Chapter 11
The door hissed shut, a drawn-out sigh of finality rather than a sudden, jarring bang. The sound lingered in the air, a definitive seal that cut them off completely from the familiar world outside. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, amplifying their growing sense of isolation. It wasn't just the absence of noise; it felt like a physical presence, a weight pressing in on them from all sides, suffocating and inescapable.
The room stretched out before them, long and dimly lit, resembling a sterile tunnel leading into a pool of shadows. Brushed silver panels lined the walls, cool and smooth to the touch. Thin strips of faint blue light emitted from along the floor, casting an eerie, unsettling glow that danced across the surfaces. Reclining chairs lined the center of the room – sleek and modern in their design, upholstered in smooth leather, yet possessing a sterile, clinical feel, more akin to something found in a dentist's office than a comfortable place to relax and unwind. Above each chair, silent screens glowed with a soft light, displaying biometric data in real-time: heart rate shown in a steady green graph, muscle strain indicated by fluctuating red bars, oxygen levels presented as a constant blue percentage. It was clear and unavoidable: their bodies were being constantly monitored, scrutinized, and assessed.
Jackie stepped cautiously into the room, his movements hesitant, as if he were entering either a meticulously prepared spaceship ready for launch or a sterile hospital ward filled with unspoken anxieties. Either way, the atmosphere was profoundly unsettling, a palpable weight pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe.
"You can lie down," a staff member instructed, gesturing toward the chairs with a gloved hand. Like the others, he wore a black compression suit, the uniform making him look like an emotionless technician, devoid of any personal expression. "Hydration IVs are available if you want them. Don't remove them unless we tell you to. We need to keep your electrolytes balanced."
Jackie hesitated, glancing around nervously, taking in every detail of the unsettling environment. Then, with a sigh that spoke volumes of his weariness and apprehension, he eased himself into the nearest recliner. The leather sighed softly under his weight, a subtle sound that only emphasized the surrounding silence. His muscles ached from the grueling trials, and his knees pulsed with a dull, persistent pain. A masked assistant, moving with practiced efficiency, attached an IV line to his arm. The fluid that flowed through the tube felt icy cold, sending a shiver through his body.
Andre lay two chairs down, his head tilted back against the headrest, his eyes half-closed and unfocused, as if he was struggling to stay awake. "This isn't normal," he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse and raspy from exhaustion. "No cooldown after those drills. Just straight from pushing ourselves to the absolute limit to this… bunker."
Jackie didn't answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the ceiling above him. It curved in an unnatural way, resembling a cocoon or perhaps even a sensory deprivation chamber, designed to isolate and disorient. He saw no vents, indicating no obvious source of fresh air, and there were no windows offering even a glimpse of the outside world. Crucially, there were also no clocks, leaving them without any way to track the relentless passage of time. Just silence, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of machines tracking their bodies and vital signs. He felt truly trapped, with a suffocating feeling of confinement settling over him like a heavy blanket.
Finally, he spoke softly, his voice barely audible, laced with a mixture of hope and fear.
"Do you think we passed? Do you think we actually made it through all of that?"
Andre gave a bitter, humorless laugh. "I think we survived," he said. "And at this point, that might be all they care about."
Jackie blinked, slowly processing Andre's bleak assessment of their situation.
"They're not telling us something,"
he said, his voice filled with a growing certainty.
"Something big is going on."
Andre nodded slowly, his eyes still closed. "Yeah. It's not just about football, Jackie. It's bigger than that. Bigger than anything we could have imagined."
Their voices faded away, the silence amplifying the low hum of the machines that filled the room. Other trialists were wheeled in, one by one, their battered physical state a testament to the brutality of the trials they had endured. Some limped, favoring injured limbs, their faces tight with pain. Others were unconscious, their bodies completely drained of energy, their faces pale and gaunt. Each one was scanned with handheld devices, marked with temporary tattoos, and cataloged like pieces of equipment.
Some chairs remained conspicuously empty, a stark and chilling reminder of the ultimate cost of failure and a silent tribute to those who had pushed themselves too far and were no longer present.
Jackie felt the icy coldness of the IV reaching his very core, a deep chill that went beyond the physical and seemed to seep into his soul.
The lights in the room dimmed further, almost imperceptibly, plunging them deeper into the oppressive shadows and intensifying the unsettling sense of unease and isolation.
As he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, filled with fragmented images of grueling drills and masked faces, he noticed something beneath the constant hum and beeping of the machines: a faint sound, barely audible, almost imperceptible.
A soft, rhythmic clicking. Like data being logged onto a vast server. Like machines making calculations. Like algorithms deciding their fate.
Chapter 12
Jackie Terrezas leaned back against the cool wall, breath steadying, trying to ignore the burn in his muscles. His calves still pulsed from the lateral agility test—a brutal weave through cones that had pushed him to his limit—but he wasn't alone in his ache. Around him, the best of the day's performers were wrapped in thin, silver blankets or slumped awkwardly in recovery chairs, each trying to regain composure. Every one of them was sweating, every one of them elite, hand-picked from thousands of hopefuls across the globe. They had all proven their talent and drive, yet the pressure here was almost unbearable.
Andre sat a few feet away, his dark jersey soaked through with perspiration, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if searching for answers in the concrete. On the far bench, Amar from Morocco adjusted the white tape around his ankle, a confident half-smile curling on his face. Jackie had watched him during the cone drills; Amar had moved with an effortless grace, weaving through the obstacles like he was born to do it, each movement fluid and precise. It was a daunting sight, but Jackie refused to be intimidated.
The identical twins from Osaka sat side by side, heads bowed in silent meditation, hands folded neatly in their laps. They were perfectly synchronized, their faces serene despite the evident exhaustion. Next to them, Thomas from Bordeaux stared straight ahead with unblinking calm, his frame long and lean like a sprinter carved from stone, every line of his body suggesting coiled power. He hadn't even seemed winded after the last drill.
They were the standouts. The players everyone kept an eye on, the ones who consistently topped the leaderboards.
And they knew it. Their confidence was almost palpable There were no windows, no clocks—and no signal to the outside world. The isolation was part of the process, another layer of pressure designed to test their mental fortitude.
Jackie tapped his phone, the screen lighting up his face in the dim light. No bars. Not even Wi-Fi. Just the stark realization that they were completely cut off.
"Still nothing?" Andre asked without turning his head, his voice flat and resigned.
Jackie shook his head. "Dead quiet."
Andre nodded slowly, as if he'd expected it all along. "They want us cut off. Makes us easier to control."
Jackie slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket, a shiver running down his spine despite the residual heat from the drills. "Feels like a vault down here. Like we're buried alive."
Before Andre could reply, a low buzz echoed overhead, vibrating through the room. A soft chime followed, and then the voice returned—flat, unaccented, and devoid of any emotion. It was the same voice that had guided them through the trials all day.
"Final sprint test. All Shortlisted Trialists report to Turf Complex Two. This is not a timed evaluation. Your form, intensity, and response will be recorded."
No reaction beyond the subtle tightening of muscles, the almost imperceptible shift in posture. The room moved like one body, each player rising with quiet resolve, their faces masks of determination. They knew what was at stake.
Amar rolled his shoulders and jogged lightly in place, loosening up.
"Almost over,"
he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, but the words hung in the air, a shared sentiment.
The players made their way down the long, sterile corridor, their footsteps echoing in the unnatural silence. Shadows stretched and danced under the flickering overhead lights, making the scene even more surreal. As they reached the now empty artificial turf complex again, the familiar chill hit them—the air recycled and dry, the silence pressing in on all sides.
The proctors were already waiting. Immobile and silent.
Clad in the same black gear as before, they stood like statues around the perimeter of the turf, expressionless and unreadable, holding no clipboards this time. Only small square devices, faintly humming blue, their purpose still a mystery.
The players lined up, shoulder to shoulder, along the edge of the turf. Each one focused on the space ahead.
No numbers. No marks. Just open turf ahead, stretching out under the harsh lights, an open invitation to push themselves to their absolute limit.
Then, the voice, cutting through the silence like a knife.
"Go."
They exploded forward, a mass of straining muscles and pounding feet. Years of training and sacrifice all came down to this moment.
Jackie's legs burned as he surged ahead, focusing on maintaining his form, driving his knees high. Andre was just behind him, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Amar moved like a dart to his right, a flash of speed and agility, and the Osaka twins ran in eerie unison beside them, their movements almost perfectly mirrored.
Each stride was a test of endurance, not speed. Each breath counted, fueling their desperate push. The proctors didn't move — they only watched, their cold eyes scrutinizing every detail, every flaw
When it ended, they stopped on a dime, gasping for air, legs trembling uncontrollably. They had given it everything they had.
Still, no praise. No reaction. The proctors remained impassive, their faces betraying nothing.
Just the soft buzz of scanners and cold eyes watching, judging, assessing.
And then:
"Return to transport. Await further instructions."
No explanation of performance. No ceremony to mark the end of the trial.
Just that. Cold, impersonal, and final.
The players turned, still sweating, their bodies aching, and made their way up the concrete ramp toward the loading zone. The same matte black bus idled outside under a weak row of fluorescent lights, looking more like a prisoner transport than a luxury shuttle. The fluorescent hum above felt like a mocking reminder of their uncertainty.
Jackie stepped on and took the first seat he saw, grateful to be off his feet. He felt drained and utterly unsure.
He checked his phone again, hoping for a sign, any connection to the outside world. Nothing. Still stubbornly silent.
Not even a clock to mark the passage of time. He was adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
He leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, watching the black night blur by as they pulled slowly away from the Etihad, the stadium receding into the distance like a forgotten dream.
Andre sat beside him this time, arms folded across his chest, his expression unreadable.
"Think we made it?" Jackie asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. He needed to hear some kind of reassurance, even if it was just a guess.
Andre didn't look over, his gaze fixed on the passing cityscape. "We'll find out tonight."
And the bus disappeared into the city, swallowed by the darkness, carrying its cargo of anxious young men toward an uncertain future.
Chapter 13
The hostel room presented a scene of profound discomfort, its atmosphere thick with a cloying humidity that seemed to press down from the low ceiling. A pathetic excuse for air circulation came in the form of an overhead fan, its cheap plastic blades struggling against the dense air. Each rotation was accompanied by a chorus of creaks and groans, a mechanical lament that did little to alleviate the oppressive heat. It was a futile battle against the stagnant air, barely making a dent in the sweltering conditions that permeated every corner of the room.
Rocco Accorso, a picture of dejection, was sprawled inelegantly across the lower bunk, one leg dangling precariously over the edge, as if contemplating a hasty escape. His damp shirt clung to his skin like a second, unwelcome layer, each thread a reminder of his physical distress. He could vividly feel the sweat tracing its path down his back, a constant, irritating trickle that amplified his discomfort. From the distant corridor, a faint echo of life drifted in – snippets of laughter, perhaps a boisterous exclamation, the unmistakable sound of youthful confidence, a sound that seemed to mock his present state.
That youthful exuberance, that carefree confidence, was conspicuously absent from his own experience. Not tonight, at least. Tonight, he was an island of misery in a sea of youthful optimism.
His thighs throbbed with a deep, persistent ache, a burning soreness that served as a painful reminder of the humiliating sprint that had collapsed in spectacular fashion earlier that afternoon. He had, in his eagerness, pushed himself too far, too fast, and his body, in a moment of brutal honesty, had simply refused to cooperate. It had given way with the grace of a felled tree, leaving him sprawled on the track, his pride as wounded as his muscles. The subsequent weight training session had offered no respite; in fact, it had been nothing short of a complete and utter disaster. The bar, usually a familiar and manageable weight, had felt impossibly heavy, heavier than he could have possibly imagined. It was as if some mischievous imp had secretly replaced the regulation weight plates with dense, unforgiving bricks. Then, as if to add insult to injury, came the sharp, stabbing cramp in his lower back, a searing pain that ripped through his muscles with merciless precision. He stumbled, his legs turning to jelly, and executed an embarrassing, uncoordinated fall onto the padded floor. The entire sorry scene was witnessed by a nearby staff member, whose brief, almost imperceptible wheeze of disappointment cut through the air like a shard of ice.
Victor, bless his relentlessly optimistic soul, had clapped him on the back a little too enthusiastically as they trudged off the artificial turf, his face gleaming with a mixture of sweat and unyielding encouragement. "You'll be fine, man," he'd declared with a wide, reassuring grin that seemed almost painful in its forced brightness. "Just a bad day. We all have them." But an hour later, while Rocco was diligently icing his aching muscles in a desperate attempt to soothe the protesting fibers, he noticed Victor being discreetly pulled aside by one of the coaches. The coach, an imposing figure of authority in a crisp Juventus tracksuit, engaged Victor in a low, intense conversation. Their heads were bent close together, their expressions serious as they exchanged knowing glances and decisive nods.
Jules, too, was summoned to the impromptu conference. And even Shay, usually so lost in his own introspective world, was called over to join the huddle.
Rocco?
Nothing. Not a word of acknowledgement. Not even a fleeting glance in his direction. He was invisible, a ghost in his own life.
He exhaled slowly, the air escaping his lungs with a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. His chest rose and fell with a burden that felt far deeper and more profound than mere physical soreness. It was the oppressive weight of expectation, the insidious creep of self-doubt, the quiet, gnawing fear that whispered insidious possibilities in the darkest corners of his mind.
On the tiny, scarred desk that was crammed unceremoniously into the corner of the room, his phone blinked once – a stark, flashing warning of impending powerlessness, a digital harbinger of disconnection. He knew he should probably conserve its precious battery life, ration its remaining energy like a dwindling supply of water in a desert. But the overwhelming urge to connect, to reach out and grasp a lifeline in the swirling storm of his emotions, was too strong to resist.
With a groan of effort, he sat up gingerly, careful not to disturb the delicate equilibrium of the creaking bunk, which threatened to betray his every movement with a cacophony of protest. He plugged the phone into the wall, a desperate act of digital resuscitation, and opened his contacts.
Nonna. His grandmother. The thought of her was a beacon in the gathering darkness.
It rang twice, each ring echoing in the confined space like a desperate cry for help.
"Rocchino!" Her voice, though bearing the undeniable marks of age, cracked through the tiny speaker, instantly warm and bright, a ray of sunshine piercing through the gloom. It was a voice that carried the weight of a lifetime of love, a voice that had always possessed the almost magical ability to soothe his troubled soul, to calm the storm within. It was the voice of home, no matter where in the world he found himself.
"Ciao, Nonna," he responded, forcing a smile into his voice, a smile she couldn't possibly see but, he hoped, could somehow sense. "Sono arrivato bene. Ma… oggi è stato pesante." He'd arrived safely, yes. But today had been hard. A monumental understatement.
"You sound tired, my little rock," she said, her voice laced with genuine concern, a subtle tremor betraying her worry. "Did they work you too hard, those coaches? Are they pushing you beyond your limits?"
He hesitated for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of complete honesty, carefully considering how much to reveal without causing undue alarm. Then, with a weary sigh, he rubbed his tired face with his hand, as if attempting to erase the day's disappointments from his very skin. "A little, Nonna. I didn't do great, to be honest. Not my best day. Far from it, in fact."
"Bah, nonsense, Rocchino! You're a strong boy. You have the strength of ten men in your heart, a spirit that cannot be broken. You just need to rest and eat some good food, nourish your body and soul. They'll see who you are, you'll show them what you're made of. Don't you worry, my little one." He closed his eyes tightly at the sound of her familiar voice, allowing the comforting warmth of her words to trickle into the tight, knotted corners of his chest, easing the anxiety that had taken root there like a persistent weed. "Grazie, Nonna. I miss you so much. More than words can say."
"I miss you too, tesoro. My treasure. My precious boy. Don't worry, tomorrow will be a better day. You'll see. You just need to believe in yourself, as I believe in you."
He nodded slowly, even if he didn't truly believe it in his heart, even if the seeds of doubt still lingered. "Buonanotte, Nonna." Goodnight.
"Buonanotte, amore mio." Goodnight, my love. Sleep well.
The call ended with a soft click, a digital severance that left him feeling strangely alone once more. The room fell silent once more, the brief moment of warmth and connection extinguished, leaving him shivering in the cold reality of his present circumstances.
Rocco stared blankly at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity, his thoughts swirling like a turbulent storm, each worry and fear vying for his attention. He desperately tried to anchor himself to the present, focusing on the mundane sounds that surrounded him – the rhythmic creak of the cheap plastic fan as it rotated listlessly, a hypnotic drone that did little to soothe his frayed nerves; the muffled cough from another room, a distant reminder that he wasn't entirely alone in his misery; the soft, persistent scratch of a pen two beds over – undoubtedly Shay, always scribbling away in his battered notebook, filling its pages with God knows what, lost in a world of his own creation.
They'd said the call would come by midnight if you made it. The call that would determine everything, the call that held the key to his future.
He rolled over onto his side, the phone placed face-down on the small bedside table, a silent countdown ticking away in the digital depths. Each passing second felt like an eternity.
The pillow smelled faintly of cheap detergent, a generic, vaguely floral scent that did little to evoke feelings of comfort or luxury. But it was enough. It was something, anything, to cling to in the face of overwhelming uncertainty. Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, finally overwhelmed him, dragging him down into the depths of sleep long before the clock struck ten. He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, his body surrendering to the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness.
And in the stillness of the night, surrounded by the quiet hum of the hostel and the weight of his own anxieties, all he could do was wait. Wait and hope. Hope against hope that the call would come, that his dreams would come true, that he would be deemed worthy.
Chapter 14
The silence within the Turin hostel was not merely quiet; it was a suffocating, almost tangible thing, a heavy shroud that muted every sound and amplified the oppressive atmosphere. It pressed down on the occupants, broken only by the faint, yet relentless, tick-tock of a cheap plastic clock. This timepiece, a symbol of passing time and missed opportunities, hung precariously above the stairwell, its rhythmic pulse serving as a morbid metronome, each tick an emphatic declaration of the pervasive stillness that gripped the building. Midnight had arrived, the witching hour when shadows danced and anxieties peaked, yet sleep remained a distant, unattainable luxury for most. No one truly slept; instead, they lay trapped in their narrow beds, eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on the inky blackness that surrounded them.
Their minds, far from resting, were a tempest of swirling thoughts, spiraling out of control like a runaway train hurtling towards an unknown destination. Each heart pounded a frantic rhythm against their ribs, a relentless drumbeat of anxiety and anticipation, fueling the growing unease.
Rocco, paralyzed by the weight of his own expectations, stared blankly at the ceiling, his breath barely registering.
He desperately tried to slow his racing heart, to quell the inner turmoil that threatened to consume him, but his efforts were futile. A deep, throbbing pain resonated in his legs, a physical manifestation of the day's grueling trials. His shoulders were rigid, knotted with tension, each muscle fiber screaming in protest. And the dull soreness in his ribs pulsed with each breath, a constant, nagging reminder of the relentless physical demands he had endured. He had failed. The chilling realization settled deep within his stomach, a cold, undeniable certainty that spread through his bones like a creeping frost. All the grueling drills, the endless evaluations, the sacrifices he had made - all amounted to nothing. His dreams, once vibrant and full of promise, now lay shattered at his feet.
Then—buzz.
A single, sharp vibration pierced the oppressive silence, a brief interruption that momentarily shattered the heavy atmosphere. Another buzz followed, then a third, as phones throughout the room chimed to life, their electronic voices heralding the arrival of a moment that would define their futures.
The phones sprang to life like a chain reaction of sparks igniting a parched field of dry grass. The electronic chirps and vibrations cascaded through the room, each device shattering the fragile quiet and igniting a fresh wave of tension, a palpable sense of anticipation that hung heavy in the air. The moment of truth, the culmination of weeks of relentless effort and unwavering dedication, had finally arrived.
"Check your phone!" someone whispered urgently, the words barely audible yet laden with a desperate intensity.
The oppressive quiet transformed into an electric hum, a tangible energy charged with nervous anticipation. The air crackled with unspoken fears and hopes as everyone reached for their devices, their fingers trembling with a mixture of excitement and dread.
Shay was the first to break the silence, sitting bolt upright in his bed, his eyes wide with a complex blend of fear and hope. He held his phone screen close to his face, squinting in the dim light as he frantically scanned the message. "I… I got it," he whispered, the words laced with disbelief. A wave of relief washed over him, momentarily easing the tension that had gripped him for so long.
"Me too!" a voice called out from across the room, cracking with uncontainable excitement. The weight of uncertainty had been lifted, replaced by a surge of exhilaration and triumph.
Victor, his hands shaking slightly, fumbled with his phone, his heart pounding in his chest. He tapped the screen, his eyes darting across the message, searching for the words that would determine his fate. Then he blinked, his expression freezing for a moment as the words registered in his mind. A wave of disbelief washed over him, followed by an eruption of joy. His face contorted into a look of utter shock and disbelief.
"No way," he whispered, staring at the screen as if it held the secrets of the universe. "I made it." His dream, once a distant aspiration, had become a reality.
Oscar's buzz came seconds later, a delayed signal carrying the weight of either triumph or defeat. With a slow, deliberate movement, he clicked it open, his face a mask of composure. He leaned back on his pillow, his mouth twitching into a crooked smile. "We're in," he said with a cool confidence that belied the tension that had filled the room just moments before.
Rocco's pulse quickened, his heart pounding in his ears like a frenzied drum solo. He snatched his phone from the bedside table, his hands trembling so violently that he almost dropped it. The screen illuminated his face, casting harsh shadows that emphasized the depth of his anxiety in the dim light.
The message sat there waiting, an imposing monolith on his screen, a cold and impersonal judgment of his lifelong dreams.
Dear Rocco Accorso,
We appreciate the time and effort you've invested in the evaluation process for the Juventus Null Initiative. After thorough assessment by our staff and medical advisors, we regret to inform you that you have not been selected to join the Null Squad roster at this time.
Should opportunities arise in the future, we may reach out again. You are instructed to report to the departing bus at 08:00 AM sharp for your return flight.
Thank you again for your dedication. Keep working, keep believing.
— Juventus Null Administration
He read the message once, the words blurring together in a meaningless jumble of disappointment and shattered hope. Then again, slowly and deliberately, forcing himself to absorb the harsh reality of his rejection. Each word was a blow, each sentence a condemnation of his efforts.
He didn't feel anything at first. Just… static. A profound numbness that spread through his limbs, leaving him hollow and empty, devoid of all emotion. It was as if his entire being had been put on pause, suspended in a state of disbelief. The weight of his failure threatened to crush him.
Oscar looked over, his expression unreadable, a mixture of sympathy and awkwardness. "Rocco?" he asked tentatively, unsure of what to say. Victor turned, his eyes filled with genuine concern. "You… you didn't?" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper.
Rocco didn't answer. He couldn't find the words, couldn't force himself to speak past the lump that had formed in his throat. He set his phone down on the bed as if it had burned him, the screen facing down as if to hide the damning message from the world. Oscar sat up, his face a mask of mixed emotions. "Damn. I thought you had it." He had witnessed Rocco's dedication and skill, and his failure seemed almost incomprehensible.
"I passed out," Rocco muttered, his voice barely audible above the pounding of his heart. "Cramped up like a rookie in front of everyone." The humiliating memory of his failure replayed in his mind, a constant loop of self-recrimination and regret.
Victor rubbed his neck, avoiding eye contact, unsure how to offer comfort. "It was a tough run. You didn't fold easy."
"I folded enough," Rocco snapped, more harshly than he intended. His frustration boiled over, directed at himself, at the unfairness of the situation, and at the crushing weight of his dashed dreams.
The room began to hum with a strange, unsettling energy—celebration in some corners, quiet sorrow in others. The sharp divide between success and failure became starkly clear, an invisible line drawn between the chosen and the rejected, the victors and the vanquished. Some already had their bags packed, their movements quick and efficient as they prepared to embark on their new journey. They were eager to seize the opportunity that had been granted to them, to embrace the future that awaited. A few sat quietly, stunned and pale, unable to fully process the reality of their rejection, their faces etched with disappointment and despair.
"Wait outside if you accept the offer," someone quoted the message aloud, reading the words with a mixture of excitement and profound relief.
A tall, dark-haired midfielder who had dominated the agility drills rose calmly, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder with practiced ease. He glanced back at no one in particular, a brief flicker of acknowledgement in his eyes, a silent farewell to those left behind. "They mean now," he stated matter-of-factly, emphasizing the urgency of the situation.
Victor glanced down at his phone, then at Rocco, a question hanging in the air between them, a silent plea for reassurance.
"You'll keep going, right?" he asked, his voice filled with a hesitant hope. "This ain't the end." He couldn't imagine Rocco giving up on his dreams.
"Feels like it," Rocco said, not looking at him. His gaze was fixed on the wall, his eyes unfocused, lost in the labyrinth of his disappointment.
Oscar adjusted the strap of his sports bag, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were reluctant to leave Rocco behind. "Then make it the beginning," he offered, his voice laced with encouragement.
Rocco gave a tired, bitter smirk, a humorless expression that conveyed the depth of his exhaustion and disappointment.
Victor and Oscar exchanged a quick, silent glance, a moment of shared understanding and unspoken sympathy before heading toward the hostel door, their footsteps echoing softly in the sudden quiet. Outside, the muted voices of the selected players rose in the cold night air, a chorus of celebration and excitement that only served to amplify Rocco's profound isolation, a stark reminder of what he had lost.
Rocco leaned back on the bunk, the cheap mattress creaking beneath him in protest. The meager warmth from the threadbare sheets did nothing to stop the hollow feeling that was growing in his chest, a cold emptiness that spread through his body, chilling him to the bone.
He stared at the message one more time, committing the cruel words to memory, each line a fresh wound, a searing brand of failure. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he tucked his phone under his pillow, as if to silence the constant reminder of his shattered dreams, to muffle the voices of his disappointment.
The room was now irrevocably split in two—those with a future, bright and full of promise, and those already left behind, relegated to the shadows of what might have been.
And for the first time since he arrived in Italy, full of hope and unwavering determination, Rocco felt truly, utterly alone. The weight of his failure settled upon him, a crushing burden that threatened to extinguish the fire that had once burned so brightly within him.
The hallway glowed dimly under cold fluorescent lights, each buzz overhead marking the late hour, a sound that seemed to amplify the silence around them. Jackie Terrezas walked in a quiet single file through the narrow corridor of the hostel, following the line of chosen trialists, each step echoing his building anxiety. Behind him, the sounds of zippers being hastily closed, murmured goodbyes filled with unspoken hopes, and shuffling shoes echoed faintly from deeper within the building—other players were still being ushered out, filtered like luggage, sorted and tagged, toward the same unmarked van waiting outside. He wondered what criteria had determined who made the cut and who was being sent home.
Chapter 15
It was a little past midnight. Manchester wore a black sky, low and brooding, the clouds rippling with the last breath of a spring rain, leaving the air heavy and damp. Outside the hostel, a matte black van sat under a broken streetlamp, its light flickering erratically, casting long, distorted shadows. The van's windows were fogged by the cold night air, obscuring the inside. City's badge was absent—there was no branding, no destination labeled on the vehicle. Just a driver in dark navy, his face obscured by the low light, and another staffer jotting names on a clipboard, checking them off with hurried efficiency.
Jackie stepped outside and waited beneath the awning, pulling his jacket tighter against the chill. Behind him, Andre adjusted his bag over one shoulder, the strap creaking softly, and joined him. He could see the questions swimming in Andre's eyes, the same questions that plagued his own mind.
"You ready?" Andre asked, voice soft, eyes still scanning the quiet street, as if expecting someone or something to jump out of the shadows. The air was thick with unspoken tension.
Jackie nodded, though tension flickered behind his breath, a visible cloud in the cold air. "More ready than I've ever been. You?" He tried to project confidence, but his nerves were a live wire beneath his skin.
Andre smiled, a brief flash of teeth in the darkness. "Wouldn't be here if I wasn't." But even his smile seemed strained, forced.
The van doors slid open with a soft whir, revealing the interior. Inside, rows of leather seats gleamed under a pale overhead light, looking sterile and unwelcoming. Other players were already there—some sitting alone, lost in their thoughts, some shoulder to shoulder, seeking comfort in shared experience, all quiet, all watching the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
As Jackie and Andre climbed aboard, another small group of trialists was escorted down the steps of the hostel behind them—still sleepy-eyed, still processing the message that had jolted them awake just fifteen minutes earlier, their faces a mix of confusion and excitement. He wondered what the message had said, what carefully chosen words had been used to summon them here.
Jackie claimed a window seat near the middle, needing to feel the solid presence of the vehicle beside him. Andre took the one beside him, dropping his bag at his feet with a muffled thud.
"I got the message twelve minutes ago," Jackie said, glancing at his phone's blank screen—no signal, a digital dead zone. "Didn't believe it at first. Thought maybe I read it wrong." *Jackie Terrezas,
After thorough evaluation of your performance during today's physical and tactical trials, you have been selected to move forward in the Manchester City NULL Squad development program.
You are one of 22 candidates chosen from a highly competitive group of international trialists. Your resilience, potential, and adaptability have not gone unnoticed.
If you accept this offer, prepare to depart the hostel in 15 minutes. A transport vehicle will arrive to collect you and your fellow selectees. Further instructions will be delivered upon arrival.
You will be required to surrender your personal devices during processing. Please ensure any immediate correspondence is completed prior to pickup.
Congratulations once again. You are now entering the first step of something greater.
– Andrew Pascal, Manager of Operations
Manchester City NULL Squad Initiative
*
Andre laughed under his breath, a sound filled with relief and pride. "I knew you'd get it. You put in work out there." He clapped Jackie on the shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie and support.
Jackie leaned back, eyes heavy from fatigue but heart wired with energy, a strange combination of exhaustion and adrenaline. "Same to you. That sprint—man. You caught everybody." He remembered the look on the coach's face, the barely perceptible nod of approval.
He paused, then added, "Back in Queens, I had this teammate—Sunday league guy. Raw talent. Fast, no real polish, but he had a fire, y'know? He went to trials with Juventus. Haven't heard from him since." He wondered what had happened to him, if he had made it, if he was living his dream or if his dreams had been crushed.
Andre glanced over, his expression unreadable. "He got in?"
Jackie shrugged. "No clue. I hope so." He pictured his friend, full of youthful exuberance, disappearing into the unknown world of professional football.
The van door slid shut with a soft click, sealing them in. The engine hummed to life, a low, steady thrum that vibrated through the floor. The vehicle eased away from the curb, gliding silently into the night.
A cool draft seeped through the vents above, aimed directly at them. Jackie noticed it instantly—a dry, clinical scent, like hospital air or a dentist's office, sterile and unsettling.
Andre shifted beside him, pulling his jacket tighter. "You smell that?"
Jackie nodded slowly, his senses on high alert. "Yeah… like sanitizer or somethin'." He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that this wasn't just a ride to a training facility.
Across the aisle, another trialist blinked hard, then sagged back in his seat, his eyes glazed over. One by one, the conversations dulled, voices fading into murmurs. Eyelids grew heavy, drooping against their will.
The AC kept hissing, the dry, sterile air filling the van.
Jackie sat up straighter, breath shallow now, his heart pounding in his chest. "Yo, somethin's not—" He reached for Andre's arm, a desperate attempt to connect.
His head swam, the lights blurring. His fingers wouldn't tighten, refusing to obey his commands. Limbs weighed down like sandbags, heavy and unresponsive.
He turned to Andre, whose lips moved without sound, his eyes wide with panic and confusion. Then his head fell forward. Unconscious.
The van filled with silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the hiss of the vents.
Jackie's thoughts flickered as his vision dimmed, fragmented images flashing through his mind.
Queens… Sunday nights… we played under the lights, the roar of the crowd, the smell of sweat and grass.
And then—
Darkness.