Saturday dawned cold and restless over Primeport. The System flickered behind Adams Harding's eyelids the second he sat up, its digital hum drilling into his skull like a drill bit.
He scrubbed a hand over the stubble clinging to his jaw. "Yeah, yeah. You sadistic alarm clock."
For a moment, the hum wasn't just background noise — it was the same cage he'd woken up in years ago, the glitch that dumped him into this football world he still didn't fully grasp.
He pulled on a battered coat, tugged a cap low, and slipped into the streets before the dawn could peel away the mist choking the old docks.
The diner was still the same, its crooked neon sign flickering pink and cyan over the greasy glass door, the smell of fried dough and burnt coffee curling into the morning air like a promise.
For Adams, this place wasn't just breakfast — it was a north star.
Inside, Lorenzo was where he belonged — behind the counter, rolling dough with forearms thicker than Adams' thighs, hair swept back like a bullfighter who never left the arena.
"Look what the tide dragged in!" Lorenzo boomed, spotting him through the steam. "My lucky charm. Sit down before you faint, you sad bastard."
---
Flashback
Years ago, Adams had stumbled in here, lost, reeling, pockets empty, System blinking alien codes into his retinas. He'd had no coin, no name worth anything. No clue why the System had chosen him.
Lorenzo found him slumped behind the bins, gave him stew and stale bread, and a bed in the stockroom for a month until he found his feet.
No Lorenzo? No Harding.
---
Adams shook off the drizzle and perched at the counter. "Same as always."
Lorenzo poured a mug of coffee so black it might dissolve teeth. "I was half-ready to bolt the door. Heard you nearly threw the last match into the harbor."
Adams snorted. "Thanks for the reminder, old man."
Lorenzo sat opposite, apron dusted with flour. His eyes were knife—sharp even in the pale dawn. "You play Kingsport today, eh? You pressing their back line?"
Adams tapped the mug rim. "We don't have the legs to press for ninety. They'll chew us up."
Lorenzo grunted. "Then bait them. Sit deep, narrow the channels. Make them run where they hate to run."
> [Reward: Tactics +2]
Adams scribbled a note on a napkin. "And if they drift between the lines? If they find that pocket behind Lopatin, Richards is toast."
Lorenzo cracked a grin that showed all his yellow teeth. "Mark the space, not the man. Make them chase ghosts."
> [Reward: Adaptability +2]
Adams let out a low, worn chuckle. "Violence and pasta, your answer to everything."
Lorenzo wagged a spoon at him. "Better than your half-baked tiki-taka. Sometimes you win ugly. Give those boys a plan they'd die for — not one they'll second-guess."
Adams pocketed the napkin, warmth blooming in his chest like the first sunrise over the docks. "Thanks, old man."
"Don't thank me yet. Win first, then you can buy me new knives. Not those cheap ones that bent like your back four."
Adams shook his head, the System's tiny pings blinking at the corner of his sight — invisible trophies no one else could see.
"You still seeing that PR girl?" Lorenzo teased, eyes glinting under heavy brows.
Adams flushed, sipped coffee. "Not your business."
"She's too good for you."
Adams raised the mug in salute. "Everyone's too good for me."
Lorenzo slapped him on the shoulder, flour puffing off like dust. "Eat more. Think less."
When Adams stepped out, the streets smelled sharper, the docks felt lighter. Lorenzo's warmth was real — a tether in a world that still felt like a bootleg simulation at the edges. He clung to that warmth through the grind that came next.
The tactical briefing was met with groans and scribbles. Busch, the physio, cracked jokes while prodding old knees. Daisuke made faces as Ernesto lectured on xG. Boots were taped so many times they looked like mummified relics.
By the time the Primeport FC team bus coughed to life in the gravel lot, the squad filed in one by one — boots over shoulders, headphones jacked into battered phones.
Adams cracked the door open, ducking to avoid smashing his head on the ceiling. Kenny, the old cattle-lorry driver behind the wheel, grinned through the mirror.
"You nervous, boss?" Kenny asked, breath like diesel fumes.
Adams smirked. "Every time we're above sea level, Kenny."
A roar of laughter from the back. Lopatin was already flicking sweatbands at Daisuke, who pretended to nod off dramatically.
Ernesto, arms folded over his tablet, leaned over Adams' shoulder. "Relax. It's only Kingsport."
"Yeah," Adams shot back, deadpan. "Only the bloody enemy."
---
The bus rumbled out of Primeport, grey drizzle trailing behind like a funeral march. Neon signs flickered above terraces of pubs, blue and gold scarves tangled in alleyways clogged with chanting fans. Rival songs slammed against each other like iron.
The Kingsport Stadium rose from the concrete like a landed starship — twelve thousand seats stacked tight, AR banners looping replays on a never-ending feed. Drones zipped overhead, flashing betting odds and cheap energy drinks.
When the bus doors hissed open behind the barricades, the air cracked with jeers — but in the middle of the noise, the Anchors faithful. A knot of fans wrapped in battered crests, singing under the drizzle like they owned the rain.
Inside the away dressing room, the lads peeled off coats and tugged on tracksuits. Richards bounced on his toes, hungry like a kid waiting for dinner. Gielgud sat frozen, wide-eyed, trying to look older than he was.
Up in the glass commentary booth, Abril Fernandez's voice purred through the LeagueNet feed, wrapping tension in silk. "Good afternoon, everyone, tuning in. Abril Fernandez here, live at Apex Square — where Primeport FC will try to keep their heads above water against local rivals Kingsport United."
She flicked through her notes as the roar from the stands climbed like thunder in a bottle. "Two new faces for the Anchors today — eighteen-year-old prodigy Gielgud, and Noah Richards, back in goal for the first time since injury. A bold gamble from Adams Harding."
She paused, glancing at her feed as rival fans hammered the comment stream. "Atmosphere? Nuclear. Six years ago, Kingsport cost Primeport a spot in Stellar League Two. Now the Anchors are fighting to keep from drowning in Division Six."
---
In a crumbling flat by the docks, a family gathered around a flickering holo-projector. Kids wrapped in Anchors scarves, too big for their necks. Dad cracked a cheap beer, eyes glued to the broadcast. "Come on, you Anchors. One good day."
In a pub near the stadium, two Kingsport blokes in gold jerseys howled at the screen as Primeport's bus appeared. "That gaffer's a joke. I'd put my nan in net instead of Richards!"
His mate barked a laugh. "They're rolling kids out now? Might as well stay on the bus!"
Screens blinked awake in every block. Old VR rigs flickered to life. Primeport vs Kingsport — one white line, a city split by old salt and hate.
---
The drone cam dipped low as the teams warmed up. Primeport's kit glowed faintly under the AR floodlights — all white, thin bands of electric blue tracing shoulders and shorts.
Kingsport wore that garish yellow with blue shorts and socks — an eyesore for any Anchors fan, but Kingsport loved ugly. Jafari strutted like he owned the league, twenty goals deep. Jae-hwa ghosted behind him, a shark in shallows. Barbas is in goal, with the best save percentage in the division.
Abril's voice cut through the racket. "Kingsport United: mid-table, safe as houses. Primeport FC: third from bottom, desperate to keep breathing. Stakes don't get clearer than that."
Smoke bombs hissed blue and gold clouds. Drums rattled the steel beams. The Anchors sang back, voices raw as rust.
In the tunnel, boots clacked on the plastic floor. Adams stalked the line, eyes scanning every twitch, every forced grin. Gielgud's knee bounced like a metronome.
Ernesto leaned in, lips to Adams' ear. "Breathe, boss."
Adams let a grin break through. "If we drown, we drown swinging."
The System pinged in the corner:
> [Reward: Motivation +3]
The captains led them out into the roar — a wall of Kingsport thunder that met the Anchors' battered drums head-on. Chants ricocheted around the alloy skeleton of Apex Square like shells in a barrel.
---
Families leaned forward on threadbare couches. Pints slammed against wood in half-lit pubs. Abril's final words wrapped around them all, sharp as a blade: "The whistle's coming. Anchors up — or Anchors sunk."
The referee stepped forward, whistle cold metal against his lips.
Adams Harding locked eyes with Richards. The kid's gloves clapped together, heartbeat hammering out of sync with the chants.
Come on then, Adams thought, the wind howling down from the rafters, System hum vibrating like a second heart.
The ref raised the whistle.
A heartbeat.
The System flashed a cold line:
> [Season Objective: Avoid Relegation — Progress: 55.8%]
Failure: Another heartbeat closer to Obliteration.
The whistle split the air.
And Adams Harding dove headfirst into the storm.