The "simulation" was nothing like the drills. Thorpe had arranged a closed-doors, full-intensity 11-vs-11 match against a visiting Championship side, known for their aggressive, physical play. But the real opponents weren't the players on the pitch. They were the two men sitting in the otherwise empty owner's box: Marcus Thorne and David, their figures dark and motionless against the glass.
WHISTLE!
The game began, and it was a storm. The opposition, eager to prove themselves against the Premier League champions, flew into tackles, pressing with a ferocity that stole the air from Leo's lungs. The first time a hulking defender crunched into his side, the impact was a visceral shock. This wasn't a controlled drill; it was a battle.
And the ball, his eternal nemesis, was a live grenade.
His first touch was a disaster. A simple pass from Alvaro bounced off his shin, a gift to the opposition that launched a counter-attack. From the corner of his eye, he saw Thorne's silhouette in the box lean forward slightly.
He's watching. He's counting every mistake.
The fear was a physical weight, thicker than the morning fog. He was trying to force the echoes, to command Kaelan's genius to appear, and it was having the opposite effect. He was a statue, a liability. Vance's furious shouts from the defense were a constant reminder of his inadequacy.
"Wake up, Valtieri! Or did the crash turn you into a ghost?!"
A ghost. The word resonated. He was trying to be the solid, real Kaelan. But he wasn't. He was a ghost in this machine. And ghosts couldn't force their way through solid walls.
A memory flashed: his penalty kick against Vance. The sheer, desperate surrender that had allowed the power to flow.
He was trying to fight the storm. He needed to become the eye.
The next time the ball came to him, a high, looping cross towards the edge of the box, he stopped fighting. He stopped trying to be Kaelan. He let the pressure, the fear, the watching eyes, all wash over him. He acknowledged the terror, and then he let it go, emptying his mind into that silent, hollow place.
The world slowed.
**< < [Synaptic Override: Engaged] >> **
His body moved without his conscious instruction. He took two steps back, creating a sliver of space. The ball dropped from the sky. Instead of trying to control it, his right foot met it perfectly on the half-volley.
BOOM!
The sound was a cannon shot, echoing in the near-empty stadium. The ball became a blur, screaming past the goalkeeper's outstretched hand and ripping into the top corner of the net. The net bulged, the force shaking the entire goal frame.
For a moment, there was absolute silence. Then, a few scattered, awed cheers from the substitutes' bench.
It wasn't a goal. It was a statement. A declaration of power that was utterly unlike Kaelan's usual finesse, but was undeniably, terrifyingly effective.
Leo didn't celebrate. He just stood there, his chest heaving, his mind eerily calm. He looked up at the owner's box. Thorne hadn't moved, but David was now leaning over, speaking intently into his ear.
The rest of the match was a transformation. Leo didn't dominate. He was… efficient. He became a conduit. When the echo was strong, he made breathtaking plays—a deft flick, a surgically precise through-ball. When it was just him, he played simple, safe, and effective football. He was no longer a disaster. He was a paradox: a player of moments of blinding genius, interspersed with stretches of unremarkable competence.
It was confusing, unpredictable, and utterly fascinating to watch.
As the players walked off the pitch, Thorpe fell into step beside Leo, his voice low. "Good. You adapted. Thorne is… intrigued. Confused, but intrigued. The unpredictability makes you less of a liability and more of a mystery. And the market loves a mystery."
It was the closest thing to praise Leo had received, and it felt like being handed a sharper blade.
When he arrived home, the illusion of normalcy was waiting for him. Elara was in the living room, a canvas set up by the window, splashes of blue and grey mirroring the Manchester skyline.
"I heard you had a good session," she said, smiling, but her eyes held a new, curious intensity. She put down her brush. "The team group chat is buzzing. They're saying you scored a rocket."
Leo's guard went up. He offered a non-committal shrug, falling into the "distant but recovering" persona. "It felt good. Things are… starting to click again."
"I'm glad," she said, walking over to him. She reached out and gently brushed a spot on his jersey, just over his ribs. "You've got some grass stain here. And… is that mud?" Her fingers lingered for a moment too long.
Leo looked down. It was just a smudge of dirt. But then he saw it. A tiny, almost imperceptible fleck of red. Blood. From the physical challenge early in the match.
"It's nothing," he said, pulling away slightly. "Just a knock."
Elara's smile didn't fade, but it became thoughtful. "You know, it's funny. The old you, before the crash, would have been screaming at the referee for that. You'd have made a whole production of it. Now you just… shrug it off." She tilted her head, her artist's eyes studying him like a new subject. "It's like you're more… resilient. Or maybe just… different."
The air in the room grew thick. The concussion shield was starting to wear thin under her perceptive gaze.
"Maybe the crash knocked some sense into me," he deflected, turning towards the kitchen to escape her scrutiny.
He felt her eyes on his back as he walked away. He had survived the owner's audit by becoming an enigma. He had survived the match by surrendering control.
But as he poured a glass of water with Kaelan's steady hands, a cold realization settled in his gut.
He had just passed one test by making himself a bigger mystery.
And the person most motivated to solve that mystery was the one living in his house.