The Mind Room was no longer a sanctuary; it was a crucible. The news of the real Kaelan's flickering consciousness had transformed Leo's desperate hope into a frantic, survivalist drive. Every failed simulation, every clumsy touch in training, wasn't just a personal failure—it was a countdown to his own annihilation.
Thorpe's methods became more intense, more brutal. He was no longer just a coach; he was a programmer, and Leo was a bug-ridden system that needed patching.
"The problem is your consciousness," Thorpe declared during a grueling session in the simulator. Leo had just misjudged a virtual header, sending it spiraling into the digital crowd. "You are trying to command the body. You need to relinquish control. Get out of its way."
"How?" Leo gasped, his virtual avatar kneeling on the virtual grass in exhaustion. "It's my body now."
"Is it?" Thorpe's voice was a cold challenge through the headset's comms. "Then why, when you stopped thinking during that penalty, did you perform? Your will is the static drowning out the signal. Silence it."
It was an impossible task: to consciously try to be unconscious. But the alternative was unthinkable.
The breakthrough came during a tactical drill on the real pitch. Thorpe had set up a complex pattern: a one-two pass with Alvaro, a driving run into the channel, and a cut-back cross to the far post. It was a move Kaelan had perfected, a ballet of timing and spatial awareness.
The first five attempts were catastrophic. Leo either passed too early, ran into a defender, or skied his cross. Vance's mocking laughter was a constant, grating soundtrack.
"You're a donkey in a racehorse's body, Mears," Vance sneered after Leo tripped over his own feet.
The insult, the frustration, the overwhelming pressure—it reached a boiling point. Leo felt something in his mind… snap. Not into panic, but into a strange, hollow resignation. The fear was still there, but it was a distant noise, like traffic from a far-off highway. He stopped trying. He stopped caring about the outcome.
Alvaro played the pass.
Leo's body moved.
It was not him. It was an echo, but this time, it wasn't a flicker. It was a wave.
**< < [Synaptic Override: Activated] >> **
His first touch was not a control; it was a redirection, a single, fluid motion that sent the ball spinning perfectly into the path of his own run. His legs pumped, eating up the grass with a power that felt both alien and innate. He didn't think about his cross. He saw the run of the virtual striker in his mind's eye, and his body complied.
The ball left his foot. It wasn't a hopeful punt. It was a guided missile, a curling, whipped delivery that bent around the holographic defender and landed directly on the foot of the sprinting attacker. A goal so inevitable it felt pre-ordained.
The simulation froze. A green \[GOAL] icon flashed in his vision.
Silence.
He stood there, chest heaving, but his mind was eerily quiet. The static was gone. For three perfect seconds, he had been a passenger in Kaelan Valtieri's body.
Thorpe, watching from the sidelines, didn't cheer. He didn't smile. He simply nodded, a grim, satisfied look on his face. "Finally. You got out of the way."
It was the highest praise Leo had ever received from him, and it felt like a condemnation.
---
The test was not over. The ultimate trial was waiting for him at home.
Elara was back.
He found her in the kitchen, unpacking groceries. The sight of her—the real, living, breathing woman from the video call—sent a jolt of panic through him so severe he almost turned and ran.
"Kaelan!" She smiled, that warm, genuine smile that made him feel like the lowest form of life. She came over and hugged him.
Leo's body went rigid. It was like being embraced by a ghost. He could smell her shampoo, feel the soft wool of her sweater. This was a violation on a level he hadn't even conceived. He was deceiving a screen; this was deceiving a person.
Remembering Thorpe's directives, he forced his arms to wrap around her, the gesture slow and hesitant. "Elara. You're back."
She pulled back, her hands on his arms, her eyes searching his. "I was so worried. You still look… tense."
The concussion shield. Use it.
"My head… it's still a mess," he said, looking away, hoping his performance of trauma was convincing. "Everything feels… distant."
Her face softened with immediate, heartbreaking empathy. "Oh, Kae. It's okay. We'll get through this." She took his hand and led him to the sofa. "Just talk to me. Tell me what it's like."
And so, he did. Using Thorpe's blueprint, he wove a tapestry of lies threaded with just enough truth to be believable. He spoke of the "fog," the "disconnect," the frustration of his body not responding how he expected. He talked about the fear from the crash. He told her everything Leo Mears was feeling, and presented it as Kaelan Valtieri's trauma.
He was using his own pain to perpetrate a fraud.
To his horror, it worked perfectly. Elara listened, her eyes glistening, squeezing his hand. She saw his vulnerability not as evidence of an imposter, but as a crack in her invincible boyfriend's armor—a crack she desperately wanted to mend.
"You don't have to be the Phoenix for me, Kaelan," she whispered, leaning her head on his shoulder. "You can just be you."
The words were a dagger. There was no "him." There was only the ghost and the thief.
He sat there, letting her lean on him, the weight of her trust and love feeling like a physical burden. He had passed the test. He had neutralized the threat. He had survived the day.
He had never felt more like a monster.
Later, after she'd fallen asleep in his—in Kaelan's—bed, he slipped out onto the balcony. The city was asleep. He had mastered a flicker of Kaelan's skill and had successfully deceived the woman who loved him. By any measure, it was a victory.
But as he looked down at the sleeping city, he didn't see freedom. He saw the bars of his cage, now stronger and more invisible than ever.
A sleek, black car he didn't recognize pulled up silently to the gate downstairs. The window rolled down, and for a split second, Leo saw David, his agent, looking up directly at him. There was no wave, no nod. Just a long, cold, appraising stare. Then the window rolled up, and the car slid away into the night.
The message was clear. The performance was being monitored. The warden had allies.
Leo had won the battle today, both on the pitch and in the living room.
But the war for his soul was just beginning, and he was running out of pieces of himself to sacrifice.