Five hours before kickoff.
The sky over Tressa sagged with the weight of weather not yet fallen.
Clouds thick with indecision smothered the sun, and the air.
Heavy with something unspoken, pressed into Kaviar Ka'eli's lungs as he stood on the rooftop of the training facility.
He didn't belong up there.
Players weren't allowed.
But rules like that only existed for people who needed permission.
He didn't. Not anymore.
Below him, the stadium stirred. A quiet kind of chaos. Staff moved with urgent, rehearsed purpose. Lights flickered to full. Cameramen checked their rigs.
Somewhere, an announcer practiced a name he'd been mispronouncing for years.
Ka'eli.
He never corrected them.
At his feet sat a ball. Perfect weight. Fresh panels. League-certified.
He hadn't touched it. Not yet.
But he wasn't alone.
Not really.
A figure stood three rooftops away. Dark coat, no face, not moving. Just watching.
Kaviar blinked.
Gone.
The silence returned. But it didn't feel the same. It felt… watched.
The rooftop was silent… until it wasn't.
"Kaviar!"
Lior's voice, distant but sharp. Always trying to make urgency sound like camaraderie.
Assistant coach. Tactical junkie. Too new to understand what kind of player Kaviar actually was.
"We've got fifteen before warm-up starts! You're in the rotation!"
Kaviar didn't respond. Just kept looking out. The city spread beneath him in muted hues.
Gray rooftops, rusted balconies, stray antennas like broken fingers pointing at nothing.
Raindrops began to fall. Sparse. Hesitant. Like the sky was testing the ground's patience.
He finally moved. Stepped back. Nudged the ball with the side of his foot.
It rolled. Picked up speed. And then vanished over the ledge.
No drama. No sound.
He turned and descended the stairs.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Inside, the locker room hummed with ritual. Boots thudded against benches. Energy drinks cracked open.
Tape was pulled taut around ankles and wrists. A playlist leaked tinny beats from someone's speaker.
Kaviar walked through it all like a ghost who hadn't realized he was dead.
No one stopped him. No one called his name. That wasn't silence.
It was reverence. Or fear. Maybe both.
He took his seat. Third locker from the end. Not by choice, just habit.
He pulled off his jacket.
Reached into his bag.
Unwrapped his boots like they were relics.
They were.
His name stitched into the leather.
Custom soleplate.
Stud pattern tuned to how he cut corners. Tight, fast, bladed like thought sharpened into instinct.
He laced them slow. Methodical. One eye on the knot. One ear on the world.
A few lockers down, Diao was talking shit again. Not malicious. Just loud.
"If he's dropping another four today, someone better tell Rennais to fake an injury before halftime."
Laughter.
Kaviar's fingers paused mid-pull.
Four. Again.
He tied the knot and stood. Didn't look at anyone. Didn't need to.
He walked past the mirror. Caught his own reflection. Expressionless.
But for a breath, less than a second, he thought his reflection wasn't alone.
A shadow behind his left shoulder. No shape. Just... weight.
He didn't turn around. He never did. He just walked.
Then he entered the hallway that led to the pitch.
The walls here were closed. Claustrophobic. Covered in old campaign posters and faded sponsor decals.
He walked them every week. And every week, they felt more like a tunnel to nowhere.
Coach waited at the end. Tablet in hand.
"Ka'eli."
He stopped. Met the man's eyes.
"You cut inside too much last game. We reviewed the footage. Every time you ghost their six, you open the pocket, but no one can follow. You make it look clean, but it's chaos for the system."
Kaviar stared at him.
Coach didn't blink.
"Just play the plan today."
The silence stretched.
Then: "Don't make me ask twice."
Kaviar nodded.
Coach stepped aside. Let him pass.
The hallway ended. Light spilled from the doors ahead. Real light now, stadium light, bright enough to turn breath into gold.
He didn't step into it yet.
Instead, he looked up at the wall beside the tunnel exit. Someone had written a quote in silver marker:
"Play like the world ends at full-time."
He didn't smile. Didn't scoff. He just stared.
Then turned.
And finally, stepped into the light.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The warm-up was a ritual. Stretch. Tap.
Pass. Cut. Jog. Ball control, touch patterns, half-speed sprints. Everyone did it.
Only Kaviar made it look sacred.
Every movement was distilled intent. Every touch clean enough to sell as a highlight. But there was no joy.
No showboating. No grin for the crowd. His body spoke a language his face had long forgotten.
Coaches watched. Analysts took notes. Kids in the crowd clutched replica kits with his name.
Ka'eli.
They chanted it like gospel.
But he never looked up. Not once.
He didn't need the world to see him. He just needed to move.
He weaved through the cone grid. Ball glued to his boot. Fast steps, low posture, eyes locked forward.
A staffer passed behind him.
"Machine," the man whispered.
Kaviar heard it.
Didn't disagree.
A machine didn't care why it was made. Only that it worked.
The whistle blew.
Coach clapped his hands twice. Players gathered. Time to head back in.
As the team filed off, Kaviar lingered.
His gaze drifted toward the sky. Rain had stopped. Clouds held their breath.
Something stood at the edge of the pitch.
Behind the crowd. Behind the bench. Beyond the fence.
No badge. No colors. Just a presence.
The kind you don't see unless you're close to the end. He looked away before his eyes could focus.
He touched the ball once more. Just once. A flick. A roll. Then turned.
Back into the tunnel.
No words.
No looks.
Just fire in his step.
And nothing in his chest.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
First half.
AS Tressa in navy. Stade Rennais in white.
The whistle cut through the air.
Kaviar didn't sprint. He didn't jog.
He moved like someone walking into a memory.
His first touch was a simple pass. A ten-meter backfeed to the pivot. Crisp. Intentional. Already, the press hesitated.
Three minutes in, the game bent.
Not broke. Not snapped.
Bent. Around him.
He received a cross under pressure, back turned to goal. One touch to settle. One to fake. Defender overcommitted. Gone.
Another behind him.
Step-through. Spin. Half-body turn. His shoulder dipped, drawing the center-back forward.
Then he cut left, laced it low, near-post.
Net.
1–0.
Not a roar but an exhale.
He didn't celebrate.
Ten minutes later, he ran from deep. Called for it once. Didn't need to call twice.
The ball met him. Chest-down. Flick over the defender. It bounced.
He didn't wait.
Volley. Laces. Top corner.
2–0.
Rennais shifted formation.
Didn't matter.
By minute thirty-one, he had the third.
By halftime, Coach didn't speak.
Didn't have to.
The scoreboard read 3–0.
The world knew who was winning.
But Kaviar wasn't playing to win.
He played because when his boot struck leather, something moved inside him.
Something small, buried, ancient.
Almost like feeling.
Almost like life.
And just past the lights, high in the shadowed bleachers,
The shadow watched.
Not to take.
Not yet.
Just to remember him…
As he was.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Second Half
Rain returned like it had been waiting for applause. It fell in sheets now. Unapologetic, cold, cinematic.
The kind of storm that made matches memorable. The kind that soaked the crowd, but no one left.
Kaviar didn't blink.
His legs burned. Not from exhaustion, but from repetition. This game didn't ask more of him. It asked something different. Something real.
The defenders had stopped playing football. They were playing survival games.
He cut through them again in the sixty-third. Shoulder fake, body feint, sudden acceleration.
The number 4 tried to clip his ankle. Failed.
The ball stayed close. Too close.
Like it loved him.
He paused at the edge of the box. Wind howled. Rain kissed his face.
He wasn't smiling.
He wasn't cold.
He was waiting.
Then…
There.
Across the field, between the shadows that clung to the fourth row; just above the sponsor wall.
Standing behind the away fans. Arms by his sides.
Still. The black figure.
Visible.
Not vanishing this time.
Kaviar met its gaze.
No fear. Just weariness. Like meeting an old coach who never said a word.
He passed the ball. Not forward. Sideways.
To no one.
Except it came back.
A simple roll, slow across the grass. Back to him.
Like a challenge.
Like a question.
Kaviar turned. Three defenders closing now. Fullbacks collapsing. Striker trailing.
He didn't slow down.
He split the first two. Shoulder drop, quick drag back. He felt the third at his heels.
Touched the ball just wide, just wrong enough to bait him in, then…
Heel cut. Left boot. Lean.
Strike.
It wasn't a shot. It was a decision.
Outside curve, top spin, just above reach.
The goalkeeper dove too early. Or too late. It didn't matter.
4–0.
He didn't hear the crowd. He didn't feel the water. He didn't raise his hands.
He stood there, chest rising, rain clinging to his hair. The pitch blurred. The sound bled out.
Then…
The figure smiled.
And stepped forward.
Onto the field.
No one noticed.
The defenders jogged back to position. His teammates surged toward him.
They swarmed; slaps on the back, pulled shoulders, chants.
But they phased through him.
Like he wasn't real.
Like the moment belonged to something else now.
The shadow walked through him.
Not violently. Not cruelly.
Just... through.
The shadow's coat whispered past his ribs. The cold of it lingered in his lungs.
And for the first time in years…
Kaviar breathed.
Truly.
He had scored before.
Hundreds of times. But this,
This was the first time he'd ever tried.
The ball had curved like he meant it to.
Not just physics. Emotion.
And the figure had watched him become something true. The world returned slowly.
The lights stung.
The noise surged back like a wave.
Coach yelled something unintelligible.
Diao laughed.
Lior cheered from the sidelines like it would change anything.
But Kaviar?
He stood still.
Eyes unfocused. Vision tight.
Not on the scoreboard.
On the black figure, now fading.
Walking away.
Leaving nothing behind.
Except meaning.
Hattrick. Plus one.
And somehow, it felt easier than every goal he'd ever scored before.
Not because it was.
But because this time.
He wanted it.
And someone ancient had been waiting just to see it happen.