Second time trying.
Second time failing.
My chest was burning. Not from sprinting — from something else. Something that felt deeper. Like disappointment had its own gravity, and I was collapsing into it.
> ❌ TRAIT UNLOCK FAILED
🧠 Final Score: 64%
System Note: "You saw the paths. You still didn't trust them."
I stood alone on the sim pitch.
Hands on hips. Breathing hard.
My boots felt heavier than usual, like even the ground was judging me.
"Two chances," I muttered. "Both wasted."
The system screen faded away.
I thought I was alone again but I wasn't.
> "You hesitate before passing. Every time. Like you're waiting for the perfect moment."
I flinched then turned.
Elira stood at the edge of the field, arms folded, silver training tablet tucked under one arm. Her academy tracksuit made her look almost human. Almost. Except for her eyes — a soft lavender hue that shimmered when the light caught them. Too sharp and too focused.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, voice catching with surprise and… something else I couldn't name.
> "I'm assigned here this week," she said casually. "Field analysis rotation."
"Wait, you saw all that?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You weren't exactly subtle."
My ears burned. "I thought… no one was around."
She stepped closer. Her expression wasn't mocking — just observant. Like she wasn't watching to laugh. She was studying.
---
> "You process like a midfielder from Earth. That's rare."
I blinked. "That supposed to be a compliment?"
She shrugged. "It's a data point."
She was messing with me — I could tell by the slight curve at the edge of her lips.
But her gaze softened.
"I've been watching you train all week," she said. "Your first touches, movement scanning, your hesitation. It's not random. You think in patterns. You just don't trust your instincts yet."
I sat on the turf.
Not in a dramatic way. I just… didn't feel like standing anymore.
"So what, you're a scout now?"
"No," she said, settling on the grass beside me. "I'm training to be a Neural Pattern Analyst."
I turned toward her. "A what?"
She tapped her temple. "We study player decision models — how brains process spatial dynamics, time compression, pressure zones. Basically… how footballers think under stress."
"And you're doing that at seventeen?"
> "Seventeen on Earth. I'm nineteen standard."
"Of course you are."
She smirked.
---
We sat in silence for a moment, the hum of dormant sim-drones hanging in the air.
"Why'd you freeze up again?" she asked, gently.
I stared up at the stars barely visible through the dome. "Because I thought I'd get it this time. I wanted to get it. So badly."
> "The Xavi thing?"
My stomach turned. "Wait — what?"
> "You muttered his name. Twice. During the simulation."
I groaned. "You heard that?"
> "I record all sessions. For analysis."
"Of course you do."
---
Elira tilted her head. "You want to play like Xavi. Think like him."
"Yeah," I said quietly. "He didn't need to sprint. Or even dribble. He just… saw everything. Every pass. Every option."
She nodded. "He didn't react to the game. He shaped it."
"Exactly."
She looked at me.
"Then stop trying to be perfect. Xavi wasn't a magician. He just saw the truth of the field before anyone else did."
I exhaled.
No system wisdom. No glowing prompts.
Just a girl from another planet, sitting beside me under stadium lights, saying exactly what I needed to hear.
---
"I didn't think you were allowed to talk to me," I said eventually.
> "I'm not."
"Then why are you?"
She hesitated.
Then:
> "Because... you looked like you needed someone who understands."
---
The silence after that was different.
It didn't feel awkward, it felt safe.
Like the start of something.
---
"Do all Neural Analysts sit with failed midfielders in the dark?" I asked.
She smiled. "Only the interesting ones."
---
Somewhere in the background, the sim-pitch lights dimmed for the night cycle.
But neither of us moved because for once, I wasn't chasing greatness.
I was just… here.
And that felt enough.
For now.