Chapter 2 — The Tunnel
The Erasers players left the locker room in silence.
No one spoke.
No one looked at each other.
Heads down, shoulders slumped, gray jerseys glued to their bodies with cold sweat. The air smelled of metal, disinfectant, and stale anxiety. One limped, his knee wrapped in adhesive tape, leaning on the wall and breathing through his teeth. Another had a split eyebrow, a dry gash now sealed with a dark crust of blood. With every step, the hallway lights flickered, as if the electrical system were exhausted too.
The space left by the two dead men followed them. Invisible. Heavy.
An absence breathing among them.
The coach walked in front.
He stopped just before the tunnel and turned around.
His eyes moved slowly across their gaunt faces, their empty stares.
No one met his gaze. Some were still shaking. Others looked hollow, as if nothing was left inside.
"Listen," he said, voice low but steady. "No one's going to show mercy. No one's stopping the match for you."
He paused.
The sound of the rusty fan filled the space.
The smell of wet grass drifted up from the tunnel.
"Play the best you can," he went on.
"Score goals.
Do damage."
He looked at them one by one.
"If you have to kill, kill.
But don't let them kill you like that."
This time, the silence was longer.
Breaths, footsteps, the faint hum of the walls—all suspended.
"Don't walk out empty-handed," he said at last.
"This is your chance:
to buy your freedom…
or to take revenge on the system that dumped you here."
No one answered.
There was no speech that could lift that weight.
Not in third division.
Not with two bodies still on the field.
The coach gave a final nod, lips pressed tight.
"Let's go."
They started toward the tunnel.
The noise of the stadium rolled in like a vibration. At first it was a low hum, constant, but the echo of concrete turned it into something larger. Every breath felt foreign. Every step made the lights tremble. The tunnel smelled of dampness and despair, of fresh paint and living flesh.
At the far end, a white light waited for them — the field.
Too bright. Almost violent.
From the booth, the commentators' voices rose, bouncing through the speakers.
"We're seconds away from the second half kickoff," said the first.
"A brutal first half—two goals, and two confirmed deaths…"
"And an Erasers side completely overrun," added the second.
"They haven't shown the level for this division."
As soon as they stepped out of the tunnel, the cameras swarmed them: lenses, flashes, microphones, drones circling like insects.
The stadium erupted.
"GET OUT!"
"DIE!"
"FRESH MEAT!"
Bottles flew. Food scraps. Cups. A shoe. The dry crack of something hitting the grass echoed all the way up the stands. The giant screens—four of them, hanging above the field—projected worn, battered, defeated faces. A hundred thousand voices booing in unison.
A roar rising from the city's guts.
"There they are," said the commentator.
"The visiting team, Erasers, stepping onto the field under a rain of insults."
The players walked to their side of the pitch without looking up. Each step echoed against their ribs. The air was thick, charged with heat and collective rage.
Double Zero felt his heart pounding in his throat.
He thought of the two who were gone.
Tonight wasn't about points.
It was about surviving until darkness fell.
The roar shifted.
First a murmur. Then a chant. Then an explosion.
"EXE-CU-TION-ERS!"
"EXE-CU-TION-ERS!"
"EXE-CU-TION-ERS!"
The stadium lights began to whirl.
The far tunnel burst with near-divine brightness.
"And HERE THEY COME!" shouted the commentator, rising to his feet.
"The winning side! The star team of the third division!"
The Executioners walked out.
Not running.
Not smiling.
Not blinking.
Eleven shadows dressed in black, identical, synchronized, flawless.
The lights bounced off their bodies as if sweat were part of the uniform.
Black paint crossed their faces from forehead to jaw.
They advanced with military calm, every movement deliberate.
At the front, Krael, the captain.
Chest out.
Eyes locked forward.
Measured steps.
As if the entire stadium belonged to him.
The crowd roared.
"Two goals!" the commentator cried. "Two deaths! Still undefeated in this division! The heavy favorites to ascend!"
The cameras devoured them from every angle.
The bright lights reflected on their studs, in Krael's pupils, and in Double Zero's contained silence.
"Meanwhile," added the second commentator, "Erasers have shown absolutely nothing. No skill. No response. They're here for one thing only."
Pause.
"For the Executioners to practice.
To score goals.
And to make sure someone doesn't walk away tonight."
The referee stepped to the center circle.
The whistle hung from his neck—a token of authority, though no one in the stadium believed that whistle could stop anything.
Double Zero clenched his fists.
His own breath sounded distant, as if from another body.
The lights blinded him.
Only one thought remained clear: endure.
This wasn't a match.
It was an exhibition.
A show of flesh and power.
A ritual.
They were the sacrificial act.
And the worst was yet to come.
The referee lifted the whistle, but didn't blow.
The air had a strange weight, almost electric. The crowd roared with a thick murmur, as if the sound were born from the stadium's bowels, not from human throats. The white lights fell like scalding rain over the grass, exposing every drop of sweat, every ragged breath, every pair of eyes gleaming behind the steam rising from the field.
All twenty-two players were already in position. Their chests rose and fell violently, the air forcing its way in. The Executioners looked like caged beasts—muscles tense, knuckles clenched, teeth grinding. The Erasers, instead, backed away without meaning to; they could feel it on their skin, that liquid fear that has no name but a smell—iron, old blood, defeat.
At the sideline, the Double Zero stood still, hands open, rigid, pressed against his thighs. He didn't know what to do with his body. He wasn't part of the game yet, but already felt its weight, as if his invisible number were branded into his flesh. Cameras found him. Commentators mentioned him with a mix of mockery and morbid delight.
—Look at him… doesn't even know where he's standing…
—Double Zero. Hasn't debuted yet and his legs are already shaking.
—Ah, but tonight he plays. No turning back now.
The ball was still in play.
The Erasers tried to pass short, desperate for breath, but every touch trembled. The leather seemed alive, electric, as if it too feared being stopped. Behind them, the Executioners advanced with the slow calm of predators before a leap. They didn't run—they stalked.
The cameras darted wildly. The commentator spoke faster than the players moved, his voice chasing the pulse of the crowd.
—The Erasers are backing up… gasping for air… the Executioners are pushing them back meter by meter… this isn't pressure… this is punishment…
From the sideline, the fourth official raised the electronic board. The number burned crimson under the floodlights:
2 → 00
The stadium froze for a single second.
Then came the murmur.
Then the laughter.
Then the screams.
—DOUBLE ZERO!
—FRESH MEAT!
—HE WON'T LEAVE ALIVE!
The commentators laughed.
The cameras hunted the substitute's face.
And when the referee blew the whistle, the sound landed like a verdict.
Number 2 dragged himself off the field. His lip was split, his shirt torn, his eyes hollow. As he passed Double Zero, he barely looked at him. Dried blood on his teeth.
—Thanks —he said flatly.— Better you die than me.
Double Zero couldn't answer. He just stepped forward, feeling the tremor of his muscles, the vapor of his sweat, the distant roar of thousands of throats begging for him to fall.
He entered.
The referee pointed to his position. Defense.
The whistle blew again.
The match went on.
And in that instant, fear had a smell.
The Erasers touched the ball clumsily, palms slick, pulses wild. The dry smack of leather on boot sounded almost human—like a bone breaking. A low hum filled the air, a vibration born from the crowd itself.
A short pass. Another. Midfield.
Then one of the Executioners appeared out of nowhere—
a kick to the chest,
and a second, higher, crueler.
The player flew backward, hit the ground with a breathless moan.
Everything stopped for an instant—everything except the ball, still bouncing, pure, round, perfect, indifferent.
Another Executioner seized it and ran.
He ran as if the air didn't exist.
Past one.
Past two.
Past three.
The turf exploded beneath his studs. Drops of sweat—or blood, who could tell—burst into the air like inner rain.
—Unstoppable! —yelled the commentator.— This isn't a match anymore… it's a hunt!
Switch of play.
Right flank.
Another Executioner received.
Two Erasers tried to block him.
Failed.
A third Executioner appeared from nowhere.
Double elbow to the head.
The crack of impact cut through the stadium's breath.
The player fell.
Didn't move.
Silence lasted only a second before erupting into a roar.
The ball kept moving.
Always moving.
Spinning, bouncing, breathing.
And it reached Double Zero.
The stadium held its breath—thousands of lungs suspended mid-beat.
The ball dropped.
Double Zero saw it too late.
He knew—without being told—there was no way out.
Behind him, one Executioner.
To the left, another.
In front, the last.
A perfect trap.
A tradition.
You don't play the Double Zero.
You erase him.
But he jumped.
Higher than he should.
Higher than anyone should.
His forehead slammed into the ball.
The crack sounded like thunder.
The ball shot away, spinning violently, alive, furious, skipping toward the enemy's field.
And before anyone could react, Double Zero was already running.
Running without thought.
Running without air.
Running as if the field were a tunnel and something greater than death waited at the end.
The Executioners chased him—voices, footsteps, lungs collapsing.
The turf opened beneath their studs.
The stadium trembled.
And for the first time since he entered, silence devoured everything.
Only the sound of the ball spinning—still intact.
Still alive.
As if it were the only real thing left.
Double Zero stood still.
He didn't celebrate.
He didn't chase the play.
He remained standing, feet sinking into the turf, chest rising too fast — as if every breath hurt. The world seemed to have shifted a millimeter out of place. Everything looked the same… but it wasn't.
The lights flickered.
The air grew heavy.
A few meters away, Krael was still on the ground.
The captain of the Executioners inhaled deeply, one knee pressed to the grass, his open palm smeared with green and sweat. He didn't stand immediately. He looked at the stadium's artificial sky… then the turf… and finally, at Double Zero.
There was no rage in his eyes.
There was calculation.
Understanding.
The ball kept rolling.
Joaquín caught it mid-run.
Thin. Anxious. Smiling like someone who no longer knew the difference between reality and delirium.