The throbbing pain in his back was a constant reminder—everything that had happened was real. His system wasn't just usable on the football pitch; it had also protected him in his most dangerous moment. Claire realized he didn't fully understand his own system. Unlocking its potential was going to be a long and challenging journey.
Claire had regained consciousness the night before, but the bullet wound and stitches in his back forced him to rely on anesthesia and painkillers to dull the agony.
Last night, when no one was around, he had asked himself: "Do I regret it?"
Thinking about the "bond" and its feedback, Claire could only sigh. The "bond" had conveniently gone silent, playing dead. And he couldn't forget how [Megan Fox had walked away from his embrace without a second glance.]
The "bond" reacted like a heartbroken fool—utterly devastated. Worse, it had used its "rules" to force Claire into premature unconsciousness.
Now awake, Claire tried to communicate, to explain, but the "simp" inside him refused to respond.
He turned his head slightly to glance at the two girls sitting beside his bed—the same pair who always seemed to be in a silent competition over him.
Young Danielle Sharp, still in her school uniform, had clearly skipped class to be here. The backpack and homework piled on the desk confirmed his suspicion.
Meanwhile, the stunning Lucy Pinder had dressed to impress today. Her long, dark waves cascaded over her shoulders, and her knee-length skirt perfectly accentuated her figure.
But this time, neither spoke when they saw Claire wake up. Smirking, Claire broke the silence: "Go ahead, ask whatever you want. Ronaldo's coming later—better get your questions in now."
"Is the woman next door the one whose name you have tattooed on your arm?"
"Did she recognize you? She was wearing a ring—looked like she's married!"
The rapid-fire questions from both sides made Claire chuckle inwardly, but the memories of that night flashed through his mind again. A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
"Yeah. My childhood sweetheart. She probably got engaged last year. It's been so long—she didn't recognize me, and I don't blame her. If you're asking whether I still love her… I honestly don't know."
"It's complicated. That 'bond' was this body's lingering obsession. Not something you can just shake off in a day or two."
He wasn't sure if they understood his last words, but as he spoke them, his eyes stung slightly. Luckily, he covered it up by pretending to yawn.
Reflecting on the past month, Claire couldn't help but feel a mix of amusement and frustration. As a footballer, he hadn't played a single minute in the Premier League or Champions League.
Yet, somehow, he kept stumbling into chaotic situations—like some kind of football-themed Detective Conan. Wherever he went, trouble followed. At this point, he just treated it as life's way of spicing things up.
The girls only stayed until noon before leaving, each lost in her own thoughts. Claire didn't stop them—after all, he had two sweet, attentive nurses taking care of him.
And for once, he wasn't footing the bill. The London city government was covering all his medical expenses—food, accommodation, even perks he'd never dreamed of.
When they found out he played for Manchester United, they even arranged for England's national team fitness coaches to oversee his rehabilitation. Claire was almost embarrassed by the VIP treatment.
At 4 p.m., Costa Mayor burst into the hospital room, grinning like a kid on Christmas. When Claire joked, "Since when is Malcolm this generous? He's giving me compensation? Is he about to fire me?" Costa laughed.
"You still don't realize what you saved, do you?"
"That was the Manchester Regional Coordination Fund—money that keeps people from starving in the streets. If those robbers had gotten away with it, the new Prime Minister would've had a crisis on his hands. This? This is just the basics. Leave the rest to me—I'll make sure your single tops every chart."
Claire, reclining in bed, just smirked and started trimming his nails.
"Hey, serious question—if Transformers asked you to do their theme song, could you write something?" Costa fussed around like a waiter, straightening newspapers and peeling an apple for him.
Hearing [Transformers] again, Claire expected a pang in his chest—especially knowing Megan Fox was right next door with her fiancé.
But to his surprise, his heart remained calm.
The truth was, Claire no longer cared about Megan Fox. The one still clinging to her was just the lingering "bond" inside him.
"Oh, right. While we're on that topic, go ahead and register the copyright for two songs I wrote. See if the second one fits what the studio wants. I remember Transformers being marketed as an anti-war film—my second track might align with that."
Costa took the notebook skeptically, scanning the song titled [One Day]. By the time he reached the chorus, he was tapping the apple-peeling knife against his palm like a metronome.
"Tsk. You're gonna blow up. You're a damn genius, you know that?"
Claire wanted to turn and brag, but the sharp pain in his back reminded him—patient privileges only.
"Hey, have a little faith in me, will you?"
"Tonight—no, right now. I'm calling the sound engineers. And take care of your voice!"
"Oh, and your uncle said Ferguson and the team are visiting tonight. Don't go running off!"
Watching Costa rush out like a man possessed, Claire could almost see stacks of cash walking out the door.
After all, fancy cars and beautiful women all started with money—and Claire had no shame in admitting he loved it.
"Hmph! A real man never worries about finding love. Just wait till I'm back on my feet."