The sun poured into the room like golden syrup, filling every inch with the kind of brightness that only a late spring morning could bring. Birds chirped outside, tapping rhythmically against the silence. The curtains fluttered slightly with the breeze sneaking in from the cracked window.
Leon sat cross-legged on his bed, dressed in an oversized tee and football shorts, scrolling aimlessly through his phone.
"Phew," he muttered to himself. "Two days off. I'm already getting bored…"
His thumb flicked through the sports headlines, not expecting much—just the usual transfer gossip, training clips, maybe a new boot release.
The headline hit him like a tackle to the ribs.
"Danin Blake Dies a Week After Injury in World Football Match — A Shocking Tragedy"
His thumb froze mid-scroll. His breath caught, just slightly. The screen lit up with an image—his old face.
Sharp eyes. Short dark hair. That classic Danin Blake look: focused, cold, worn by years of pressure and competition. His mouth was open in the photo, mid-shout, mid-command—like he was still fighting on that pitch.
Below it, the scoreline in bold:
Brentshire Rovers 1 - 1 Southport United. Fatal injury in the 84th minute.
Leon didn't move. For a long moment, everything else faded.
The world didn't seem to spin any slower.
His fingers curled slightly around the phone, holding it tighter than he meant to.
That moment—the tackle. The twist. The fall. He could still feel it, like a bruise in his memory.
"…So that's it," he whispered. "That was the end."
There was no article he needed to read. No video recap. He already knew.
He looked at his small hand. Turned it over.
Pale skin, slightly dusty from training yesterday. No calluses yet. Not like the hands of a veteran. These were the hands of a ten-year-old boy.
He reached up, brushed his fingers across his cheek. It felt strange sometimes—this young face. Softer.
He exhaled slowly, a breath that felt older than the body holding it.
"Weird," he said with a quiet smile. "I used to be terrified of death."
The phone buzzed in his hand—notification after notification.
#RIPDaninBlake was trending.
Clips of his old goals. Quotes from former coaches. Fans writing "He gave his life on the pitch."
All that noise, all that mourning… for someone who was still alive, just not as the person they remembered.
"…But it doesn't matter." His voice was firm now. "I'm Leon Fisher. This is my new life."
He set the phone down and stood up, stretching until his back popped.
The room was small—his boots rested against the wall, and a football sat under the desk, half-deflated but reliable. The posters above his bed were colorful: Bellingham. De Bruyne. Son Heung-min.
He glanced at the calendar taped beside his closet.
Only five days left until the match.
"I can't just sit around," he said. "I need to train."
He grabbed his phone again and tapped Byon.
"LEEEEOOOON!!" Byon's voice practically exploded through the speaker. "I was just about to call you!"
Leon laughed. "You psychic now?"
"Nope! Just always ready for greatness. What's up?"
"You feel like training?" Leon said. "Maybe a few passing drills, some footwork—light stuff, but sharp."
"Say less! I'll be at your house in, like, five minutes! I'm bringing two balls and one dream!"
Leon raised an eyebrow. "That… sounded cooler in your head, huh?"
"Shut up! I'll see you soon, wordsmith!"
The line cut. Leon stood still for a moment, smiling at the phone.
"Byon… a real friend."
"I'm so grateful I met him in this new life."