Chapter 16
Jackie's eyes peeled open like torn Velcro, struggling against an unseen force. The light above him buzzed with a sterile hum, a high-pitched whine that seemed to burrow into his skull, flooding a stark white ceiling speckled with tiny holes. Each hole looked identical, a perfect, unsettling grid. His body refused to move—like it was bolted down, each limb heavy and unresponsive—but something deeper felt wrong, a cold dread settling in his stomach. Cold tubes ran down his arms, feeding something unknown into his veins. Wires clung to his temples, sending tiny shocks that made his vision swim. A thin sheet barely covered his chest, offering little warmth, and his chest rose and fell with shallow, mechanical breaths, regulated by some unseen machine.
His pulse quickened, a frantic drum against his ribs.
What is this? he thought, panic tightening its grip.
He turned his head an inch—just enough to see trays of metal instruments, gleaming under the harsh light, their purpose unclear and frightening. Blinking lights flashed on nearby machines, and translucent screens flickered with scans of his nervous system, a web of glowing lines that seemed alien and invasive.
His throat cracked open, dry and unused:
"Where the hell—what is this? What happened? Where am I?" His voice was raspy and weak, barely a whisper in the sterile environment.
A soft hiss broke the silence, a sound like escaping air. The door slid open with a gentle pshhft, revealing the silhouette of a familiar figure.
Andrew Pascal stepped in, his black coat folded neatly over his arm, as if he were arriving for a casual meeting. His expression was, as always, unreadable, a carefully constructed mask that revealed nothing.
Jackie's voice was raw but urgent, laced with fear and confusion. "What is this, coach? What is this?! What did you do to me?!" He tried to sit up, but his body remained stubbornly still.
Pascal stopped at the foot of the bed. Calm. Almost practiced, like he had rehearsed this moment a hundred times.
"You're safe, Jackie. You've been selected. This is standard."
Jackie shook his head, his breath fast and shallow, bordering on hyperventilation. "You didn't say anything about this. I ain't agree to a—a surgery or... or mods or whatever this is!" He tugged at the wires, a desperate attempt to break free.
"You did," Pascal replied coolly, his voice smooth and unwavering, pulling up a sleek tablet and tapping the screen. "Full consent. Digitally signed. Midnight, when you stepped onto the van. You confirmed compliance to NULL Squad enhancement protocol." He held up the tablet, displaying a document filled with dense legal jargon.
"I didn't know—" Jackie barked, his voice rising in desperation. "I thought I was signing for city, not—this!" He felt betrayed, used, his dreams twisted into a nightmare.
Pascal raised a brow, a hint of condescension in his eyes. "And this is City. Just elevated. You think a Null Squad competes with normal lungs? Normal reflexes? You think your best was ever gonna be enough to climb through the leagues without this?" He gestured around the room, emphasizing the advanced technology surrounding them.
Jackie stared, his mind reeling. He could feel something under his eyelid, a foreign presence. Humming. Alive. Not human. It felt alien and wrong.
Pascal gestured to the overhead screen. A live feed of Jackie's vitals blinked and whirred, a complex array of numbers and graphs that meant nothing to Jackie. "What makes our system unique is that every selected player is biomechanically optimized. You've undergone the first-phase operation successfully."
Jackie blinked, his thoughts struggling to keep up. "What?"
"You're still you," Pascal replied, his tone reassuring, though his eyes remained cold. "Just... recalibrated. The enhancements won't change who you are. They'll let you unlock who you are. Faster. Smarter. Sharper. Watch."
He motioned to the observation glass. Behind it, two surgeons stood with their arms folded, watching silently, their faces devoid of emotion. They were like statues, observing a lab rat.
Pascal walked closer and tapped Jackie gently on the shoulder. "You've been modified with Version 1 of GhostVision. Think of it as... predictive awareness. A tactical overlay for your world."
Jackie flinched, recoiling from Pascal's touch. "GhostVision?"
"To trigger it, blink three times with your left eye. Rapid succession." Pascal stepped back, giving Jackie space.
Jackie hesitated, fear warring with curiosity. He glanced around, paranoid, feeling like a pawn in a game he didn't understand. "That's it?"
Pascal nodded. "Go on."
With a hard swallow, Jackie blinked—once, twice, three times. He squeezed his eye shut, bracing himself for the unknown.
Instantly, the world shifted. The sterile room transformed into something alien and incomprehensible.
A low hum buzzed in his ears, vibrating deep within his skull. The air vibrated as faint, holographic outlines flared to life across the room, layering reality with a digital prediction. Every moving part—Pascal's hands, the slow roll of a cart wheel, even the subtle shift in posture from the surgeons—was traced in faint lines, showing probable movements, like ghosts of actions yet to come.
A predicted footstep shimmered on the floor. A raised hand appeared before it actually moved. Every line flickered a half-second ahead of time, offering a glimpse into the immediate future.
Jackie's eyes widened, sweat blooming at his temples. "What the—"
But his pupils were trembling, struggling to focus. His head throbbed, a sharp pain behind his eyes. His breathing turned shaky, ragged gasps for air.
Pascal calmly touched the edge of the bed, a subtle gesture of control. "Now blink once. Hard."
Jackie obeyed—and the overlay vanished like mist under sunlight, the normal world snapping back into focus. He slumped back, panting, disoriented and overwhelmed.
"It causes strain," Pascal said, placing the tablet down. "Use it too long and you'll start to black out. The system's still adapting to your optic nerves."
Jackie's fists curled, wires tugging lightly from his skin, a constant reminder of his captivity. "You... you did this to me."
"I gave you a chance, Jackie," Pascal said, eyes steel-hard now, brooking no argument. "A chance to be more. To make it out. You're part of a future bigger than anyone out there."
Jackie didn't answer, his mind racing, trying to process the enormity of what had happened.
He was too busy feeling the faint electric tingle moving through his hands, his chest, his eyes, a new sensation that was both frightening and exhilarating.
And wondering what he'd just become, what price he'd paid for this supposed opportunity.
Chapter 17
Jackie sat on the edge of the medical bed, the cold still lingering beneath his skin, his muscles twitching every few seconds like phantom echoes from the surgery. Pascal stood beside him now, flicking through a digital slate that displayed numbers in glowing columns.
"You'll need a jersey," Pascal said, tone bright but clipped. "What number speaks to you?"
Jackie blinked. Still catching his breath. His throat was dry. But his answer came without hesitation.
"Seventeen."
Pascal tapped it. "Bold. That number once belonged to brilliance."
He turned and motioned for Jackie to follow. As they moved down a hallway lit with soft white LEDs, Jackie glanced down at himself—hospital gown swaying with each uneasy step, arms still feeling foreign. Pascal opened a secure steel door with a keycard swipe. A hiss. A click.
Inside was a pristine locker room—identical to Etihad's, but buried deep underground. Gleaming white walls, sky-blue trim, chrome benches, and blue kit bags set in identical rows. A faint hum of filtered air passed overhead. But something was off. Instead of the familiar Premier League badge stitched on the kits, each one bore a new crest: a black-and-silver logo with the letters ENL—English Null League.
"Your league," Pascal said, noting Jackie's stare. "You'll compete here. Broadcasted privately. Watched intensely."
Jackie's eyes caught on the other trialists filtering in, still dazed like him. Silent, wary. Some stretched. Others sat motionless.
"This is your new squad," Pascal said warmly. "Come now. You'll have your kit soon."
The door opened with a knock, and an agent walked in holding a sleek zip-up garment bag.
"Terrazas, Jackie?"
Jackie stepped forward, nodding. The agent handed over the bag and a plastic-wrapped bundle.
Inside: three kits. The home sky-blue jersey with silver accents, the away deep navy with electric violet trim, and the third kit—matte white with streaks of ghost grey. All bore the ENL badge, and in sharp block letters across the back:
TERRAZAS
17
He ran his fingers over the stitching. It felt unreal. Almost ceremonial.
"Null Squad standard-issue," the agent said. "Fitted to your post-op vitals. Don't machine dry."
The door clicked shut behind him.
After Pascal had left Jackie found Andre sitting at the edge of the locker room, shirt off, a series of faint scars running vertically down his back—like fine slits sealed by medical-grade adhesive.
Jackie stepped in quietly. "You good?"
Andre turned his head. A crooked smile, tired but real.
"Better than ever. Weird as hell, though."
Jackie glanced at the scars. "What'd they... do to you?"
Andre exhaled deeply, Two faint exhaust ports, no bigger than nickels, rested between his shoulder blades, perfectly symmetrical. They pulsed gently, letting off soft bursts of warm air like a cooling engine.
"Modified my lungs," he said. "I was always a gassed-out type in the second half. Now? They told me my oxygen flow is doubled. I breathe like a racehorse. And it cools me down mid-sprint."
Jackie raised his brows, stepping back. "That's what this is, huh? Turning' us into something else."
Andre gave him a sideways glance. "What'd they give you?"
Jackie nodded, slow. "It's... wild. Like seeing' the future. But it fries your head if you keep it on too long."
They sat in silence for a beat. Then Andre chuckled. "Man. Who'd have thought? Playing underground football as science experiments."
Jackie managed a grin. "Yeah... we made it. Kinda."
Their fingers brushed the ENL patches stitched to their kits.
The locker room pulsed with a low ambient hum—like the whole place was breathing. Jackie and Andre entered together, fresh from their check-ups, kits still zipped up in bags slung over their shoulders. Some of the other players were already unpacking, jerseys hanging in open lockers, boots lined neatly on the floor.
Four of them stood near the center benches, deep in quiet conversation. They looked up as Jackie and Andre approached, each one sizing the newcomers with a kind of respectful curiosity.
A tall, stocky player was the first to speak. Dark-skinned, with a shaved head and a visible cybernetic plate where his collarbone met his shoulder. "17, Where you come from?."
Jackie cracked a smile. "Queens. You?"
"Lewan. From Gdańsk." He pointed to the back of his neck, where a thin silver line curved under his skin like a collar. "They gave me a mod called Anchor Core. Keeps my balance perfect. Center of gravity—unshakeable."
Andre nodded. "Center-back, yeah?"
"Up Top Actually." Lewan chuckled.
Another player, wiry and restless, stepped forward. His hair was dyed silver and shaved into patterns.
"Ayo, I'm Zayd. From Marseille." His accent had the bounce of the streets, and his eyes twitched subtly, scanning every detail of the room. "My Mod's called Tempo Weave. They laced my tendons with filament. Boosts reaction speed. I play right wing."
Jackie exchanged a look with Andre. "Crazy."
Zayd grinned wide. "Yeah. Can't sleep with how much energy I got now, though. Feels like my brain's always in 5th gear."
The third one leaned against his locker, arms crossed. He was leaner than the rest, wearing a pendant of St. Christopher around his neck. "My name is Luca. Napoli born. Keeper." He raised a hand slowly and snapped his fingers.
The sound echoed weirdly.
"They put Hex Pulse in my hands. Shock-absorbent muscle mesh. Let me punch out a full-speed volley without even feeling the sting."
Andre whistled, impressed. "That's wild."
Finally, the last stepped forward, a calm and quiet presence. Shorter than the others, but with a tension in his shoulders like a coiled spring. "Jinhai," he said. "From Seoul. I'm a left wingback. My mod's called Echo Reflex. Visual feedback loops wired straight into my inner ear. My body learns the movement it sees—instantly."
Jackie blinked. "You're like... copying other players' moves?"
Jinhai nodded. "But only if I see it once. Any more than that, and my brain overloads."
They all stood in silence for a moment—each of them altered, each still human in their own fragile way.
Lewan broke the silence. "You two?"
Andre rubbed the back of his neck. "Name's Andre. I got RespExhaust. Exhaust ports in my back so I can run forever."
Jackie hesitated a second. Then lifted his chin.
"Terrezas. GhostVision. Blinking trick lets me read the field before it moves."
Zayd raised his brows. "That sounds like cheat codes."
"Hurts like hell if I overdo it," Jackie said, chuckling lightly.
Lewan gestured toward the wall-mounted digital clock. "Coach said we've got an orientation tomorrow. They have dorms built in Somewhere.
Jackie looked down at the badge stitched into his sleeve.
He wasn't alone. They were all weapons now—some honed, others still learning what they were made of.
But they were a team.
Chapter 18
The dawn in Turin, a stark contrast to the bustling energy that usually permeated the Juventus training grounds. Chilled by the alpine winds whispering through the streets, the air bit at exposed skin, a reminder of the harsh reality that awaited those who failed to meet the mark. Most of the hostel's lights had already dimmed, casting long shadows across the courtyard, and the bus parked out front idled with a low grumble, its engine a mechanical sigh of disappointment as the rejected players lined up to board. Some carried their duffel bags over slouched shoulders, the weight of their failed aspirations adding to the burden, others clutched their phones, still re-reading the rejection messages, the words searing themselves into their memories, disbelief etched into their brows like permanent lines.
Rocco stood in line—head down, jaw locked, eyes unfocused, staring at the cracked pavement beneath his worn sneakers. He didn't have the energy to feel angry anymore, the initial surge of frustration having long since dissipated, replaced by a dull ache of resignation. Just hollow. Empty. Another reminder that maybe the dream had always been too big, too audacious, for a Roman kid who scored hat-tricks on gravel pitches, his talent destined to remain confined to the dusty outskirts of the professional world.
"Accorso!"
The call sliced through the quiet murmur of the dejected players, sharp and authoritative. Rocco turned, blinking, momentarily disoriented. A tall figure approached from the shadows, emerging from the darkness like a phantom—trim-cut coat, impeccably tailored to his athletic frame, shoes like mirrors, reflecting the dim light back with an unsettling gleam, posture carved from stone, radiating an aura of power and control. Sergio Carrington. The Juventus Null Squad Manager. A man known for his ruthless efficiency and unwavering pursuit of victory.
The others glanced over, their heads swiveling like meerkats, their faces a mixture of curiosity and envy as Carrington reached him, stopping just a few steps away, his presence dominating the space around him.
"I'd like a word," the coach said, his tone unreadable, devoid of any warmth or emotion, a carefully calibrated instrument designed to elicit a specific response.
Rocco hesitated, bag in hand, his fingers tightening around the worn strap. "Yes, sir?"
Carrington gestured with a nod, a subtle movement that conveyed authority without uttering a word. "Walk with me."
They moved away from the line, leaving the dejected players behind, passing under dim streetlamps that cast flickering pools of light and shadow, and past the wire fencing that separated the bus lot from the meticulously manicured training grounds, a stark visual representation of the divide between success and failure. Gravel crunched underfoot, the sound amplified in the stillness of the night, and Rocco's heart thudded louder with every step, a frantic drumbeat of apprehension and a flicker of hope.
Carrington's voice broke the silence, his words measured and precise. "You passed out during the run. Cramped during the lifts. Most coaches would have forgotten your name by midnight."
Rocco swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, the weight of Carrington's words pressing down on him. "So why didn't you?"
The older man looked ahead, toward the hulking shadow of the stadium, its massive structure looming against the night sky like a modern-day coliseum, a symbol of the glory and brutality of the sport. "Because you stood up afterward. And you didn't make excuses." He glanced sideways, his eyes piercing and assessing. "That's not talent. That's intent."
They turned down a gated path leading underneath the stadium, the entrance shrouded in shadow, adding to the growing sense of unease. Rocco's footsteps slowed, apprehension tightening its grip. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere quiet. I want to show you something."
As they walked through the corridor—a tunnel of cold fluorescent lights that hummed with a monotonous drone, and humming vents that circulated sterile air, the atmosphere oppressive and unsettling—Carrington spoke again, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space.
"You want to be a professional footballer? I mean truly?" His voice was calm, almost conversational, but heavy with weight, each word carrying the burden of expectation. "Not just the fame, or the kit, or the goal celebrations. I'm talking about 6 AM trainings in the rain, pushing your body to its absolute limit. Pressure from agents, clubs, fans, the constant scrutiny of a demanding audience. Constant risk of being replaced by someone younger, hungrier, more willing to sacrifice everything. This life isn't mercy—it's obsession."
Rocco nodded slowly, his mind reeling from the intensity of Carrington's words, the harsh realities of the professional world laid bare. "I know. I've wanted it since I was ten, ever since I first kicked a ball. I don't care how hard it is."
Carrington stopped at a steel door with a retinal scanner, the cold metal reflecting the harsh fluorescent light. "Good."
He pressed his face to the device, his features illuminated by the scanner's red glow. A chime rang, and the door unlocked with a pneumatic hiss, the sound echoing in the sterile corridor.
Inside, white walls glared back at them, sterile, spotless, devoid of any personal touch, creating an atmosphere of clinical detachment. Machines lined the sides of the room, humming like watchful beasts, their blinking lights and intricate displays hinting at their complex functions. A reclining medical chair sat in the center, rigged with harnesses and cables, looking more like a torture device than a tool for healing.
It smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal, a scent that spoke of surgery and sterile procedures, a smell that sent a shiver down Rocco's spine.
His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper in the oppressive atmosphere. "What is this place?"
Carrington walked to the side panel, his movements deliberate and controlled, and pulled out a thin black folder, its cover smooth and unmarked. "This is where we make our Nulls."
Rocco stiffened, his muscles tensing involuntarily, the implications of Carrington's words sinking in. "I thought I was cut."
Carrington faced him, his eyes sharp and unwavering, holding Rocco's gaze. "I'm offering you something different. You won't be part of the Null Squad. You'll be a Greyshirt. That means you'll train with the main team… and you'll play in Serie A."
Rocco blinked, his mind struggling to process the unexpected offer, the sudden shift in his fortunes. "Wait—what?"
"You'll be registered as a professional. But there's a condition." He opened the folder and handed Rocco a single-page contract, the paper crisp and white in his hand, a stark symbol of the choice he now faced. "To survive on the same field as the gifted, you'll need to match them. So you have to consent to the procedure."
Rocco looked down at the page, his eyes scanning the dense legal text, searching for some hidden meaning, some catch he might have missed. His own name was already printed on the top line, a chilling reminder of how predetermined his fate seemed to be.
He didn't move, his body frozen in place, the weight of the decision pressing down on him.
Carrington's voice softened—just a little, a subtle shift in tone that betrayed a hint of empathy. "You're not like the others, Accorso. You don't run the fastest. You don't lift the heaviest. But you've got nerve. And vision. That can't be built."
Rocco looked at the chair, its ominous presence dominating the room. Then back at the contract, the words blurring before his eyes. "If I sign this… what happens?"
Carrington didn't flinch, his expression remaining impassive, revealing nothing of his true thoughts or feelings. "You wake up new. Not invincible, but closer. You'll have a shot. But you'll never go back to what you were."
Silence stretched between them, thick with gravity, the unspoken implications hanging heavy in the air.
This wasn't the dream he'd pictured under Rome's golden skies, the romantic vision he had nurtured since childhood. But maybe this was the only way to reach it, the only path available to him in this new, enhanced world.
Rocco's hands trembled as he reached for the pen, his fingers brushing against the cold metal, the weight of his decision settling upon him like a physical burden.
Chapter 19
Inside the National Football Federation's main office, there were no windows or clocks, just the quiet sound of machines.
Twelve executives sat around a black table with glowing lines marking each seat. Above the table, a moving display showed outlines of hundreds of players being tested—showing their skeletons, body data, and recovery progress. A red bar blinked on each player's chest, meaning they were waiting for final approval.
Élodie Vaillant tapped her pen on her tablet. "What's the final number?"
Anil Bakshi, head of data, answered without looking up. "Out of 7,043 players from both groups… 4,412 passed the first test for the next stage. That's about 62.7%. Right where we expected."
"Perfect," Colonel Kareem said, arms crossed.
Dr. Hiroshi Muto swiped the display, zooming in on some players. "Of those chosen, only 9% are ready for the stronger upgrades. The rest need time to adjust."
"How long exactly?" Marta Gálvez asked sharply.
Muto paused. "Months, Maybe weeks. If the body is barely withstanding the modifications, Stronger additions would likely kill the subject."
Victor Denholm adjusted his sleeves, not worried. "Do they know what they're getting into?"
"They want success," said Lucia Rojas. "And they're desperate. That's all they need to consent."
One screen showed tired players resting after testing. Another showed a van using mild drugs in the AC. Each clip disappeared quickly—just enough to understand.
René Strauss tapped the console, showing a different design. A body image covered with metal add-ons, tiny artificial muscles, and a special spine.
"We've started testing full upgrades," he said. "Based on a wrecked 2024 Porsche GT. Fast reactions in the legs. Balanced power in the hips. Improved muscle memory through brain connections."
"A sports car?" Havel raised his eyebrow.
"It's about how well they perform," Strauss said simply. "And how it looks."
Élodie leaned forward, speaking clearly. "We're not just making players. We're creating results. If an upgrade breaks during a game but wins two points before it does, that's not a bad thing. That's efficient."
"What if a player burns out?" asked Rojas. "The ones who can no longer withstand their upgrades?"
"Their contracts are clear," replied Bakshi. "Their agreements are solid. They'll push their bodies to their full extent."
Muto added, "And the ones too weak for their enhancements… we hide them. Let them play with the regular players. See how long they last."
Vaillant finally looked up. "The best results make the most profit, and their profit funds greater advancements."
The room went silent as the table's display turned black.
A final chart appeared: a line showing income going up, crossing over a flat line showing the regular league's income.
Rojas stood up. "So this is it. The Null leagues are leagues directly under big national competitions, drawing in the profit from ticket sales, moguls and investors, Thriving all from our mechanically enhanced superstars."
"Not only that," Élodie corrected. "This is the future of football. Captivating performances. Perfect bodies. Matches that'll have the public dumping their pockets just for a rearview seat."
And just before the lights went off, she added:
"Let them think it's about achieving their dreams. That's the easiest thing to convince them of."
Chapter 20
Hours after the procedure Rocco stumbled forward, bare-chested, soaked in saline and sweat. The cold of the surgical corridor bit into his skin. His legs—no, his limbs—felt foreign. Too light. Too fast. Too wrong.
Chrome pistons hissed softly beneath his calves, tucked beneath layers of false skin. The incisions had already closed. The pain hadn't started yet, but the numbness crawled like static.
He blinked against the fluorescent light as the world tilted.
"You're on your feet already?" Carrington said with amused surprise. "Impressive. You'll learn to love the ache. Means it's working."
"What… did you put in me?" Rocco muttered, staring at his knees. They looked like his, but they flexed like something else. Something built for war.
Carrington stepped closer, holding out a folded jersey.
"Serie A patch. Official kit. Your surname stitched in gold. Number fifty-nine."
Rocco took the shirt with a shaky hand. His name—Accorso—bold across the back. The number shimmered in the light.
"You made it," Carrington continued. "And not just to the big leagues. You're on the grid now. Every step, every sprint, every inch of turf you cover—it pays. You'll never see a base salary. Your pay, based off your performance."
Rocco swallowed hard. "This wasn't in the trial paperwork."
Carrington's smile didn't waver. "That's because this isn't just football anymore. This is a system. And you're in it."
The door behind Carrington slid open with a soft pneumatic groan. The smell of freshly watered grass wafted in.
"Press is already outside," Carrington said, checking his silver watch. "Local outlets, minor channels, a few whispers from abroad. Just a teaser. You'll smile. Say how grateful you are. How hard you've worked. Don't mention your legs."
"I can't even feel them," Rocco said.
"You will," Carrington muttered, his tone shifting just slightly. "Now get dressed. You've got eight minutes before your name hits the grid."
He tossed Rocco a pair of white boots.
"Break 'em in."
Rocco stared at the jersey in his hands. His name felt heavier than ever.
No turning back now.
He didn't move.
He stared down at the pistons embedded behind his knees, humming gently beneath the skin like resting predators. He flexed. A hiss escaped the metal, then silence.
Carrington turned halfway toward the exit—but Rocco's voice stopped him.
"What exactly did you do to me?"
Carrington raised an eyebrow behind those untouchable lenses. "Ah. There it is. The curiosity. It always shows up right after the adrenaline fades."
He stepped closer, shoes echoing against the surgical tile. "Those beauties in your legs? Interior parts from a salvaged Porsche Taycan GTS. Twin-actuator servo suspension, modded to respond to neurosignals. They read your stride mid-sprint and preload tension before your next step. You're driving a machine now, Rocco—not walking."
Rocco glanced down, half-disbelieving. "You put car parts in my legs?"
Carrington shrugged. "It was a waste leaving them on the track. A suspension that could hug turns at 1.2 Gs now supports your hamstrings. Think of it as… a trade-up."
"I didn't agree to any of this."
"You agreed when you signed that doc," Carrington said coolly. "The federation saw the hunger. The market saw potential. And the system—well, the system only waits for results."
"And if I mess it up?"
"You won't," Carrington said flatly. "But if you do, you'll degrade slowly. Burn out. Like a tyre losing tread. And someone else will replace you by Monday. That's how the null system works. You don't get a second debut."
Rocco clenched his jaw. "So how do I use them?"
Carrington grinned. He liked that question.
"There's a trigger," he said, pacing as he spoke. "Not a button, not a switch. It's tied to your adrenal output. Push your body to the edge—right as the sprint begins—and they'll activate. Micro-movements become vaults. Acceleration triples. Stamina plateaus. You'll feel it. Like your instincts get ahead of your body."
Rocco raised an eyebrow. "And what if I activate it too early?"
Carrington's voice dipped lower, more serious now.
"Then your tendons won't keep up with the servos. Your muscles will try to match carbon. You'll tear yourself apart."
A silence fell between them.
Carrington exhaled, straightening his coat. "But that won't happen. Because you're going to listen, pace yourself, and perform like your name depends on it."
He pointed to the jersey.
"Change. Walk out. Smile. We've already leaked the footage of your goal last Sunday. Everyone's watching now."
Rocco stared at the jersey again. His heart beat once. Then again.
Slower.
Stronger.
Sharper.
The machine inside him was waking up.
Chapter 21
The light above the press door blinked red, a rhythmic pulse in the oppressive silence. It wasn't just a light doing its job; it was more like a malevolent eye, a silent observer that saw everything, judged every nuance, and recorded every detail for posterity. Or perhaps for some unknown, more sinister purpose. It was a constant, unwavering presence in the room.
Recording. The cameras, sleek and black, were rolling, their lenses focused intently on the space behind the curtain. The microphones, sensitive and unforgiving, were hot, ready to pick up every word, every breath, every nervous cough. And the world, or at least the football-obsessed part of it, was waiting with bated breath to see the next big thing. Hype and anticipation filled the air.
Rocco stood just beyond the heavy velvet curtain, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The fabric, a deep crimson color that seemed to swallow any light that came near it, was thick and luxurious, a testament to the wealth and prestige of the football club. But he barely registered the texture or the color; his mind was elsewhere. His chest still felt tight. It was a constant ache, a dull throb that served as a physical manifestation of the changes he had endured. Synthetic tendons, the clandestine source of his augmented speed and almost unnatural power on the field, hummed faintly beneath his skin. It was a subtle vibration, a low thrum that only he could feel, a constant reminder of his altered reality. It was a secret he had to keep hidden. The brand-new jersey, stiff and unfamiliar against his skin, itched uncomfortably at his collar, a minor irritation that added to his growing unease. He resisted the almost overwhelming urge to adjust it, knowing that every movement was being scrutinized. On the back: ACCORSO emblazoned in bold, crisp white letters that seemed to leap out from the dark fabric. Below it: 59, a number that had been arbitrarily assigned to him by the club's kit manager, yet a number destined, he fervently hoped, to become iconic, instantly synonymous with his name, his goals, and his future achievements. A fresh Serie A patch, meticulously stitched clean and bright onto the sleeve of his jersey, gleamed enticingly under the unforgiving stage lights. It was a tangible symbol of his sudden and almost improbable ascent to the highest level of Italian football, a dream come true and a terrifying new reality.
Carrington, fidgeted beside him, adjusting his expensive but slightly rumpled coat in a futile attempt to regain some composure. His tie was askew and loosened, as if he were struggling to breathe in the tense atmosphere. His cheeks were slick with nervous sweat, reflecting the harsh glare of the stage lights like a polished mirror. He clutched a wrinkled paper of half-translated notes in his trembling hand, the paper's surface worn smooth from anxious handling and constant consultation. The notes were a desperate attempt to help him navigate the treacherous and often irrational world of Italian football culture, a crash course in a complex and unforgiving environment that he barely understood. He needed this to go well.
"You go in," he whispered urgently, his voice barely audible above the dull roar of the unseen crowd and the pounding of Rocco's own heart, which seemed to be echoing in his ears. "Smile, but not too much, okay? You don't want to seem arrogant. Keep it humble. You're the underdog, remember that. You're the guy who came from nowhere. Let them see… the fire, okay? The Italian spirit. They eat that stuff up. It's all about passion and heart here. That's what they want to see." He dabbed at his forehead with a shaky hand, leaving a glistening smear of sweat on his already damp skin. "Remember what we talked about. Stick to the script, and everything will be fine."
Rocco raised an eyebrow slightly, a silent question mark etched onto his face. He had rehearsed the lines countless times with Carrington, repeating them until they felt hollow and meaningless. But the immense pressure of the moment, the weight of expectation, threatened to erase them all from his memory, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. He wasn't an actor; he was a footballer.
Carrington flashed a crooked grin, a carefully constructed mask of confidence designed to reassure Rocco, but which barely concealed his own deep-seated anxiety. This was a make-or-break moment for both of them. "I'm going to say some nice things about you, big you up a little, tell them how great you are going to be. Just nod, look agreeable, like you're actually listening. Maybe throw in an 'I fight for badge' every now and then. Something simple, something they can understand, even in broken Italian. Then we wrap it up quickly and cleanly. Get in, get out, before things get too messy."
Before Rocco could formulate a response, before the full weight of the situation could completely crush him beneath its sheer immensity, the curtain was drawn back with a dramatic flourish, revealing the expectant faces of the assembled press. Carrington, propelled by a surge of adrenaline and a desperate desire to control the narrative, strode unsteadily to the podium like a stage actor who had mistakenly wandered into the wrong play, his movements a bizarre and unsettling mix of forced confidence and barely suppressed panic.
"Ah—buon pomeriggio," he said with a strained and unnatural flair, the Italian words sounding awkward and heavily accented, betraying his lack of genuine familiarity with the language and the culture. "Good-a afternoon, press peoples. Today, we are very proud and excited to welcome a very special boy to our club. A, how you say… diamond... from the dust. A striker who was not forged in an expensive academy, who has not benefited from years of elite training, but who has been created by heart. Pure, raw, Italian heart. A true testament to the power and the enduring spirit of the beautiful game."
Cameras flashed, a blinding barrage of light that momentarily disoriented Rocco, causing him to blink rapidly. The room erupted in a cacophony of clicks, whirs, and the rustling of reporters jostling for position as the photographers struggled to capture every possible angle, every fleeting expression. One reporter, a seasoned veteran with a skeptical eye and a world-weary expression etched deeply into his face, stifled a barely perceptible chuckle, clearly unimpressed by Carrington's theatrical introduction and the overblown, cliché-ridden rhetoric. He had seen it all before.
Carrington gestured awkwardly towards the wings with a trembling hand, his arm outstretched as if he were presenting a prize. "Please welcome, ladies and gentlemen—numero cinquantanove—Rocco Accorso!"
Rocco took a deep breath, steeling himself, and stepped out from behind the curtain and into the spotlight, forcing himself to appear calm and composed despite the inner turmoil that threatened to overwhelm him. His movements were smooth and deliberate, each step carefully measured and precisely executed. The synthetic pistons in his legs, working in perfect and silent synchronization, helped him to stabilize his stride, ensuring that no hint of nervousness, no flicker of uncertainty, betrayed him. He walked with purpose towards the microphone, the sharp click of his cleats echoing unnaturally in the sudden silence that had fallen over the room. He cleared his throat, adjusted the microphone to the correct height, and slowly scanned the room, deliberately taking in the scene before him. Dozens of pairs of eyes stared back at him, scrutinizing his every move, dissecting his every gesture. There were journalists, hungry for a story, eager to uncover the truth behind his sudden and improbable rise to fame. There were Federation observers, impassive and watchful, assessing his potential, evaluating his compliance, and looking for any sign of weakness. And then there were one or two figures in dark, expensive suits, standing stiffly in the shadows at the back of the room, their arms crossed, their expressions unreadable, their very presence radiating an unsettling aura of power and barely concealed control.
He leaned towards the microphone, the cold metal a stark and unwelcome contrast to his suddenly sweaty palms. He gripped it tightly, using it as an anchor, a means of grounding himself in the present moment and focusing his scattered thoughts.
"It's an honor to be here," Rocco said, his voice surprisingly steady and clear, amplified by the sophisticated sound system and echoing confidently through the room. "Just a week ago, I was playing Sunday league football with my friends, just for the pure love of the game. Now… I've signed a contract to play with one of the biggest and most respected clubs in the world. It's surreal, almost unbelievable, but I know that I'm ready for this challenge. This is just the beginning of my journey, and I'm determined to make the most of it."
The room murmured in response, a low hum of speculation and barely contained curiosity rippling through the assembled crowd. The reporters leaned in closer, their pens poised above their notepads, ready to transcribe every word, analyze every nuance, and search for the hidden story behind the carefully crafted façade.
A woman in the front row, her face framed by a pair of sharp, intelligent eyes that missed absolutely nothing, spoke, her voice cutting cleanly through the background murmur. "Rocco—how does it actually feel to go from playing amateur football to becoming a professional athlete in just a few short days? It's an unprecedented leap, a truly meteoric rise. How do you personally explain this almost overnight transformation?"
"It's been fast, incredibly fast," he said, pausing just long enough to convey an impression of sincerity and humility, without appearing to be overwhelmed or intimidated by the magnitude of the situation. "But football, like life, doesn't wait for anyone. Opportunities are often rare and fleeting, and you have to be prepared to seize them when they come your way. I'm here to prove that I belong here, that I deserve this incredible chance, and that I won't let anyone down."
Another voice called out from the back of the room, a deeper, more probing tone that suggested a more experienced and cynical reporter, someone who had seen it all before and wasn't easily impressed. "You've been described in the press as being blisteringly fast, almost unnaturally so. Some have even gone so far as to call you a 'turbo-charged striker' and wonder how human you are. What exactly gives you that extraordinary edge on the field? Is it simply natural talent? Is it the result of some kind of special training regime that we don't know about? Or is there perhaps… something else at play here?"
Rocco hesitated for a fraction of a second, the reporter's pointed question hitting a raw nerve and exposing his deepest fear. The hum in his legs seemed to tighten, the synthetic tendons vibrating more intensely than before, a physical manifestation of the internal conflict that raged within him. He knew that he couldn't reveal the truth, he couldn't expose the secret behind his enhanced speed and agility. The consequences would be catastrophic.
Carrington, sensing the danger and desperate to deflect the question, quickly stepped in, laughing nervously, his voice sounding far too loud and obviously forced. "Ah, come on now! Talent, yes, of course! Raw, undeniable, natural Italian talent! But also instinct, an innate understanding of the beautiful game, wouldn't you agree? The boy… he simply runs like a machine! A finely tuned, highly efficient, state-of-the-art Italian machine! He's a natural-born athlete, plain and simple."
A few of the reporters smirked knowingly, exchanging subtle glances that suggested they didn't believe a word of Carrington's carefully constructed explanation. One veteran reporter muttered under his breath, just loud enough for those nearby to hear: "You don't say…"
Rocco forced a faint smile, a subtle gesture that conveyed both gratitude to Carrington for his intervention, and a determination to regain control of the increasingly precarious situation. He carefully took the microphone back from Carrington, asserting his presence and signaling that he was ready to answer the next question. "Speed isn't just about the legs, about mere physical prowess. It's about seeing things before they actually happen on the field, about instinctively anticipating the play. It's about intelligently reading the game, accurately anticipating the pass, and knowing precisely where the open space will materialize even before anyone else has seen it. It's about instinctively moving when no one else is ready, effortlessly exploiting the momentary weaknesses in the opposing defense."
He paused for a moment, allowing his carefully chosen words to sink in, hoping to create a carefully constructed impression of intelligence, insight, and a deep understanding of the game.
"The rest… is simply hard work, relentless dedication, unwavering commitment to the team, and, of course, a little bit of luck thrown in for good measure."
"And what about number 59?" someone asked, a young reporter with a popular blog and an obvious eagerness to make a name for herself. "It's not exactly a usual number for a striker to wear on their jersey. Usually, you see that number on defenders or midfielders. So why that particular number? Is there any special significance or personal meaning behind it?"
Rocco shrugged, a carefully practiced gesture of studied nonchalance designed to suggest that the number was entirely unimportant and utterly meaningless. "It was just given to me by the club. To be honest, it really doesn't matter to me. Numbers are just numbers; they're simply a way of identifying the players on the field. So, I'm going to make it mine. I'm going to give it meaning. I'm going to make people remember number 59."
Carrington clapped his hands together sharply, a prearranged signal designed to bring the press conference to an abrupt end and allow them to escape the increasingly uncomfortable scrutiny of the media. "That's all we have time for today, folks! Rocco is scheduled to begin his intensive training program with the team this week. You'll be seeing plenty of him in the very near future—on the pitch, scoring goals, and in the papers, making headlines. Thank you all very much for coming. We sincerely appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedules."
The light above the room dimmed slightly, the harsh glare of the stage lights softening as the press conference officially drew to a close. The shutters on the cameras slowed their frenetic clicking, and the room began to buzz with renewed activity as the reporters prepared to file their stories. The press began to rise from their seats, collecting their notebooks and equipment, whispering their thoughts and opinions to one another, dissecting every word, analyzing every gesture, and generally assessing the newcomer's chances of success in the highly competitive world of Serie A football.
Rocco turned quickly towards the exit, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the room and the relentless scrutiny of the assembled media. He just wanted to get out of there.
Carrington leaned close to Rocco, his breath hot and slightly stale on Rocco's ear, "You handled that molto bene, Rocco. Very well indeed. A few stumbles along the way, a few awkward moments, but nothing fatal. Most importantly, you didn't say anything stupid or give anything away. Now, go get some rest, try to recover from this ordeal, and get your head back in the game. Because tomorrow, the real work begins… tomorrow, we start building the streak. We're going to show them all exactly what you're capable of."
Rocco didn't answer, his mind already racing ahead to the grueling training sessions that lay ahead, the intensely demanding expectations that he had to meet, and the crushing pressure to perform at the highest level.
The synthetic pistons in his legs whispered almost imperceptibly, a constant, insistent reminder of the enhanced power that surged within him, the almost limitless potential that he was poised to unleash on the unsuspecting world of Serie A football. But as he walked away, a nagging doubt persisted in the back of his mind: he just hoped that he could learn to control it before it consumed him completely.
Chapter 22
2 weeks later
Manchester City Null Squad Quarters
Location: Inner Quadrant, Level 3
Time: 06:42 AM BST
Lights rose slowly in the pod hall, phasing from deep indigo to a sterile white. The soft hiss of the sleep units opening echoed off the quiet walls as players stirred to life one by one. Twenty-two total, scattered across the room in neat rows. Some sat up in silence, others exchanged sleepy nods or rubbed the blur out of their eyes.
Jackie Terrezas was blinking cautiously, avoiding activating the mod s. "Early again," he muttered, glancing at the wall clock. "Pascal doesn't miss."
Andre yawned from the next pod over. Lewan sat upright and didn't speak. He rarely did before breakfast.
Across the room, Zayd tossed a towel over his shoulder, nodding to Amar who was already stretching near the wall. "You see the match schedule drop yet?"
"Just the highlights," Amar replied. "Arsenal's in the bracket. Think we'll face them second or third round."
"Figures," Zayd said. "Everyone's watching for that one."
The Osaka twins emerged from their pods together, wordlessly syncing into the locker rhythm. Thomas Lorange from Bordeaux was reading something in hi pod, eyes flicking back and forth quickly. A few others were still waking up—young, and focused.
The wall buzzed once. A blue strip of light blinked on.
INCOMING MESSAGE – COACH PASCAL
"Squad, eyes up. You've got one month. One month to sharpen before the U23 Carabao Cup kicks off. Arsenal's Null Unit is in your bracket. So are Leeds, Southampton, and Wolves. Broadcast confirmed. Federation reps confirmed. You're not here to lounge. You're here to dominate."
"Every match is being logged. Every sprint, every touch, every decision. Base pay starts at £400 a week. Output will raise that. Performance will multiply it. No injuries. No excuses."
"You're playing for your careers. You've got one month. Make it count."
The message faded. Quiet lingered.
Luca stood up from his pod, nodding slowly. "Well. Guess it's real now."
Jackie grabbed his jacket off the bench. "It's been real since week one. This just makes it official."
The squad started to break toward the locker hall, pulling on gear, grabbing supplements, falling into their usual movement without needing much talk.
Pascal's voice buzzed again—this time from a hallway speaker as he walked in.
"You've got a full squad. Use it. Not everyone's gonna play every game. But everyone's got something to prove. If you want more minutes, earn them."
He walked slowly past them, checking vitals on his holopad without looking up.
"This isn't about Arsenal. Or Leeds. Or Wolves. It's about you. Show the Federation their decisions were worth it."
He stopped near the door.
The door slid open. Light spilled in from the corridor.
"Ten minutes. Locker room briefing. Don't be late."