belt froze. Standing there was a discreet young man with light skin and dark hair styled in a sharp, stylish afro. He held the book with a strange, effortless confidence.
"Sorry," the stranger said. His voice was calm, almost melodic. "I think you missed it by a second. Don't worry, I'll bring it back to the desk when I'm done."
Belt didn't say a word. He just stared. He watched the boy walk away. There was no sound of footsteps. The stranger moved like a shadow gliding across the floor, silent and efficient. Belt's analytical mind started to race. "Who is he? How can someone move like that?"
The Field of Truths
After school, Belt sat under the "Tree of Thoughts," an old oak at the edge of the campus. He had his headphones on, but no music was playing. He was debating with himself. Should he go back?
"No," he told his reflection in the phone screen. "The old man is a phantom. A fake. He doesn't exist."
But a question tortured him: If he is a liar, how did he know about the flame inside me? How did he see the monster I was trying to hide?
Driven by a doubt that felt like a physical pain, Belt stood up. His feet moved on their own, carrying him toward the rusted sports complex.
The ball was there. In the exact same spot as yesterday.
And the phantom coach was there, too. This time, he was wearing a sharp, impeccable referee uniform and a black cap with a single word embroidered on it: "FOREVER."
Belt approached him, his eyes burning with accusation. "I'm here, Uncle Jisk... or should I call you the Phantom?"
The old man laughed, a deep sound that echoed against the empty bleachers. "Incredible. In only twenty-four hours, I've gone from a stranger to a social ghost."
"Stop playing games," Belt snapped. "I found nothing on you. No records. No data. Who are you?"
"Who I am doesn't matter, kid," Jisk replied, his voice suddenly dropping into a serious tone. "The real question is: what are you doing here?"
"I want to know why you're haunting my nights! You're an impostor!" Belt turned to walk away, waiting for a reaction.
"Running away is the easiest way to stay mediocre," Jisk said, his voice trailing after Belt like a ghost.
Belt stopped dead. The word 'mediocre' stung more than any insult.
"Mediocre? Yesterday, I missed twenty shots. I'm useless at this."
"The greatest successes are hidden behind a mountain of failures," Jisk said, walking toward him. "Your technique doesn't matter right now. What matters is that rage. You are a sleeping monster, Belt. And I am the exorcist who is going to wake you up."
"I don't want to be woken up! I don't have a team. I don't have a reason to play!"
Uncle Jisk stood up slowly. His gaze became terrifyingly intense, a physical pressure that Belt could feel in his bones.
"You think you don't have a team? Look at this field, kid. Soon, this will be your kingdom. But first, you must accept the truth. You must learn how to kill your emotions so you can use them as weapons."
He tossed the ball to Belt. It hit Belt's chest with a heavy thud.
"Come back tomorrow," Jisk commanded. "And this time, bring your sports shoes. Playtime is over."