Kyle Harper sat in the VIP section of a high-end rooftop bar in Rio, sipping on imported whiskey and watching the skyline flicker. He was everything a young footballer dreamed of becoming: a starter for a top-tier team, face of multiple brands, and loved by fans for his leadership on and off the pitch.
But under the expensive watch and the flawless smile, Kyle carried a secret he buried with a body they never found.
Eli Ward.
A name he hadn't spoken aloud in years. Not since that night.
Not since they taught him his place.
Jayden's message from earlier still lingered in his head:
"You see this Nova Luz kid? Solano? Looks familiar…"
Kyle hadn't responded. Not because he was busy—but because he had already seen it.
The clip had gone viral on local football pages: a teen from Nova Luz tearing through defenders like paper. It was the eyes that disturbed him the most.
Cold. Focused. Predatory.
He watched the clip again now, on silent. The way the kid played—the elegance, the awareness, the cruel precision—it was uncanny.
He didn't look like Eli.
But he felt like Eli.
Kyle's jaw clenched.
It couldn't be. That kind of thing didn't happen. People didn't come back.
Still… something gnawed at him.
He opened an old, private folder on his phone—"EW Files." Grainy footage. Practice tapes. Photos from their academy days. The last image: Eli, smiling after the regional finals, unaware of what was coming.
Kyle stared at it for a long time.
Then closed the folder.
Enough.
Ghosts weren't real.
And even if this Solano kid played like Eli, he wasn't him. Couldn't be.
But still—he'd make sure.
Kyle opened his contacts and called someone.
A low voice answered. "Yeah?"
"I need eyes on a kid," Kyle said. "Nova Luz U-17. Rafael Solano. I want background, medical, training history, everything. Quietly."
"You think he's a threat?"
Kyle hesitated. "I think… he's unfinished business."
Across the city, Rafael sat in his room, notebook open, crossing off another date on his calendar. The Bluefield match was getting closer. Every touch in training was sharper. Every night, the memory of betrayal burned brighter.
He didn't know it yet, but the wolves were waking up.
And they were beginning to circle.
Match day.
Nova Luz's U-17 squad lined up under a sky of leaden clouds, the roar of the crowd buzzing through the small stadium like static. Rafael adjusted his armband—earned after just three weeks on the team, after outperforming even Mateus, the golden boy.
He wasn't just playing for a win today.
He was playing for attention.
Bluefield United would be watching. So would Jayden, somewhere in their system. One spectacular match, and Rafael knew the scouts would talk. The rumors would spread. And Jayden would have to face him.
But just before kickoff, something strange happened.
As Rafael jogged toward the sideline, his eyes scanned the bleachers—and stopped.
A woman sat alone in the third row.
Mid-30s, black coat, a notebook in her lap.
She wasn't cheering.
Wasn't filming.
Just watching him.
Something about her felt… familiar. Uncomfortably so.
The whistle blew. The game began.
But the ghost in the bleachers lingered in the back of his mind.
Rafael played like a storm—scored one, assisted two. The other team couldn't contain him. Even Mateus, who once sneered at him, started feeding him passes, chasing his rhythm like a shadow.
By the final whistle, Nova Luz had crushed the opposition 4–1.
The coach pulled Rafael aside afterward. "That performance? People are going to remember your name. Fast."
That was the idea.
Back in the locker room, while teammates celebrated, Rafael snuck out the back and jogged around the stands.
The woman was still there.
She looked up as he approached.
"You don't know me," she said quietly. "But I knew Eli Ward."
Rafael froze.
She stood, voice calm but piercing. "I was his sports psychologist. He used to talk about his team. His dreams. His fears. And then one day… he just vanished."
A pause.
"Until I saw you play."
Rafael didn't respond. Couldn't.
She studied his face. "You play exactly like him. I don't know how. I don't know why. But I know what I saw."
She handed him a card.
Dr. Marla Viera – Sports Psychologist
I know they did something to him. Call me if you're not afraid of the truth.
Then she turned and walked away.
Rafael stood still, card in hand, the weight of his past pressing on his chest.
They were starting to remember.
To notice.
To connect the dots.
And the game was only just beginning.
It was late when Rafael returned home. The city lights cast long shadows across his apartment walls. His boots were still muddy, his phone was dead, and his body ached with the dull satisfaction of a game well played.
But his mind wasn't on the victory.
It was on her.
The woman in the bleachers—Dr. Marla Viera.
A stranger, but not a stranger.
Someone from a life the world said was over.
He stared at the card she'd given him for a long time before finally placing it in his drawer, face-down. He wasn't ready.
Not yet.
The next day, a package arrived at the Nova Luz training facility—no return address. No name.
Just "For Rafael Solano" written in tight, careful handwriting.
The receptionist hesitated, then passed it along.
Inside was a small black USB drive.
And a note:
"I knew Eli Ward. I don't believe in ghosts. But I believe in revenge.
Plug this in alone. Somewhere safe."
No signature.
Rafael's heartbeat quickened.
That night, he sat in the dark with his laptop open, headphones on, door locked. The screen lit up with a grainy video. A dorm room. A younger man appeared onscreen.
Eli.
Him.
Back when he was still alive. Back when the world hadn't turned on him.
He leaned forward.
Eli looked straight into the camera. "If you're watching this, I guess… something went wrong. Maybe I trusted the wrong people. Maybe I'm already dead."
Rafael's breath caught in his throat.
"I think some of the guys are planning something. Kyle's been different lately. Jayden too. I overheard them talking. Something about teaching me a lesson. And if I'm being paranoid, fine. But if not…"
He looked away, voice tight. "Then I want someone to know. Someone to remember. Because if they take me down, they don't get to win."
The video ended there—no date, no location. Just silence.
Rafael sat frozen.
He didn't remember recording that. But now, here it was—a message from himself, confirming what he already knew:
They planned it. All of them.
But the real question was:
Who had sent it?
The next day, a new text came through from an unknown number:
"Eli was the best player I ever knew.
I'm glad he's not really gone.
Let's talk soon. – N."
Rafael stared at the screen.
"N."
He hadn't written the name in his notebook yet—but he remembered him now.
Noah Kent.
A quiet midfielder. A substitute. Always overlooked.
And the only one who didn't turn on Eli the night he died.
Now, somehow, Noah knew.
And Rafael was no longer fighting alone.