For exactly fourteen days, Rio was the king of London.
His debut for Arsenal was a revelation. It was exactly as Leo had predicted. Arsenal's midfield, filled with world-class playmakers, held the ball for 70% of the match, weaving intricate, beautiful patterns around the opposition.
Rio didn't have to fight in the mud. He didn't have to track back. He just hovered in the penalty box like a ghost.
In his first match against Everton, he scored twice. Both were Zero-State Strikes. The Everton defenders were completely paralyzed by the lack of a wind-up.
In his second match against Tottenham Hotspur—the fierce North London Derby—Rio silenced the rival stadium with a blinding, no-look knuckleball that tore the roof of the net. Three goals in two games. The £80 million price tag suddenly looked like a bargain. The media dubbed him the final piece of Arsenal's title-winning puzzle.
Then came the third match.
A rainy Saturday at the Emirates Stadium. Arsenal vs. Crystal Palace.
It was the 44th minute. The score was 0-0. Arsenal had created a dozen chances, but Palace was playing a brutal, deep defensive block.
An Arsenal midfielder slipped a brilliant, threading pass into the box. Rio was there. He had half a yard of space.
He dropped his heart rate. He emptied his mind. The cold, mechanical apathy of the Zero-State settled over him. He planted his left foot and violently snapped his right knee forward to generate the phantom power.
But a human body, even one forged in the freezing weight rooms of Lancashire, is not made of steel. Biomechanics have absolute limits. Generating that much torque without a natural wind-up places a terrifying amount of stress on the tendons.
Rio snapped his leg.
POP.
It wasn't the sound of the boot hitting the ball. It was a sickening, audible tear that echoed over the pitch microphones.
The ball trickled weakly out of bounds.
Rio didn't scream. His brain couldn't even process the pain yet. He just collapsed onto the wet London grass, his right leg completely giving out beneath him.
The stadium went dead silent. The Arsenal medical staff sprinted onto the pitch.
Rio looked up at the gray sky. He tried to flex his right leg. Nothing happened. It was completely dead. The dark, heavy armor of his Will flickered erratically and then shattered into nothingness.
"Grade three tear of the patellar tendon and a severe hamstring rupture," the lead doctor whispered to the Arsenal manager on the touchline, looking at Rio writhing on the stretcher. "He's done. Surgery tomorrow. He won't touch a football for at least four months."
The next four months were a slow, agonizing psychological torture.
Rio went from being the terrifying £80 million savior to a ghost haunting the Arsenal medical wing. He spent his days in a heavy leg brace, doing excruciatingly slow water-treadmill exercises while watching his team play on the television screens.
Without Rio, the Arsenal machine broke down.
They were beautiful to watch. They passed the ball with breathtaking elegance. They danced around the penalty box. But when it came time to execute... they hesitated.
Rio watched from the VIP box as Arsenal drew 0-0 with Southampton. He watched them lose 1-0 to Brentford after holding 75% possession.
"Shoot the ball!" Rio screamed at the glass window of his private box during a frustrating draw against Fulham, his hands balled into fists. But the glass was soundproof. The players couldn't hear him.
The Arsenal manager looked increasingly exhausted on the touchline week after week. The team had the lock-pickers, but their sledgehammer was in a cast.
By the time May arrived, the Premier League season ended not with a trophy parade, but with a whimper.
Arsenal, who had been fighting for the title in January, completely collapsed in the final months. They slid down the table, ultimately finishing in an embarrassing 8th place—dead center of mid-table. No Champions League qualification. No trophies. Just a season of "what ifs."
[Late June - The Offseason]
The Emirates Stadium was entirely empty. The summer sun was beating down on the pristine, newly cut grass.
Rio stood on the edge of the pitch. He was wearing shorts and running shoes. The heavy brace was gone, leaving behind an ugly, jagged surgical scar running over his right knee.
He took a slow, deep breath. He jogged forward ten paces.
There was no pain. The surgery had held. The rehab had worked.
But as he stopped, a dark realization settled over him. He looked down at his right leg.
He couldn't use the Zero-State Strike the same way anymore. If he spammed that unnatural, violent snapping motion every single game, his knee would explode again. He had built a cannon, but the recoil was destroying the ship.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from Leo.
Leo: I saw the medical clearance report on the news. Are you alive, Machine?
Rio typed back.
Rio: I'm alive. But the weapon is flawed. If I use it too much, I break.
A minute passed. Then, Leo replied.
Leo: Then stop relying on the gun. You have the best playmakers in England passing to you now. You don't need to force the shot from nothing. Learn to read the grid. Combine your weapon with their rhythm.
Rio stared at the message.
Combine his weapon with their rhythm. He looked out at the empty, massive stadium. The new season was two months away. The media was already calling him a £80 million flop, a glass cannon who couldn't survive the Premier League. Arsenal was considered a mid-table laughingstock.
Rio slowly closed his eyes. The cold apathy of the Zero-State didn't return. Instead, a slow, controlled, and deeply terrifying version of his Apex Predator aura began to hum under his scarred skin.
He wasn't going to break this time. He was going to adapt.