The silence in the penthouse was no longer comfortable. It was charged, pregnant with unspoken questions. Elara's casual observation about his resilience hung in the air like a ghost. Leo could feel her gaze on him throughout the evening, a soft, persistent pressure that was far more unnerving than Thorpe's drills or Thorne's threats.
He retreated into the Mind Room, but the equations on the whiteboards seemed to writhe and twist, offering no solace. The simulator felt like a lie. How could he simulate the feeling of a woman's heart breaking because of his deception?
He was so consumed by the new, intimate threat of Elara that he almost forgot the external ones. The reminder came via a buzz from his new, monitored phone.
David: Press conference tomorrow. 11 a.m. Standard pre-game media event. We've prepped talking points. Stick to them. No deviations. Remember, you're "recovering" but "confident."
A press conference. A room full of sharks who made their living by scenting blood in the water. And he was a walking, bleeding wound.
---
The following morning, the club's media room was a blinding cacophony of lights and sound. Dozens of reporters, their cameras like a forest of unblinking eyes, were packed into the space. Leo sat at the central table, flanked by David and a stoic Coach Thorpe. He wore a club polo shirt, a carefully crafted expression of determined optimism on his face.
The first few questions were softballs, fed by friendly journalists.
"Kaelan,great to see you back. How are you feeling physically?"
"The team spirit seems high.Are you confident for the Juventus match?"
Leo answered by rote, using David's pre-written lines. "Feeling stronger every day… Focusing on my recovery… The team has been fantastic…" His voice was Kaelan's, but the cadence was off, the confidence a brittle shell.
Then, a reporter from a notorious tabloid leaned into his microphone. "Kaelan, there's been a lot of talk about your style of play since the accident. You seem… different. More physical, less finesse. Some are calling it a 're-invention.' Others wonder if the accident caused a fundamental shift in your abilities. Can you address that?"
Leo's blood ran cold. The question was a spear aimed directly at the chink in his armor. He could feel David tense beside him.
"I… the crash was a wake-up call," Leo stammered, deviating from the script. "It makes you appreciate the… the simple parts of the game. The fight. The passion." He was digging a hole, and he knew it.
"So you've lost the finesse?" the reporter pressed, smelling weakness.
< < [Public Speaking Check: Failed] >>
**<< [Stress Levels: 95%] >> **
"No! I haven't lost anything," Leo said, a bit too forcefully, a flicker of Leo Mears's defensiveness breaking through. "It's all still there. I'm just… choosing when to use it."
It was the wrong thing to say. It made him sound calculating, arrogant, and dishonest all at once. A murmur went through the room.
Then, the killing blow came from an unexpected corner. A serious-looking journalist from a respected sports outlet stood.
"My question isn't for Kaelan, actually. It's for the club," she said, her voice clear and cutting. "There are reports from Northwood General Hospital regarding Leo Mears, the other victim of the crash. Sources indicate he has shown significant, unexpected neurological activity. There's even talk of a potential transfer to a specialized long-term care facility, funded by an anonymous donor. Can the club confirm its involvement in Mr. Mears's ongoing care, and does this heightened level of support indicate a greater level of responsibility felt for the tragic incident?"
The air was sucked out of the room. Leo felt the world tilt. A specialized facility. An anonymous donor. Thorne. They were moving him. Isolating the real Kaelan. Containing the variable.
David smoothly cut in, his voice a practiced blend of sympathy and corporate speak. "Out of respect for patient confidentiality, we cannot comment on specific medical details. The club has always maintained that we would support Mr. Mears and his family through this difficult time, and that commitment remains unwavering."
The answer was perfect. And it told Leo everything he needed to know. The noose was tightening not just around him, but around the hospital bed miles away.
The rest of the conference was a blur. Leo robotically delivered his lines, his mind reeling. When it was over, he practically fled the room, David's hand a firm, guiding pressure on his elbow.
"You deviated," David hissed the moment they were in a private corridor. "You looked panicked. You confirmed their suspicions that something is wrong."
"They're moving him, David!" Leo shot back, his voice a desperate whisper. "Why? To what end?"
David's face was a stony mask. "To ensure his well-being gets the best possible care, away from the prying media. It's for his own good. And yours. Now, get your head straight. The world is watching."
Back home, Leo expected more questions from Elara. He braced for another subtle interrogation. But instead, he found her quiet, pensive. She was staring at her painting, a chaotic, stormy masterpiece of greys and dark blues.
"I saw the press conference," she said softly, not turning around. "You seemed… trapped."
Leo didn't know how to respond. The truth was a boulder in his throat.
She finally turned to look at him, and her eyes were not accusatory, but deeply sad. "Before the crash, you loved those things. The cameras, the attention. You thrived on it. Now, it's like it's sucking the life out of you." She took a step closer. "Who are you trying so hard to be, Kaelan? And who are you so afraid of?"
In that moment, he wanted to tell her everything. The confession burned on his lips. But he saw David's cold eyes in his mind. He felt the phantom presence of Marcus Thorne. He thought of the real Kaelan, being shipped off to some anonymous facility.
He said the only thing he could, the words tasting like the betrayal they were.
"I'm just trying to be the man everyone expects me to be."
Elara held his gaze for a long, heartbreaking moment. Then she simply nodded, a quiet acceptance that was far worse than anger. She picked up her brush and turned back to her canvas, adding a single, sharp streak of crimson to the grey storm.
It looked like a wound.
He had survived the press conference. He had parried the public's questions.
But he was losing the war in his own home. And with the real Kaelan being moved to an unknown location, the one person who could potentially understand his nightmare was being taken further and further out of reach.