The 7 a.m. training pitch was a different kind of hell. The morning mist clung to the grass, and the air was cold enough to sting Kaelan's—no, Leo's—lungs. But the real chill came from Coach Thorpe.
Gone was the frustrated mentor. In his place stood a cold-eyed architect, his whistle a metronome for a symphony of torture designed for one purpose: to break Leo Mears and rebuild him as a functional Kaelan Valtieri.
"Again!" Thorpe's voice cut through the silence, no longer a bark, but a clinical command.
Leo stood over a dead ball, twenty-five yards from an empty net. To his left, a mechanical wall of mannequins waited to simulate a defensive line. This was Kaelan's specialty: the curling, dipping free-kick that had become his trademark.
"The run-up is five steps, not six. The plant foot is six inches to the left. The point of contact is the valve, not the center panel. Your current form is an insult," Thorpe stated, his arms crossed. He wasn't coaching; he was calibrating a machine.
Leo took a breath, trying to find the quiet place, to listen for the echo. He ran. He planted his foot. He kicked.
The ball soared, but it was a flat, lifeless thing, sailing harmlessly over the crossbar.
< < [Free-Kick Attempt: Failed] >>
**<< [Deviation from 'Phoenix Arc' Baseline: 67%] >> **
"You're thinking," Thorpe said, his voice dripping with contempt. "He doesn't think. He knows. His body knows the geometry like you know how to breathe. You are fighting the one thing that can save you—his muscle memory. Stop fighting it."
For two hours, it was the same. Free-kicks. Then, repetitive first-touch drills where the ball was fired at him from a cannon at dizzying speeds. Then, intricate passing patterns where Thorpe would scream corrections about the weight of the pass, the specific foot to use, the body shape upon reception.
"Valtieri receives side-on to play the next pass forward! You receive square, like a traffic cone!"
Leo's body ached, but his mind was a raw, bleeding wound. Thorpe was systematically dismantling every instinct he'd ever had as a footballer and trying to replace it with Kaelan's perfect, alien programming. The echoes came, but they were fleeting, drowned out by the torrent of criticism.
"It's no use," Leo gasped, collapsing to one knee after another wayward shot, sweat dripping from his chin onto the hallowed turf. "I can't be him."
Thorpe walked over, looking down at him without a trace of pity. "I'm not asking you to be him. I'm ordering you to replicate him. There's a difference. You don't need to feel the music to play the notes on the sheet. Now, get up. We're moving to the Mind Room. Your technical deficiencies are only half the problem."
---
The "problem" was named Elara.
In the Mind Room, Thorpe had pulled up a holographic display of Kaelan's personal data—a frighteningly detailed dossier of his life.
"His mother's name is Isabella. She calls every Sunday. You will answer, you will be polite, and you will tell her you love her. His favorite meal is his father's seafood risotto, a recipe he has never shared. You will develop a sudden, post-accident aversion to seafood. His dog, a Border Collie named Zeus, died when he was fourteen. Do not, under any circumstances, react positively to any other dog."
Leo listened, his head spinning. It was a crash course in a life that wasn't his, a map of emotional landmines.
"And Elara," Thorpe said, his gaze intensifying. "They met at a gallery opening two years ago. He hates modern art; he went for the networking. She loves it. He feigns interest. Their song is 'Cosmic Love' by Florence + The Machine. He thinks it's pretentious, but he pretends to love it for her. Do you understand the pattern?"
Leo understood. It was a pattern of subtle deception, of a man crafting a persona to maintain a relationship. The real Kaelan was a stranger to Elara, too. He was just a better actor.
"You will be distant, but not cold. You are 'working through the trauma.' You will hold her hand, but your mind will be 'on the game.' You will use the concussion as a shield for every mistake, for every moment you don't act like the man she remembers."
It was a monstrous plan. It required him to weaponize her compassion, to use her love for Kaelan as a tool for his own deception. The guilt from their phone call was a fresh, open wound, and Thorpe was pouring salt directly into it.
"I can't do that to her," Leo whispered, his conscience rebelling.
"You can, and you will," Thorpe replied, his voice devoid of any humanity. "Your sentimentality is a luxury you cannot afford. It is a weakness that will expose us all. If she becomes suspicious, the entire structure collapses. She is the single greatest threat to this operation."
The word "operation" made it clear. This was no longer a life; it was a mission. And Elara was the primary target for neutralization.
Later that evening, back in the gilded cage, Leo stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the city lights twinkle. He felt more isolated than ever. Thorpe's "training" had carved him out, leaving him hollow. He was a puppet, and the warden held all the strings.
His phone buzzed. A notification from a news app.
BREAKING: COMA VICTIM IN VALTERI CRASH SHOWS SIGNS OF NEUROLOGICAL ACTIVITY.
The world tilted. Leo's breath caught in his throat. He fumbled with the phone, opening the article with trembling fingers.
It was a short, clinical piece. Leo Mears, the unnamed "coma victim," had exhibited "promising neural spikes" during a routine scan. Doctors were "cautiously optimistic."
He's waking up.
The real Kaelan was fighting his way back to consciousness.
A torrent of conflicting emotions assaulted him. Relief—that the man whose life he'd stolen wasn't going to die. Hope—that maybe, just maybe, there was a way to reverse this. And then, a crushing, paralyzing terror.
If Kaelan woke up, he would talk. He would tell them he was Kaelan Valtieri. He would expose everything.
Leo stared at his reflection in the dark glass—the sharp jaw, the green eyes, the face of a god. It was a face that now felt like a death mask.
The clock was ticking. Thorpe was hammering him into a convincing replica, while the original was preparing to step out of the shadows.
He had to get better. He had to master the echoes, perfect the mimicry, and secure his place in this stolen life before the real owner came to evict him.
The thought was born of pure survival instinct, cold and sharp. It silenced the guilt, for now.
He turned from the window and walked back towards the Mind Room. Sleep was impossible.
He had a ghost to summon.