The sun was setting low behind the bleachers, casting long shadows across the field as practice wrapped up.
Sweat still clung to Julian’s brow, the cool wind mixing with the warmth of exertion.
He was about to grab his bag when a familiar voice called out behind him.
"Yo," Leo said, slinging an arm lazily around his shoulders. "How’s the team treating you?"
Julian glanced back at the pitch. The others were laughing, packing up gear, and trading water bottles. His gaze softened.
"They’re solid," he replied. "Riku feels like a referee disguised as a defender—everything by the book, every drill executed like it’s life or death.
Cael’s the total opposite, always going with the flow, doing his own thing... they clash a lot, but it kinda works."
Leo raised an eyebrow. "Damn, that’s a scouting report, not an answer."
Julian chuckled, shoulders relaxing. "What can I say? I pay attention."
"And what about our captain?" Leo teased, puffing his chest slightly with a mock-heroic flair.
Julian smirked. "Charismatic. Like some anime protagonist who gives speeches before the final battle."
Leo barked a laugh. "Okay, now that’s a compliment I’ll take."
Julian’s expression turned thoughtful. He looked down at his hands—the same ones that missed passes, fumbled touches, yet somehow scored goals in the drills like magic.
"But really," he continued, "no one’s mocked me. Not once. Even though I’m clearly behind everyone else. It’s... strange."
Leo’s voice lowered, more serious now. "That’s because we saw what you did.
You don’t move like someone who’s new. Maybe you mess up the basics, but your instinct? It’s real."
He took a step closer, his voice steady.
"There was a striker in Serie A," Leo said. "Didn’t have flashy footwork.
Hell, his technique was clunky. But he was always in the right spot. Always scored.
They called him Superpippo—because you never saw the goal coming."
Julian raised an eyebrow. "And you think I’m like that?"
Leo met his eyes without hesitation. "I know you are."
Julian stood still for a moment. The weight of those words settled into his bones—not heavy, but grounding.
Powerful. Like the first time a blade is placed in a warrior’s hand and he’s told to fight for more than just himself.
"We believe in you," Leo said. "When we need a goal—you’ll deliver."
For a heartbeat, the air felt different. Not just cooling with the wind, but charged. As if the pitch itself was listening.
Julian exhaled slowly, then gave a small nod.
"Then I’ll answer that belief," he said. "I’ll make damn sure we win."
Leo grinned, eyes shining.
"Now that," he said, fist bumping him, "is the kind of striker I want by my side."
The sky had faded into twilight by the time Julian waved goodbye to the last of his teammates.
His shirt clung to his back with dried sweat, and the air carried the cool scent of cut grass and evening dew.
He walked toward the parking lot with a slow, steady pace, as if part of him didn’t want to leave the field behind.
A sleek black sedan waited under a lamppost, engine quietly humming.
Crest leaned against the driver-side door, arms crossed, her silhouette framed by the orange glow of the streetlight.
She wore a crisp blouse and fitted slacks, her dark hair tied back in a clean tail, not a strand out of place.
From a distance, she looked more like a corporate bodyguard than someone picking up a teenager from practice.
Julian approached, footsteps soft on the asphalt.
Without a word, he opened the passenger door and slid in. The leather interior still held the day’s warmth.
Crest glanced sideways, her tone dry but curious.
"So? How’s the battlefield?"
Julian let out a breath, slumping into the seat. "Good. Better than good. We’ve got a practice match in two days."
For a second, Crest said nothing.
She looked at him—not just looked, but watched.
This boy who once couldn’t climb a staircase without wheezing, now carried the smell of sweat and turf like a badge of honor.
The fire in his voice was real. Not forced. Not imagined. Real.
Maybe a miracle really did happen, she thought.
But she never pried. That wasn’t her job.
Her job was to watch. To protect.
And if needed, to catch him when the world tried to break him again.
"Can I come see the match?" she asked, voice calm but laced with something warm.
"Of course. You can."
Crest’s lips curved into the faintest smirk.
"Good. I need to make sure you’re not just kicking around with other delusional kids," she said, her tone dry as ever—but there was something underneath. Something maternal.
Julian laughed. A dry, rasping chuckle that pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.
"You’ll see," he said, closing his eyes and resting his head back.
The black sedan’s engine rumbled to life, headlights slicing through the dark as they rolled out of the school lot and onto the road.
For a while, the drive was quiet. Streetlights passed overhead in golden flashes.
Julian watched them blur by through the window—his body tired, but his mind still running hot.
Then Crest spoke, her voice calm but pointed.
"But Julian... I really am curious. What happened to your body? What did you do?"
Julian blinked slowly, then smirked.
"Hmm... let’s just say I had a dream," he said. "A long one. Where I became stronger. And when I woke up... I stayed that way."
Crest glanced sideways at him, her expression unreadable.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t press.
Just exhaled quietly and returned her gaze to the road ahead.
She’d promised not to dig.
Not unless he asked her to.
Her job wasn’t to interrogate.
Her job was to stand beside him. Whether he walked or bled.
Julian leaned his head against the glass. Cool. Smooth. Still trembling faintly from the road.
Out there, the world seemed different now.
The sky overhead was open, not looming.
The streets didn’t feel so distant anymore.
He didn’t know what the future held.
And this football thing?
Maybe it was more than just a mission his system assigned.
Maybe—just maybe—he was starting to love it.