The air in the Rogue Dome was thick with the suffocating silence of anticipation. The match was over, the defeat crushing, and now came the penalty. Team Strays, broken and exhausted, stood before Kenji Sato. Sable, the overseer, waited, his tablet ready to log the brutal transaction.
Kenji took his time, scanning the three figures before him, Marcus, Troy, and Luca. He dragged the moment out, savoring the raw fear bleeding off their skin. The crowd murmured, placing bets on who the rising star would pick.
Then Kenji smiled, a wide, slow curl of the lips that promised pure malice.
"We choose Marcus."
The single word landed like a hammer blow. An audible gasp rippled through the spectators above. Marcus's heart slammed against his ribs. Chosen? By Kenji? The shock was almost a physical weight. Did Kenji want him purely to dismantle his mind, to watch him fail from close range?
The tension stretched, suffocating. Then Kenji threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, brittle sound that echoed through the cage.
Just as Marcus lifted his feet up to walk ,
"Nah, we're just kidding," Kenji spat, wiping a fake tear from his eye. He waved a dismissive hand. "Who can't have that big of a star in the team?"
The laughter from the Rogue stands was immediate, brutal, and humiliating. Marcus felt the insult settle deep in his gut, colder than the defeat.
Kenji turned to Sable. "We choose Luca Moreno."
The decision was swift, strategic, and cruel. Luca, the anchor, the player who had scored two clean goals for Strays, the only reliable piece of their foundation, was gone. Kenji hadn't just secured a win; he had gutted his rival.
Luca accepted the fate with a quiet, hard nod, exchanging a final, intense look with Marcus, a look that said everything about the lost streak and the shared humiliation. As Luca walked to join Team Reign, Marcus was left standing with Troy, a defeated duo. The Rogue Record flashed briefly across the nearest screen: Team Strays: 0 Wins / 1 Loss. Players: 2.
Team Strays: Marcus / Troy (updated)
The humiliation was immediately compounded by a physical pain.
As they walked through the damp, graffiti-scarred tunnel, the fragile truce that had held Marcus and Troy together dissolved. Troy stopped dead, slamming his palm against the rough concrete wall.
"You!" Troy roared, his eyes wild with exhaustion and rage. He spun on Marcus. "You and your stupid, glitch-footed bullshit! You cost us Luca! You cost us the streak! If you hadn't tried that nutmeg, if you'd just passed the ball after your first failure, we would've been fine!"
Marcus, who had kept his silence through the match and Kenji's taunts, finally snapped. The accusation of being a liability was the limit.
"At least I try!" Marcus yelled back, his voice raw. "At least I had the guts to put something on the line! Not like you, depending on your teammates to do something and just standing there like a maniac, waiting! Luca did everything and you just watched!"
Troy's face contorted in a flash of raw, desperate fury. He didn't argue further. He just raised his fist and slammed it into Marcus's jaw. It wasn't a professional strike, just a heavy, messy punch fueled by a career's worth of frustration and failure.
Marcus reeled backward, his head cracking against the tunnel wall before he collapsed onto the grime-covered concrete floor. His vision swam, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
Troy stood over him, chest heaving, his shadow immense and threatening. "Fucking Copycat," Troy spat, then turned and walked off, his footsteps echoing, leaving Marcus alone in the cold, thick silence.
The team had fallen. Marcus lay there, staring at the dimly lit ceiling, the punch, the taunt, and the loss of Luca all coalescing into one truth: there was no chance he and Troy could work together now. He was alone.
Hours later, the Rogue Dome was dead, submerged in the weak, sickly glow of emergency lamps. Marcus found the number in his phone and made the desperate call.
A little while later, Coach Davor was waiting for him, not at the cage, but by a heavy, unmarked steel door. Davor led him down a winding stairwell and through a series of dark, forgotten passages, eventually reaching a vast, underground chamber. The room was empty, soundproofed, and cold, a true isolation training chamber that only Davor seemed to know existed.
Marcus stood trembling, the cold seeping into his bruised body. He recounted the match, the failed nutmeg, the taunts, and the final, crushing loss of Luca, his voice thick with shame.
"I need your help, Coach," Marcus whispered, the words tasting like copper. "I need to control the ability, the Glitch. I need to make it work when I want it to."
Davor's face was a mask of cold resolve. He didn't offer a word of comfort. "Then talk less and start now."
Davor placed the ball down and executed a complex, flowing triple step-over, a move that demanded both speed and perfect, balanced control.
"I need you to copy this skill exactly how it is. On me."
Marcus watched, feeling the familiar internal flicker, the instinct, activate. He received the blueprint but didn't know how to deploy it. He started his dribble, approached Davor, and tried to replicate the step-over. But the fluid memory failed him. The ball juggled awkwardly between his legs, his feet tangled, and the sphere rolled weakly away.
Davor shook his head, a dry, dismissive sound. "I really think they all are right about you, Marcus. You really are a liability."
Marcus looked up, shocked. The same venomous word Kenji had used.
"Try again, kid."
Marcus tried again, more forcefully this time, his desperation lending speed to his movement. Davor easily stripped the ball from him.
Davor watched the ball roll to a stop, his voice hardening, taking on the tone of a judge delivering a life sentence. "I really think I made a mistake getting you here, Marcus. I think there is no way you'll be able to revive your career now."
Marcus got up, tears blurring his vision, the sting of Davor's words worse than Troy's punch. He tried a third time, but the ball again got trapped in his legs, and he fell to his knees in frustration.
Davor completed his sentence, his voice low and devastatingly taunting. "Don't worry, Marcus. Not all people are meant to be football stars. You can stay as you are, get some job, and take football as a side hobby. There is no harm in this."
Marcus stood up slowly. The tears were running freely down his cheeks now, but they weren't tears of sadness. They were tears of rage, betrayal, and white-hot humiliation. Davor's voice, Kenji's taunt, Troy's punch, the loss of Luca, it all boiled down into a single, focused point of destructive energy.
He snatched the ball, dribbled a few hard steps, and approached the coach. He started the skill, not with hesitation, but with absolute, surgical clarity.
One step-over DONE. The second DOWN. The third executed perfectly, the movement fluid and blindingly fast. The copied blueprint was flawless.
But the rage demanded more. It demanded destruction. Marcus didn't stop at Davor's skill. He shifted his weight sharply to the right, added a FAKE BODY FEINT, and then, leveraging the raw, cold memory from the match, executed Kenji's difficult HEEL RAKE NUTMEG. The ball slipped cleanly through Davor's legs.
Marcus didn't break stride. He burst through the space he had created and struck the ball, sending it slamming into the end wall of the chamber.
The silence that followed was broken only by Marcus's ragged breathing and the faint echo of the ball. He stood over Davor, tears still running down his face, but his body vibrating with the controlled, perfect execution of the combined skills.
Davor straightened, a slow, grim smile spreading across his face.
"That is what I wanted to see, Marcus," Davor said, his voice now devoid of malice. "You are only able to perform the skill under pressure, under extreme emotional extremity. I tried to put pressure on you by saying those things, and you were able to replicate the skill, and improve it."
Davor's revelation landed with shocking clarity. The Glitch wasn't just physical; it was an emotional cheat code. It required Marcus to be on the verge of total mental collapse, yet still focused enough to execute the technique.
"You need to get your emotions under control," Davor continued, his voice now purely instructional. "You won't always get extreme conditions in the match to copy your skill, and you certainly won't have the time to break down and cry. You need to find a way to summon that focus without the emotional collapse."
Davor turned and walked towards the exit, leaving Marcus alone.
Marcus sank onto the concrete, the sweat cooling rapidly on his skin. He now knew the issue, but mastering it felt like trying to harness lightning.
His phone buzzed on the floor beside him. The notification was from the UFL.
Match Announcement:
Team Strays (2 players) vs. Team Vipers (3 players)
Arena: Rogue Dome B
The 2v3 numerical disadvantage was staggering. Marcus looked at his bruised knuckles and his trembling hand. He didn't even know if he had a team. There was no certainty that Troy would show up. If Troy refused to play, Marcus would have to form a new team immediately from the very players who had just ridiculed him, or be disqualified from the UFL forever.