No one slept that night.
Not really.
The dorm lights at La Forja Academy shut off at exactly 22:00, but the silence that followed was louder than any noise. Lamii lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, replaying every touch from the day before.
The post.The miss.The way the ball almost obeyed him.
Too small.
He clenched his jaw.
Across the room, laughter broke the tension.
"Tomorrow's going to be easy," Papii said loudly, stretching his long legs off the bed. "You saw them. Half of these guys don't even know where to stand."
Lamii didn't respond.
Papii glanced over. "Hey. You good?"
Lamii nodded once.
Another lie.
The whistle tore through the morning air before sunrise.
"OUT. NOW."
No breakfast. No warm-up.
They were dragged onto the pitch while fog still clung to the grass. The academy looked different in the early light—sharper, colder. Like it was watching them.
Coach Salva stood waiting.
Beside him were three assistants and a digital board.
"Today," Salva said, "you learn the first rule."
He tapped the screen.
RULE #1: INVISIBILITY = ELIMINATION
Murmurs rippled through the group.
"You will play," Salva continued. "But not as teams. Not as friends. This is a possession survival drill."
A ball rolled onto the field.
"If you don't touch the ball within thirty seconds," Salva said calmly, "you're out."
Silence.
"Permanently."
The whistle blew.
Chaos detonated.
Lamii froze for half a heartbeat.
Thirty seconds.
Players exploded forward, bodies crashing, voices screaming. Bigger boys muscled through; faster ones darted into space.
Lamii stepped forward—
—and immediately got boxed out.
A shoulder slammed into his chest. Another body blocked his path.
Too small.
The ball pinged between feet like a trapped animal.
Ten seconds gone.
Lamii scanned the field, heart hammering.
No one looked at him.
Fifteen seconds.
A tall midfielder trapped the ball and turned away, shielding it like Lamii didn't exist.
Twenty seconds.
Move. Think. Space.
Lamii backed off instead of pushing forward.
He slipped behind the chaos.
Twenty-five seconds.
A defender panicked and cleared the ball sideways.
Lamii lunged.
His foot brushed leather.
Just enough.
The buzzer sounded.
Safe.
Barely.
Two boys weren't.
They stood frozen as assistants approached.
"No—wait—" one of them stammered.
They were escorted off the pitch.
No drama. No mercy.
Lamii swallowed.
This place eats people.
The drill reset.
Again.
And again.
Each round faster. Harsher.
Players stopped passing.
They hoarded the ball.
Shove d. Tripped. Yelled.
Lamii struggled.
He touched the ball—but always last, always barely.
His lungs burnt.
His legs felt heavy.
A voice cut through the noise.
"MOVE, YAMI!"
Papii.
He was everywhere.
Speed tearing through gaps. Touches confident. He didn't hesitate—he took.
Papii stole the ball, sprinted past two defenders, and flicked it away just before time ran out.
Safe.
Effortless.
Lamii felt a twist in his chest.
Why him?
Another round.
This time, Lamii mistimed his run.
Thirty seconds ticked down.
The ball stayed far.
Five seconds.
Panic surged.
Then—
A sudden image flashed in his mind.
A small kid on a cracked court.A legend on a glowing screen.A left foot that didn't rush.
Delay.
Lamii stopped running.
The chaos surged past him.
A midfielder tried to turn—
Lamii stepped in.
One touch.
Clean.
The buzzer screamed.
Safe.
Heads turned.
Coach Salva's eyes narrowed.
The drills ended abruptly.
"Stop."
Bodies collapsed.
Breathing shattered the silence.
Salva walked slowly across the pitch.
"Some of you are fast," he said. "Some of you are strong."
He stopped in front of Lamii.
"And some of you understand timing."
Lamii met his gaze.
"You hesitate too much," Salva added. "That hesitation will kill you."
Lamii's fists clenched.
"Unless," Salva continued, "you learn when not to move."
He turned away.
Lamii's pulse thundered.
Was that… praise?
The next announcement hit harder.
"Teams will now be divided."
A digital board flickered on.
Names appeared.
Lamii scanned.
LAMII — TEAM C
His breath steadied.
Then—
PAPII — TEAM A
Lamii looked up.
Papii's grin faded.
Their eyes met across the pitch.
For the first time, there was distance between them.
"Different teams," Salva said. "Different paths."
A pause.
"Tomorrow," he added, "you will play against each other."
Gasps.
Papii laughed, sharp and loud. "Guess we'll see who's really better, huh?"
Lamii didn't answer.
His mind was elsewhere.
On the red mark next to his name.
On the assistant whispering to Salva.
On the weight pressing against his chest.
The No.10.
That night, Lamii sat alone in the locker room.
He pulled out his phone.
The screen flickered to life.
A clip played.
A left-footed legend gliding past defenders like they weren't real.
The crowd chanting a number.
Ten.
Lamii shut the phone off.
"I won't copy you," he whispered.
His reflection stared back.
Sweat. Fear. Fire.
"I'll surpass you."
Outside, the academy lights burnt brighter.
Tomorrow wasn't a test.
It was a warning.
And Lamii had just stepped onto the path where only one could survive.