Hey guys! Sorry for the delay—this chapter took me a while to figure out because I wasn't sure what direction to take it in. I really wanted to get it right. Hope you enjoy it!
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It started in his eardrums.
A low-frequency hum that grew into a deep, punishing roar, filling his skull until he could feel it in his teeth. The vibration traveled down his spine, a constant tremor shaking his very bones.
He blinked, his vision swimming into focus.
He was standing in the tunnel.
Above him, the concrete ceiling seemed to pulse, dust motes dancing in the air from the sheer force of the noise coming from the stadium ahead. He was pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with other players. The roar from the stadium was a physical force, vibrating through the concrete. At the front of the line, the referees stood, waiting for the signal to walk out.
His eyes dropped to his own chest, reading the badge on instinct.
Olympiacos.
His gaze lifted—and he was looking directly at the closely shaved head of the teammate in front of him. He had to look down.
Huh. I'm tall.
His shoulders shifted, the fabric of his jersey pulling tight across his back. He felt the solid, dense pack of muscle there.
And jacked.
His eyes scanned left, down the line of red-and-white jerseys.
And locked onto the man a few spots ahead.
That famous, somehow already-weathered profile.
Tsk. Look at this old man. Swear, he was born with a forty-year-old's face. Looks like he's been mending nets since birth.
The Ballon d'Or winner. The World Cup champion. The savior,
Rivaldo... is my teammate?
A slow, incredulous blink.
Okay. This is new.
So this corrupt company is finally handing out a top-tier perk. He rolled his eyes. Is this their idea of a performance bonus?
The thought felt strangely optimistic.
Trying to turn green flag all of a sudden? Didn't expect it from you, to be honest.
He gave a slow, sarcastic thumbs-up to no one. Good job. Continue .
His head snapped to the right, across the narrow gap to the green-and-white line. His eyes immediately found the source of the shouting—a snarling midfielder, face already puce, screaming at his own team.
The badge on the man's chest was clear.
Panathinaikos.
The word landed like a punch.
Fucking Panathinaikos.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me. So the "signing bonus" is one legendary player, and my first assignment is a literal war zone? He almost laughed.
What, you're giving me a 10% raise for this? Still criminally underpaid. This company's HR department is a joke.
The referee gave the signal.
The line began to move.
The roar wasn't just sound anymore; it was a physical wave of heat and hatred that washed over him as he stepped into the bowl of the stadium.
Sixty thousand voices screaming in two different colors.
The air itself felt thick, spicy.
Okay. This is one hell of a hotpot, he thought, a slow, dangerous grin spreading on his face as he took in the seething stands.
But you know what? I think this needs a little more chili.
"Well, would you look at that. I always knew I had culinary talent lying around somewhere."
He could already feel the answer itching in his veins.
The whistle blew.
The ball was a blur of motion, a pinball in a machine of flying tackles and shouted curses. Ryan took his position, his mind clear, his body humming with an unnatural readiness.
This was it. Beta test protocol: initiate.
He caught Rivaldo's eye for a half-second, gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, and muttered under his breath,
"Sorry about this, Captain."
Alright. Let's see what breaks.
For the next few minutes, he did his job. He and the other center-back formed an island of calm in their own half, while the storm of the game raged exclusively in the opponent's territory. He watched Rivaldo, a distant maestro, drop a shoulder and glide past a defender, the move effortless, almost lazy.
The play was down there.
His own role was to stand guard over an empty kingdom.
Then, a misplaced pass from the edge of the opponent's box.
The turnover was instant.
The green shirts of Panathinaikos broke like a dam, flooding forward. The counter-attack was so swift, so direct, it forced Ryan and his defensive partner to backpedal frantically, desperately trying to shore up their line. It was his partner who made the last-ditch, sliding clearance, sending the ball skying behind for a corner.
The air in the penalty box grew thick with sweat and tension.
Players shoved and jostled, a tangled mess of red and green. As Panathinaikos prepared to take the corner, Ryan's eyes scanned the crowd and landed on a familiar, stern face marking him.
Huh. That guy. The guy from the YouTube essay on Greece's 2004 Euro win. The one who scored the penalty that won it all.
Ryan gave him a rough shove, the standard kind of jostling everyone was doing. Then he leaned in, his voice suddenly loud and dripping with fake camaraderie.
"Common, men! Don't be so angry! I just slept with your wife!"
He said it in English, with a wide, innocent grin. The sheer, bizarre audacity of it made him chuckle.
Basinas, who had been shoving back with professional intensity, froze. The anger on his face melted into pure, unadulterated confusion. He stared at Ryan as if he'd just grown a second head.
"No English," he finally grunted, turning his focus back to creating space.
Oh, we're not done. As they continued to jostle, he leaned in again.
He pointed a firm finger directly into Basinas's chest. "You. Mama."
Then, he pointed the same finger back at his own chest, making a crude, thrusting motion with his hips. "Me. Your papa."
Basinas's head snapped back.
The confusion was gone, replaced by a look of utter, jaw-dropped astonishment.
He wasn't even trying to mark anyone anymore. He was just staring, completely derailed.
Before Basinas could even form a response, a different Panathinaikos player—a hulking defender who'd seen the whole exchange—got in Ryan's face, shouting in a torrent of furious Greek.
"Τι είπες!;" (Ti ipes!?)
Ryan, not understanding a single word except the tone, just stared back, his grin unwavering. He spread his hands wide.
"What?" Ryan said, his voice full of mock surprise.
"You also want a papa?"
The defender's face, already red, darkened to a frightening shade of purple.
The whistle shrieked as the referee rushed over, but the damage was done.
The entire defensive zone was now a tinderbox. Players from both teams were shoving, shouting in a babel of Greek and angry gestures.
Ryan took a few steps back, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face.
This is so fun.
He watched as the defender who had shoved him, now incandescent with rage, turned and started screaming at his own teammate, Basinas, presumably for not reacting strongly enough.
A chain reaction of pure anger.
A dark, quiet laugh escaped him.
Well, look at me now. The abused has become the abuser. This corrupt company taught me well.
Feels good to be the little guy flipping off the whole boardroom for once.
Log Entry: Cycle of abuse initiated. Management would be proud.
The referee, having finally restored a fragile order, pointed sternly at both Ryan and the furious defender, a universal warning. With an angry blast of his whistle, he signaled for a goal kick. The danger had been cleared, the confrontation nullified.
The Panathinaikos players stalked away, shooting venomous glances back at him.
Ryan just shrugged, offering them a bland, innocent smile as he trotted back into position.
Okay. Phase one complete.
The "main event" was a masterclass in petty annoyance. For the next ten minutes, Ryan became a ghost of pure irritation on the pitch. He didn't go for the ball. He went for everything else.
When a Panathinaikos midfielder tried to accelerate past him, Ryan's leg "accidentally" stretched just a bit too far, tripping the man. A soft foul. A talking-to from the ref.
He "jumped" for a header, his elbow finding a nearby rib cage.
He "stumbled" into a player receiving a pass, knocking him off balance.
His pièce de résistance came during a throw-in. As the opponent prepared to launch it,
Ryan stood a little too close, his fingers subtly tugging at the back of the man's shorts.
Log Entry: Testing uniform integrity and personal space protocols. Success. Target visibly uncomfortable and missed his throw.
The opposition was fed up.
The next time Ryan received a simple pass, a Panathinaikos midfielder came flying in, a brutal, knee-high tackle.
A sharp crack of impact echoed, and a bolt of pain shot up Ryan's shin. He hit the turf hard, the crowd roaring in approval.
He lay there for a second, assessing. The pain was real, a bright, hot signal... but it was already fading. There was no deep throb, no structural weakness.
Okay. Yeah. This guy's body is something else. Max VIT, huh? Durable.
He popped back up to his feet, brushing the grass off his kit as the midfielder stared in disbelief. The referee gave a yellow card—to the midfielder.
Ryan looked over at the home fans, who were still cheering his "injury." He gave them a little wave.
You celebrate a tackle? Cute. Let's give you something to really cheer about.
The very next play, the same midfielder received the ball and tried to turn.
This time, Ryan was the missile.
He launched into a tackle that was all force and minimal finesse. He went through the ball, his follow-through crashing into the midfielder's standing leg.
A sickening thud echoed, followed by a sharp cry of pain. The midfielder crumpled to the ground, clutching his ankle.
The whistle screamed. This time, the yellow card was brandished in Ryan's face.
He just shrugged at the referee. "Hey, he did the same to me. I'm just built different."
The ref just stared, too exasperated to even reply.
Before things could escalate further, a teammate pulled Ryan away from the ref. Rivaldo was there, his face a mask of stern authority. "Calm down," the captain commanded, his voice low. "You will get sent off."
Ryan looked at the living legend. The man deserved a medal for putting up with this shit. But duh. He didn't see a captain. He saw a primary source.
"Yo, Captain," Ryan said, his tone shifting to one of genuine, off-topic curiosity.
"2002 World Cup. That was you. Why did that fat guy, Ronaldo, get the Ballon d'Or?"
Rivaldo's stern expression shattered into pure, unadulterated confusion. "...Huh? What?"
Ryan ignored him, turning his serene smile towards the stands, towards the thousands of fans booing and screaming his name.
He spread his hands slightly. "I'm so calm right now," he said to no one and everyone.
Log Entry: Diverted captain's aggression with historical trivia. Effective conflict avoidance. Hostile crowd engagement: maximized.
The chaos he sowed seemed to open up the game. A few minutes later, a passage of play found Rivaldo on the edge of the box. The legend didn't need a second invitation, curling a perfect shot into the top corner. 1-0.
The Olympiacos players rushed to celebrate. But Ryan had a different destination.
He sprinted straight towards the corner flag in front of the most furious section of Panathinaikos fans.
He slid on his knees, his back to his celebrating teammates, his eyes locked on the roaring, hate-filled stands.
This is the final test. The ultimate taboo.
With a wide, triumphant grin, he grabbed the hem of his jersey and ripped it over his head. He turned, flexing his back muscles at the crowd—a wordless, arrogant taunt.
The roar of the fans turned into a deafening shriek of pure outrage. The referee was on him in a second, the yellow card appearing, followed immediately by the red. A second yellow. Off.
Ryan didn't protest. He took the red card with a nod, as if accepting a diploma.
Log Entry: Celebratory protocol violation. Maximum crowd hostility achieved. Second sanction acquired. System ejection initiated.
As he began the walk of shame towards the tunnel, he triggered the reset.
The world blurred. The sound of the booing crowd snapped back into the roar of celebration.
He was standing exactly where he was the moment Rivaldo's shot hit the net. His shirt was on his back. His teammates were rushing past him, streaming towards Rivaldo to celebrate.
He alone was frozen, watching them go. He had been rolled back to the very second before he made his choice. The system had allowed the goal, but it had erased his rebellion.
A cold, focused understanding settled in his gut.
So. This is how you want to play.
A slow, wicked smirk spread across his face.
The gloves were off.
The celebration ended. The match restarted.
For a few minutes, a fragile normalcy returned. The ball was pinged between midfielders, tackles were made, the crowd's roar was a constant backdrop. Ryan moved through the motions, a predator waiting. The system had shown him its hand. Now he would test its heart.
A high, looping clearance sailed towards the halfway line. A Panathinaikos player turned his back, eyes fixed on the descending ball, completely vulnerable.
This was the moment.
Ryan watched him. Not as an opponent. Not as an NPC. But as a variable.
Final Test. Boundary Check. Let's see what happens when I break more than just the rules.
He didn't jump for the ball. He lunged through the space.
It wasn't a tackle. It was an assault. A full-force, studs-up launch, his right boot aimed not at the ball, but at the base of the player's skull.
The sound was a sickening, wet crack of cleat against bone, utterly alien on a football pitch.
The player didn't cry out. He dropped. A marionette with its strings cut. A shocking, motionless heap on the grass.
And then, the blood. A dark, crimson pool rapidly spreading from his head, staining the bright green pitch.
Silence. For one heart-stopping second, the entire stadium fell into a vacuum of pure, uncomprehending horror.
Then, the screams began.
They were a distant thing, muffled. Ryan's world had shrunk to the patch of grass beneath his feet. His eyes traveled down,
slowly, heavily.
There it was. A dark, ugly spatter marring the bright green of his boot. A single, perfect drop of crimson welled up along the edge of a stud, clung for a moment, then fell, blooming against the stark white of his sock.
The screaming stopped.
Not faded. Stopped. As if a switch had been flipped.
He looked up.
The stadium was empty. Sixty-thousand seats, vacant. The players were gone. The body was gone. The blood on the pitch was gone. He stood completely alone in the cavernous, silent arena under the blinding floodlights.
The air was still. No wind. No sound. Nothing.
A slow, cold understanding wrapped around him.
"Huh," he said. His voice was small,
swallowed by the immense silence, but it was real. A physical vibration in the void.
He looked around at the endless, vacant seats, then down at the clean, unmarked pitch.
"So even you know there are limits to fucking with someone."