The heat in Jakarta was different from Zurich.
Zurich's cold was crisp, sterilizing everything it touched. But Jakarta? The heat here was heavy. It clung to your skin like wet, desperate fingers, smelling of exhaust fumes, clove cigarettes, and—in the case of the U-20 National Team training camp—complacency.
Rio Valdes stood on the sidelines, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He watched the scene unfolding on the pitch, and his bionic heart held a steady, rhythmic beat against his ribs.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
They weren't training.
"Bro, seriously, look at the engagement on that last reel!"
"Five thousand likes in ten minutes? Sick. Maybe I can ask for a higher rate on that energy drink sponsor."
A group of players in red-and-white training kits huddled in the center circle. They weren't surrounding a tactics board; they were worshipping a glowing smartphone screen. They were laughing, preening, and fixing their hair for the camera.
[SYSTEM SCANNING...][Target: Bambang (Team Captain)][Status: Complacent][Focus: 12/100][Threat Assessment: E-Rank]
Rio adjusted his grip on his bag. E-Rank. Disappointing.
"Put the phones away!"
The roar came from Coach Guntur. The veteran coach looked like he had aged a decade in the two months Rio had been away. His eyes were sunken, dark circles carved deep by sleepless nights. He looked like a man marching toward a firing squad.
Guntur spotted Rio and exhaled, a mix of relief and anxiety washing over his face. "Gather up! Rio is back from Switzerland."
Bambang, the star striker and the self-proclaimed king of this little kingdom, turned slowly. He ran a hand through his pomade-slicked hair, flashing a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"Oh? The Glass Heart survives?" Bambang sneered, stepping forward. The other players snickered like hyenas behind him. "I thought you died on the operating table, Valdes. Come to return your jersey?"
Rio didn't answer. He simply walked onto the pitch.
But he wasn't alone.
Two figures trailed behind him, stepping out of Rio's shadow.
The first was a scrawny youth wearing sports spectacles that looked too big for his face. He walked with a slight hunch, his eyes darting around the field as if solving a complex equation—Adrian Vance.
The second was a ghost. Pale skin, hollow cheeks, and a presence so faint he seemed to blend into the background noise—Ole Romeny.
"Who are the extras?" Bambang jerked his chin toward Adrian. "New water boys? Or did the math club get lost?"
Adrian pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He looked Bambang up and down, his expression one of clinical distaste.
"I'm a Central Midfielder," Adrian said, his voice crisp. "And you should fix your posture. Your center of gravity is leaning too far left. If I nudged you right now, you'd fold like a cheap lawn chair."
The silence that followed was deafening. The hyenas stopped laughing. Did the twig just insult the King?
Bambang's face darkened. "Excuse me?"
"You heard him," Rio cut in. His voice was low, devoid of emotion, yet it carried across the field with unnatural clarity. "Coach Guntur. I need a calibration test."
"Calibration?" Guntur frowned.
"My hardware is new," Rio tapped his chest. "I need to test the limits. Let us play against them."
He pointed a finger at Bambang and the entire starting eleven.
"Us?" Bambang scoffed. "You, the twig, and the mute? Against my whole squad?"
"Us three," Rio confirmed. "Give us a reserve goalkeeper and any defender you have lying around. Eleven against Five. The Starters versus the Rejects."
"Rio, that's suicide," Guntur warned, stepping in. "The field is too big. You'll be outnumbered two to one."
"That is the point, Coach," Rio replied calmly. "If they can't stop three people with eleven, they don't deserve to go to the World Cup."
Bambang threw his head back and laughed, a loud, performative sound meant for the younger players to emulate. "You hear that, boys? The cripple wants a beating! Fine. I accept. When you lose, you crawl off this pitch and never come back."
"And when we win," Rio said, his eyes flashing with a cold, predatory light, "that armband belongs to me. And until the World Cup is over, you shut your mouth and do exactly what I say."
"Deal!" Bambang spat. "Get the vests!"
Five minutes later, the whistle blew.
The setup was comical. Rio's team (wearing bright yellow bibs) looked swallowed by the sheer size of the pitch. Huge gaps existed in their formation.
"Crush the four-eyes first!" Bambang shouted, signaling his midfielders. "He's the weak link! Break him!"
The ball started at Adrian's feet.
Bambang charged straight at him, sprinting with the intent to hurt. He wanted to assert dominance early, a shoulder charge that would send the skinny kid flying.
Adrian didn't panic. He didn't even sprint. He simply stood there, ball at his feet, his body angled sharply toward the left touchline. His eyes, his hips, his shoulders—every fiber of his being screamed: I am going left.
Bambang grinned. Too easy. I read you like a book.
Bambang threw his weight to the left to intercept.
But the ball didn't go left.
With a twitch of his ankle—a movement so subtle it barely registered—Adrian shifted his weight and tapped the ball to the right.
[SKILL ACTIVATED: FALSE SIGNAL][EFFECT: Sensory Disruption]
"Wha—?!"
Bambang's brain couldn't process the contradiction. His momentum carried him crashing into empty space. He flailed, his cleats catching the turf, and he went down face-first, eating a mouthful of grass.
"Amateur," Adrian muttered, gliding past the fallen captain. "Your brain is lagging behind your feet."
Adrian looked up. He didn't shout. He didn't signal. He just drove a long, high pass into the empty space on the far right wing.
The sideline erupted in laughter. "Who's he passing to?" "It's a ghost! Nobody's there!"
The right wing was completely empty. The opposing fullback started jogging over, smirking. "Easy ball."
But the smirk vanished in a heartbeat.
The air shimmered. From the blind spot of the defender's peripheral vision, a figure materialized.
One second, the space was empty. The next, Ole Romeny was there.
[PASSIVE: VANISHING POINT][Aggro Level: 0%][Stealth Check: PASSED]
"Where the hell did he come from?!" the fullback screamed, scrambling backward.
Ole didn't trap the ball. He didn't need to slow down. He let the ball drop, meeting it with a cushioned volley that sent it skidding across the face of the goal.
It was a suicide pass. Straight into the cluster of two giant center-backs guarding the penalty box.
"Mine!" The defensive giant roared, winding up for a clearance. "I'll break his legs!"
Time seemed to freeze.
In Rio's vision, the chaotic field dissolved into a grid of neon green lines. Vectors. Velocity. Heart rates.
[HEART RATE: 140 BPM][ADRENALINE: OPTIMAL][SKILL: THE SURGEON'S TOUCH]
Rio didn't brace for impact. He flowed through the chaos like water.
Just as the defender lunged, Rio's toe made contact with the ball. Not a kick—a caress. He lifted it a mere three inches off the ground.
The defender's tackle swept underneath the ball, missing Rio's ankles by a millimeter.
Rio landed softly, the ball glued to his foot. He was one-on-one with the keeper.
The keeper rushed out, spreading his arms wide to intimidate.
Rio didn't blink. He didn't blast it. With the cold precision of a man dissecting a frog, he slotted the ball into the bottom left corner.
Swish.
The net rippled.
Silence descended on Senayan. The only sound was the distant hum of Jakarta's traffic.
Bambang was still on his knees, grass staining his teeth. Adrian adjusted his glasses, looking bored. Ole turned around and walked back to the center line, his face a blank mask.
Rio stood tall, his chest heaving rhythmically. He looked toward the sidelines, locking eyes with a stunned Coach Guntur.
"System calibration complete," Rio said, his voice cutting through the silence.
He turned to look at the fallen "stars" of the National Team.
"Get up," Rio ordered. "That was just the warm-up. We have eighty-nine minutes of surgery left."