The fluorescent lights of the medical room hummed softly overhead.
Leon sat up slowly, the drip line tugging at his wrist, his vision still a bit hazy. A sharp pulse behind his eyes reminded him of what had just happened, one moment he was gliding across the pitch, delivering the perfect pass to Theo, and the next... darkness.
Coach Davor stood near the foot of the bed, arms folded tightly across his chest, while Aria leaned against the wall with her tablet in hand, unreadable.
Leon didn't waste time.
"It's called PlaySight," he said, voice low but steady. "It's… not natural. It's an implanted system. Something experimental. It shows me things, lines, stats, positioning. But lately... it's changing. There's something called Sync Drift. It's already over thirteen percent."
Davor's brow furrowed, jaw clenched. "Thirteen?"
Leon nodded. "The higher it gets, the worse it becomes. I blacked out on the pitch today because of it."
Aria finally spoke. "It's the ZANE-003 prototype... His data, Zane's...still lingers in the system. The more Leon plays instinctively... the more he plays like Zane. It accelerates the drift."
Coach's gaze narrowed. "So that's why I've been getting déjà vu watching you. You weren't just improving. You were mimicking someone."
"I didn't mean to," Leon admitted. "It just started... happening."
Coach sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. "You should've told me earlier."
Leon dropped his head. "I know."
After a pause, Davor straightened and spoke firmly. "Alright. Then here's how we fix this. You're going to stop relying on it. Cold turkey."
Leon blinked. "What?"
"We'll turn the system off," Coach continued. "For now. You'll train without it. We build your real abilities up, the hard way. No shortcuts. When you're strong enough to stand without it, maybe then you'll be able to tame it instead of being swallowed by it."
Aria tapped on her tablet, nodding. "It's the only way."
"But what about the blackout?" Leon asked.
Coach's eyes hardened. "Once Sync Drift passes ten percent, you'll start getting random blackouts. After twenty… it becomes dangerous. Permanent, even."
A beat of silence.
"From now on," Davor said, "you arrive at training an hour early. You leave an hour late. I'll train you myself. Physically. Mentally. Until you're more Leon Vale than this... ghost of Zane."
Leon swallowed hard, but nodded. "I'll do it."
That night, Leon sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the PlaySight interface hovering in front of him.
He hovered his finger over the system controls.
For so long, this had been his advantage. His escape from being the invisible, forgettable player. It had become his identity. But now… it was a threat. It wasn't just helping him anymore. It was replacing him.
He remembered that brief phase, when he had turned off the predictive overlay and played from instinct. It felt freeing, but… he'd still leaned on the minimap. Still obeyed the quiet whispers of the system.
Not anymore.
He exhaled and clicked on System Settings.
There was no "Turn Off" option.
Only:
[ENTER SLEEP MODE]
His heart sank.
Even in this moment, the system wouldn't release him.
He selected it anyway.
The HUD slowly faded, no more glowing minimap, no more flickering stats.
Only one thing remained, faint and ghostly in the corner of his vision:
ZANE-003 SYNC DRIFT: 13%
(Status: Sleep)
"The threat cannot be turned off."
Leon closed his eyes. This would be the beginning of something painful. But maybe, just maybe, it was the start of something real.
The next morning, the sun hadn't fully risen when Leon stepped onto the training pitch.
Coach Davor was already there, arms crossed, a stopwatch dangling from his fingers.
"You're late," he said, even though Leon was early.
Leon didn't respond. He just nodded.
"Good. Let's begin."
The first thirty minutes were meditation.
Leon sat cross-legged at the edge of the field, eyes closed, listening to the breeze, the faint rustle of leaves, the distant sound of traffic. At first, his thoughts swirled, the system, the pressure, Kael, everything. But slowly, things quieted.
Then came sprints. Full-speed. From one end of the field to the other.
Thirty minutes of explosive starts, sharp turns, and lung-burning bursts.
By the end, Leon's chest felt like it was going to explode. But Coach only said, "Get used to it."
As the sun climbed higher, the rest of the team began arriving.
Leon rejoined them, sweaty, already tired, and for the first time in weeks, blind.
No minimap. No overlays. Just him.
During possession drills, he missed a run. During passing drills, he misread a dummy and let a ball get intercepted.
Kael didn't say much, but his smirk said enough.
Leon gritted his teeth and kept pushing.
Every mistake was a sting. Every misstep made him miss the system. But as he began moving more, something changed.
Agile Step might've been a PlaySight technique, but it had taught him a rhythm, how to plant his foot, when to cut, how to shift weight.
The minimap may be gone, but the habit of scanning the field, reading patterns, and watching body language had taken root.
During a small-sided game, he intercepted a pass not by prediction, but because he noticed the winger's eyes glance inside half a second before releasing.
As practice ended and the rest of the team left, Leon stayed behind.
Coach returned with a fresh bottle of water and a nod of approval.
Then Leon sat again. Cross-legged. Eyes closed.
Meditation.
The wind felt cooler now. His breath steadier.
His body ached.
But something inside felt just a little lighter.
As dusk fell across the field, Leon stood alone on the grass, sweat-drenched and drained, but upright.
Two extra hours a day.
No shortcuts. No system. Just me.
Maybe that's what it'll take to outrun Zane's shadow.