The image of David's cold, appraising stare from the black car was burned onto the back of Leo's eyelids. Sleep, when it finally came, was a shallow, restless thing filled with phantom whistles and the sound of a heart monitor flatlining. He woke up feeling more drained than when he'd gone to bed, the fleeting victory of the previous day now tasting like ash.
The 7 a.m. training session was a study in controlled tension. Thorpe's drills were, if possible, more precise and demanding than before. But now, there was a new undercurrent. Every time Leo successfully executed a move, tapping into one of Kaelan's echoes, Thorpe's eyes would flicker towards the observation deck high above the pitch. Leo followed his gaze once and saw a silhouette—David, watching, a silent vulture circling the proceedings.
He wasn't just performing for Thorpe anymore. He was performing for the board, for the brand, for the man who saw him as a volatile stock.
The session ended with a full-pitch practice match. Leo, operating on a knife's edge between his own anxiety and the ghostly whispers of Kaelan's instincts, managed a passable performance. He didn't shine, but he didn't crumble. He was a competent cog in a well-oiled machine, which, for now, seemed to be enough.
As the players trudged off the pitch, Thorpe held Leo back with a hand on his arm. "David wants to see you. In the owner's suite. Now."
The message was clear: the warden's approval was only the first step. Now, the prison governor demanded an audience.
The owner's suite was a level of opulence that made Kaelan's house look modest. Plush, deep-pile carpets, dark wood panelling, and walls adorned with historical club memorabilia. David was there, but he wasn't alone.
Seated in a large leather wingback chair, like a king holding court, was an older man in an impeccably tailored suit. He had sharp, intelligent eyes that missed nothing and a presence that sucked the air out of the room. This was Marcus Thorne, the majority owner of Manchester City. A man who dealt in billions, not emotions.
"Kaelan. Come in. Sit," Thorne said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He didn't gesture to a chair; it was an order.
Leo sat, feeling like a schoolboy in the principal's office. David stood slightly behind Thorne, a silent sentinel.
"Marcus has been… concerned," David began, his tone carefully neutral.
"Concerned is an understatement, David," Thorne interrupted, his gaze fixed on Leo. "I invest in assets. Reliable, appreciating assets. A €180 million asset that suddenly forgets how to control a football is not reliable. It is a liability." He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "The doctors say you're fit. Thorpe says you're 'recovering.' I saw the training footage from today. You look… functional. But functional isn't why I bought you. I bought the Phoenix. I bought headlines and trophies."
Leo's mouth was dry. He could feel the real Kaelan's arrogance bubbling up as a defense mechanism, but he forced it down. Arrogance without skill was a death sentence here.
"The Juventus friendly," Thorne continued, "is no longer a friendly. It is an audit. The world's audit. My audit." He picked up a remote and clicked a button. A large screen on the wall lit up, showing a spreadsheet with dizzying numbers. "This is the projected revenue loss from a 10% decline in your brand value following a poor performance. Sponsorship clawbacks, lost merchandising, diminished global appeal. It's a number with a lot of zeros, boy."
He clicked again. The screen now showed a live feed from a hospital room. Leo's heart stopped. It was his body. Leo Mears's body, lying pale and still in a bed, surrounded by machines. The real Kaelan was in that shell.
"And this," Thorne said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, "is the other variable in this unfortunate equation. The boy from the crash. He remains… unstable."
Leo felt a cold sweat break out all over his body. They were monitoring him. They knew everything. Or did they?
"His continued existence is a public relations headache," David chimed in, his voice smooth. "But one we are managing. Our continued… generosity… with his medical care is, of course, contingent on a stable narrative."
The unspoken threat hung in the air, more terrifying than any shouted accusation. If you fail, if the narrative collapses, the "generosity" towards the comatose patient might end.
They were using the real Kaelan as a hostage.
"I will be ready," Leo heard himself say, his voice surprisingly steady. He was looking at the screen, at the body that held his fate and Kaelan's soul. "The connection is getting stronger. The… fog is lifting."
Thorne studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment. He then nodded slowly, a predator acknowledging its prey's resolve.
"See that it does," he said, turning off the screen. "The world expects a spectacle. I expect a return on my investment. You have six days." He waved a dismissive hand. "Don't disappoint me."
Dismissed, Leo stood on shaky legs and walked out. David followed him into the hallway.
"He's not a monster, Kaelan," David said, though his tone lacked any real conviction. "He's a businessman. And you are his business." He handed Leo a small, sleek smartphone. "This is a secure line. My number, Thorpe's number, and Marcus's private line are the only ones programmed in. You don't make personal calls on it. You use it when we call you. Understood?"
Leo took the phone. It felt like a shackle.
"Understood."
Back in the car, the weight of the meeting crushed him. Thorpe was his drill sergeant. David was his handler. But Marcus Thorne… he was the architect of this entire prison. His freedom, his very survival, and the life of the real Kaelan, were all tied to a single performance.
He was no longer just pretending to be a footballer. He was a gladiator, and his first public match was in front of an emperor who wouldn't think twice about giving the thumbs-down.
As the car pulled away, he looked down at the new phone. The screen was black, reflective. For a moment, he didn't see Kaelan Valtieri's face in the reflection. He saw Leo Mears, terrified and trapped.
The phone suddenly vibrated in his hand, lighting up with a single, programmed name.
It was Thorpe.
The message was brief and chilling:
Thorpe: The owner's box has a perfect view. No more drills. Tomorrow, we simulate the audit. Be ready.