Six months is 4,320 hours.
That's how long Soccer had sat still.
For a boy who used to race avalanches, stillness was a poison. It crept into his bones. It made his muscles twitch while he slept. It made him chew his fingernails until they bled.
But Dr. Klaus was strict.
"Motion is forbidden," Klaus had said, monitoring the screens in the lab. "The bone must knit around the metal. If you move too soon, the lattice shatters. Then you are a cripple."
So Soccer sat.
He ate sludge that tasted like iron and vitamins. He read the tactical books Silas sent him (mostly looking at the pictures). He watched replays of Noel Noa.
And he grew.
Adolescence hit him like a truck during those six months. The constant rest and hyper-nutrition did something to his mountain-starved body. He stretched. His shoulders broadened. His neck thickened.
He wasn't the scrawny, scarred kid who walked into Northwood High anymore.
He was a dense block of kinetic potential.
PSG Training Complex: "The Laboratory."
Day 181.
Dr. Klaus held the tablet. He tapped the screen.
SCAN COMPLETE.
GRAFT STATUS: 100%.
BONE DENSITY: SUPERHUMAN.
Klaus lowered the tablet. He looked at Soccer, who was sitting on the exam table, dangling his legs.
Soccer's left leg—the one that had been destroyed—looked different now.
The scars were still there, jagged white lines crisscrossing the ankle. But the muscle around the joint was unnatural. The calf was sculpted, dense, corded like braided steel wire.
Under the skin, the titanium weave shimmered faintly when the light hit it just right.
"It is finished," Klaus said softly.
Soccer stopped dangling his legs.
"Can I walk?"
"You can run," Klaus corrected. "You can jump. You can kick down a wall if you are so inclined. The joint is now structurally stronger than your actual skeleton."
Soccer hopped off the table.
He landed on both feet.
He didn't wince. There was no pain. Just a solid thud.
He shifted his weight to the left leg. He pushed down.
He felt it.
The spring.
It wasn't a mechanical boing anymore. It felt organic. Like a second Achilles tendon, buried deep, tight and ready to snap forward.
"Shoes," Soccer demanded.
Klaus pointed to a box in the corner.
Soccer opened it. A fresh pair of black Copa Mundials. Modified. The left shoe had a slightly wider heel cup to accommodate the reinforced joint.
Soccer laced them up. He pulled the strings so tight his knuckles turned white.
Tight. Secure.
He stood up. He bounced.
The floor tiles rattled.
"Go," Klaus opened the electronic door. "The monsters are waiting."
PSG Field 1: The Sanctuary.
The PSG training grounds were greener than money. The grass was heated from underneath. The air smelled of expensive fertilizer and ambition.
The Senior Squad was training.
World-class players.
Leonardo (Brazil) juggling on the wing.
Schneider (Germany) doing sprints.
Giolitti (Italy) practicing tactical fouling.
And in the center circle, standing with his arms crossed...
Noel Noa.
Noa hadn't aged a day. He looked exactly the same. Perfect. Cold. Bored.
He watched the tunnel entrance.
The electronic doors hissed open.
Soccer walked out.
The chatter on the field stopped. The pros paused. They knew the story. The crazy American kid Noa personally recruited. The one with the metal leg.
Soccer stepped onto the grass.
He didn't look at the other stars. He walked straight to Noa.
Soccer was taller now. He stood almost eye-to-eye with the French god. His hoodie sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that looked like they could wrestle a bear.
"You took your time," Noa said.
"Traffic," Soccer replied.
Noa looked at the left leg.
"Does it work?"
"Don't know," Soccer shrugged. "Haven't tested it."
"You haven't tested it?" Noa raised an eyebrow.
"Klaus said it was fine. That's enough testing."
Noa signaled to the equipment manager. A ball was tossed over.
It rolled between them.
"Show me," Noa commanded.
The field went silent. The pros gathered around in a loose circle. Initiation time.
Soccer looked at the ball.
Six months.
Six months of sitting in a glass tube. Six months of hunger.
He approached the ball.
He didn't just tap it.
He stepped into it with a ferocity that made Schneider (the German) flinch.
Soccer planted his Titanium Leg.
LOAD.
He felt the synthetic ligament stretch. He felt the stored energy spike. It was immense. Before, with the damaged leg, it was painful. Now? It was pure power.
He swung his right leg.
BOOM.
He kicked the ball straight up.
It flew.
It kept flying.
It went higher than the floodlights. It went into the stratosphere. It became a tiny white dot against the Parisian clouds.
The PSG players crane their necks.
"Was zur Hölle?" Schneider whispered. "That was... violent."
The ball hung in the air for ten seconds.
Then it fell.
Soccer stood perfectly still. He tracked the ball.
As it dropped—hurtling down at terminal velocity—he lifted his Titanium Leg.
He caught the ball on his toe.
Dead.
The impact was massive. The force should have shattered an ankle.
Soccer's leg didn't budge. It absorbed the shock instantly, grounding it into the turf.
The ball sat on his toe, obedient.
Soccer smiled. A wild, wolf-like grin that showed all his teeth.
"Hello friend," Soccer whispered to the ball. "I missed you."
He flicked the ball to Noa.
"It works."
Noa stopped the ball. He looked at the crater in the turf where Soccer had planted his foot.
"Good," Noa said. "Because practice started ten minutes ago. Get in line, Rookie."
The Training.
Training at PSG wasn't a game. It was a job.
Noa set the pace. Sprint drills. Possession boxes. Tactical maneuvering.
Soccer struggled tactically. The complex European systems confused him. "Why run diagonal if I can run straight?" he asked the assistant coach.
But physically?
He was a nightmare.
During a scrimmge, Giolitti (the Italian defender) tried to shoulder-check Soccer.
BUMP.
Giolitti bounced off.
Soccer didn't even break stride. He was dense. His center of gravity was low and unmovable.
"He's heavy," Giolitti complained, rubbing his shoulder. "Like hitting a fire hydrant."
Noa watched.
He saw the raw potential. The chaotic energy had been refined by six months of visualization. Soccer wasn't just reacting anymore; he was imposing his physics on the game.
The Fence.
Practice ended. The pros headed to the spa for massages.
Soccer stayed behind. He wasn't tired. His body was screaming for more movement.
He jogged to the perimeter fence.
On the other side lay Field B. The Academy Field.
Teenagers were training there. U-19 prospects wearing the gray practice kits of trainees.
Soccer gripped the chain-link fence.
"Psst."
A player on the other side stopped. He turned.
He had a ponytail. He looked exhausted. He was sweating buckets.
Marcus Kane.
Marcus dropped his water bottle.
"Soccer?"
Soccer beamed. "Captain! You look skinny!"
"Soccer!" Dylan Foster ran over from the goal, tripping over his own gloves. "Oh my god! You're alive! We saw the helicopter but security wouldn't let us near Field A!"
Elijah Storm sprinted over too.
The Pack was reunited. Separated by a fence, but close enough to touch.
"You got big," Marcus said, looking at Soccer through the wire. "You look... different."
"They fed me paste," Soccer said grimly. "It was bad. How's the Academy?"
"Brutal," Elijah panted. "The European style... it's fast. Technical. We're fighting just to stay on the B-team."
"They call us 'The Burgers'," Dylan sniffled. "Because we're American."
Soccer's eyes darkened.
"Burgers?"
"Yeah."
Soccer gripped the fence tight enough to bend the wire.
"When do you play a match?"
"Tomorrow," Marcus said. "Academy scrimmage. We play the Reserve squad."
Soccer tilted his head.
"The Reserves? That's my squad."
A smile spread across his face.
"Wait," Dylan backed up. "Don't look at us like that. We're your friends!"
"I know," Soccer said. "That's why I'm gonna teach you how not to be burgers."
He released the fence.
"See you tomorrow, Pack. Eat a good breakfast."
He turned and jogged away, the Titanium Ankle clacking rhythmically on the concrete path.
Marcus watched him go.
"He's scary," Marcus whispered. "He's way scarier than before."
The Following Morning.
PSG Academy Scrimmage.
Reserves (Prospects) vs Academy (Trainees).
The Reserve squad was mostly players on the bench for the Senior Team. Guys fighting for minutes in Ligue 1.
And Soccer.
Soccer wore the PSG Reserve jersey. It fit him tightly across the chest.
Opposite him: Marcus, Dylan, Elijah. The Northwood boys.
Coach Cross (who had been hired as an Academy consultant) stood on the sideline with Titan (who was now a Senior scout).
"This will be ugly," Titan noted.
"For whom?" Cross asked.
"For everyone."
KICKOFF.
Soccer didn't pass.
As soon as the whistle blew, he tapped the ball and ran.
Straight at Marcus.
"Oh god, he's coming!" Marcus braced himself. "Wall formation!"
Marcus lowered his shoulder, ready to use his 'Spear' defense.
Soccer arrived.
He didn't Ghost Step. He didn't Spring Jump.
He ran through Marcus.
The Siege Engine.
Soccer dropped his shoulder. He hit Marcus's chest.
CRACK.
It wasn't malice. It was pure kinetic dominance.
Marcus flew backward. He slid five yards on the grass.
Soccer emerged with the ball.
"Sorry Cap!" Soccer yelled over his shoulder. "Training weight!"
He reached Elijah.
Elijah tried to be tricky. He tried to mirror Soccer (using the trash tactics).
Soccer just stepped on the ball, stopped, waited for Elijah to run past, and then continued.
"Don't copy the copy!" Soccer scolded. "Be original!"
He was at the goal.
Dylan Foster. The brave coward.
Dylan came out screaming. "I won't let you!"
Soccer stopped at the penalty spot.
He planted the Left Leg.
He aimed.
He didn't shoot a rocket. He chipped it.
But he put forward spin on it. Topspin.
The ball arced over Dylan's head. Dylan jumped to catch it.
The topspin bit the air. The ball dipped violently behind Dylan's hands.
It plopped into the net.
GOAL.
Soccer jogged back to the center line. He high-fived Marcus (who was still recovering his breath).
"That's one," Soccer said cheerfully. "You guys need to get heavier. Europe is windy."
Marcus stood up, rubbing his chest. He looked at Soccer's back.
He wasn't mad. He was grinning.
"He's back," Marcus panted. "The lunatic is actually back."
The Call-Up.
The scrimmage ended 5-0. Soccer scored four. Assisted one.
Coach Titan walked onto the field. He held a phone.
"Soccer," Titan barked.
"Yeah?"
"Noel Noa is in the office. With the General Manager."
"Did I break something?"
"No. You fixed something." Titan pointed to the main stadium in the distance.
"Their starting striker just pulled a hamstring in training. Out for three weeks."
Soccer stopped bouncing.
"And?"
"And PSG plays Barcelona in the Champions League Group Stage in two days."
Titan smiled.
"Noa wants a partner. He wants you on the plane."
Soccer looked at Marcus and the boys.
"Go," Marcus said, shoving him. "Go kill Barcelona."
Soccer grabbed his bag.
Champions League. The biggest stage on Earth.
Barcelona. Where Kai Rivers played (wait, Kai went to Madrid? No, Kai went to Madrid. Barcelona had... well, someone else scary).
Wait. Checking the data.
Mr. Hawk's transfer list said Kai went to Real Madrid.
So who was at Barcelona?
Soccer looked at Titan.
"Who plays for Barca?"
Titan checked his clipboard.
"They just signed a Brazilian prodigy. Someone you might know."
Carlos Silva. The Magician.
Soccer grinned. His ankle hummed.
"Samba time," Soccer whispered.
He started running toward the main building.
The hibernation was over.
The Bear was awake. And he was hungry for tapas.