5:00 AM.
The sun isn't even up yet. The floodlights hum, casting long, sharp shadows across the dew-soaked grass.
Robin is on the pitch. Alone.
A line of orange cones snakes ahead of him. To anyone else, they are just plastic markers. To Robin, they are defenders. They are obstacles. They are victims.
He bursts forward.
Touch. Step-over. Cut left. Accelerate.
He doesn't just need to beat them. Efficiency isn't enough. He needs to humiliate them. He needs to drag the ball back, nutmeg them, make them fall over their own feet. He needs to entertain.
That's how you get a fanbase. That's how you get a following. That's how you get out of this league.
He weaves through the final cone, drops his shoulder, and sprints across the imaginary finish line.
He hits the button on his stopwatch.
15.02.
Robin stares at the digital numbers, his chest heaving. He sighs, frustration burning in his throat.
Fifteen seconds. Too slow. Garbage.
He needs twelve. Twelve or below is the benchmark for elite wingers. Vinicius hits eleven. Mbappe hits ten. Fifteen is average. Robin hates average.
He walks back to the starting point, wiping sweat from his eyes. He shakes his legs out.
Again.
He launches himself. He increases the pace, pushing his body to the limit. The ball feels like an extension of his foot. He's flying. It's close. He can feel it. This is the run.
He cuts hard at the last cone—too hard.
His toe catches the turf. The ball gets stuck under his foot.
Splat.
Robin face-plants into the grass, sliding a good three feet on his stomach. The air leaves his lungs in a painful whoosh.
"Ahh," he groans, rolling onto his back, staring up at the blinding floodlights.
A laugh cuts through the morning air. A faint, amused chuckle.
Robin frowns. Doyle. It has to be. The guy probably showed up to mock him about the "madman" training.
Robin pushes himself up on his elbows. "Very funny, Doyle. Get lost."
But the figure standing by the touchline isn't Doyle.
It's Martin.
The coach is standing there, wrapped in a thick coat, holding something in his hand.
Robin scrambles to his feet, ignoring the grass stains on his shirt. "Boss."
Martin walks towards him, stepping over the cones. "Training too much is not a good thing, Silver. You'll burn out before matchday."
"I disagree, boss," Robin says, brushing dirt off his shorts. "Rest is for the dead."
Martin laughs again. It's a dry sound, but not unkind.
Robin notices the object in Martin's hand. He expected a notebook—the old school "tactical coward" weapon of choice. But it's not. It's an iPad. The screen is glowing with tactical maps.
"We are facing West Hall Town in two days," Martin says, tapping the screen. "I've been analyzing them. They're... simpler than Oakminster."
"Doesn't matter," Robin says, picking up the ball. "We have to give our best. We can't slack off."
"Yes. Indeed. We have to give our best." Martin nods, his eyes locking onto Robin's. "That's why I'm changing things."
Robin braces himself. Here comes the park-the-bus speech. Play safe. Don't lose the ball. Draw 0-0.
"I want you to focus on scoring," Martin says.
Robin blinks. "What?"
"All-out attack," Martin continues, casually, as if asking for a coffee. "I need you to score or assist. I don't care which. I want you to increase the scoreline. I want goals."
Robin looks up, genuinely shocked. He stares at the bald man in the coat. This is the guy who benched him for being risky? The guy who celebrated a 1-0 loss?
He expected cowardice. He expected caution. He didn't expect Martin to tell him to go out there and fuck the other team.
"I know," Martin says, seeing Robin's face. "Full-on attack is not my usual style. It's risky. But... looking at the data, looking at you and Doyle... I think we can afford it. We have the firepower."
Robin nods slowly. A grin threatens to break out on his face.
This is the best day of his North Wall career.
Yeah, he thinks, catching himself. Calm down. He shouldn't be getting this excited like a high school kid. It's a mediocre coach, managing a mediocre team, planning against another trash team in the second division.
But he can't help it. His heart is beating faster.
This is Football.
"One more thing," Martin adds, his voice dropping an octave. "Be careful, Robin. Their center-back... he is..."
"Prince," Robin finishes the sentence. The name tastes like bile.
Martin raises an eyebrow. "So, you did your homework."
"Of course."
"Then you know."
Robin nods. He knows.
Prince. The Butcher of West Hall.
The guy is notorious. A relic of a bygone era where breaking legs was considered "good defending." He has the highest number of red cards in the league's history, and that's saying something, considering the referees in this division are legally blind.
He is popular for one thing: destroying careers. A torn ACL here, a broken ankle there. The guy is a football terrorist. Robin still can't believe the association hasn't banned him for life. He gets a three-game ban, comes back, and hurts someone else.
Martin looks worried. "He targets wingers. Especially flashy ones. He will come for you."
Robin looks at the coach. He sees the concern.
But Robin isn't afraid. Not even the slightest.
He spins the ball on his finger.
"Let him come," Robin says.
He is excited.
He is going to humble the terrorist.