Chapter One – Dust Ground
Fuenlabrada, South Madrid – 11:32 p.m.
The pitch was more sand than grass. Broken bottles lined the fences, and cigarette butts dotted the corners like confetti from a forgotten party. A single floodlight buzzed overhead, flickering like it couldn't decide whether to give up or hold on. Insects danced in its halo, and the thick summer air pressed down.
This wasn't football the way people saw it on television.. No coaches. No tactics. No one to blow a whistle when someone got shoved too hard. Just the scrape of shoes on dust, the bark of laughter, and curses tossed like candy.
Leo Varela ran because it was the only thing that made him feel real.
His black shirt clung to his back, soaked in sweat. He could barely see through his bangs. Dust clung to his lashes. His lungs burned, his knees ached. But he kept going.
"Leo!" Dani's voice. "Pass it, cabrón! Don't try to show off again!"
Leo didn't look back. "It's not showing off," he muttered. "I just… want to know."
Know what? That he was good? That he wasn't wasting his time out here? That there was something inside him worth believing in?
But if he was being honest, the answer was simpler.
He just didn't want to be forgotten.
The game was trash. A mess. The kind of street match where nobody cared about the score. Pride was the only currency. Kids from the block. A few older teens with tattoos and missing teeth. The kind of guys who'd kill a ball and a conversation in the same breath.
Leo had been sloppy all night. Every pass either too slow or too fast. Every touch just a bit off. One of the younger kids nutmegged him earlier, and the laughter still stung.
"You're playing like you got bricks in your boots," Dani had told him.
And he wasn't wrong.
Leo's confidence was leaking through every step, every glance over his shoulder. He felt it. The eyes. The silent judgement. The unspoken truth: no one here thought he was good.
Not even him.
But something had always burned in his chest. A quiet, stubborn flame. Like he was born with a fuse, just waiting for a spark.
And then came the final minute.
The ball found him at center field. Everyone else looked dead—sagging shoulders, hands on knees. Breaths like steam engines. The world felt slow. Heavy.
Dani's voice cut through again: "PASS IT, LEO! NOW!"
Leo didn't hear. Or maybe he did… but chose not to.
Something shifted. Not outside, but inside. Like his body had been lying to him all match, hiding what it could do. And now, without warning, it opened the gates.
He ran.
The first defender lunged. Leo tapped the ball just wide, brushing past with barely a movement.
Second one came from the side. Bigger. Stronger. Leo faked left—then darted right. A sliver of space was all he needed.
The third tried to sweep his legs. Leo jumped—just enough. His heel scraped the defender's shin as he flew by.
Now it was just the keeper. A kid named Raul with quick hands and quicker trash talk.
Leo didn't think. Didn't aim.
He struck the ball like it had insulted him.
It screamed past Raul, tearing into the net with a dull, violent thud.
Then—silence.
No cheers. No claps. Just stillness.
Even the streetlamp stopped flickering.
Then came the sound.
"¡Mierda!"
"¡¿Qué carajo fue eso?!"
Someone laughed. Another cursed. A few clapped in disbelief.
But Dani? He just stared. Wide-eyed. Mouth half-open.
"Leo…" he said, quietly. "What the hell just happened?"
Leo bent over, gasping. His chest rose and fell. He looked at his hands. At the dust clinging to his forearms. Then at the goal.
He didn't answer.
He didn't have an answer.
Something had cracked open—and even he wasn't sure what came out.
They played a few more minutes. Slower. Looser. No one challenged Leo again. Some nodded at him when it was over. Most just walked off, shoulders hunched, muttering.
Leo offered to walk home with Dani.
"Nah," Dani said, shaking his head. "I need to think."
"About what?"
Dani didn't answer. Just turned and walked into the maze of narrow streets and graffiti walls.
Leo shrugged, tied his laces tighter, and started toward home. The dust still clung to his skin. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to shake the feeling—the echo of what he'd just done.
He walked past shuttered shops, old women talking to cats from windows, and a kid spraying something unreadable onto a wall.
But then…
Footsteps.
Behind him. Not fast. But precise.
He turned. No one.
He kept walking. The steps returned.
He cut through a narrow alley. A stray cat hissed and darted between trash bins. The air smelled like oil and rot. A flickering red light bathed the walls like a warning.
Then—tires on gravel.
A black car stopped at the alley's mouth.
The back door opened.
A man stepped out. Tall. Black sunglasses even at night. A short beard. Plain clothes, but somehow... expensive.
"Leo Varela?" he asked.
Leo said nothing.
"We saw what you did," the man said calmly. "You're not like them."
A pause.
"We're offering you a chance. No one else will get this."
Leo frowned. "You're kidding, right?"
He tried to push past. The man didn't stop him.
But then—
sting!.
Something pricked the side of Leo's neck. Like a wasp.
His fingers touched the spot, but already his legs were jelly. The alley twisted. The streetlamp above stretched into a smear of yellow.
Then everything cracked like glass—
—and vanished.
....
He woke with a cough.
Metal walls. No windows. Cold. Sterile.
He was lying on a steel bed, the kind you'd see in a prison movie. His mouth was dry. His pulse raced.
On the far wall, a black screen blinked to life.
White text.
"Welcome to Cage 11, Leo. Make us a King… or die trying."
His breath caught in his throat.
He tried to speak. Couldn't.
His heartbeat was louder than the silence.