Morning sunlight slipped through the half-drawn curtains, slicing across the white walls of Jaeven's apartment. The faint hum of Milan's early traffic filled the silence, accompanied by the rhythmic buzz of his phone that had been vibrating almost nonstop since dawn.
He blinked awake slowly, his body still adjusting to the fatigue from yesterday's recording. When he finally reached for the phone, the notification bar was flooded—social media tags, trending hashtags, mentions, clips, even foreign football pages reposting the Rising Boot pilot with his face front and center.
> "Who is this kid? Looks like an idol but talks like a veteran striker."
"Han Jaeven… that confidence isn't normal for a 16-year-old."
"He's got presence. The kind that makes you watch even when he's not speaking."
Jaeven exhaled, tossing the phone aside for a moment. His head sank back into the pillow, eyes staring up at the ceiling fan that spun lazily. It was strange—he had lived twenty-five years once before, seen fame, envy, and fleeting attention. But this time… it felt different. It wasn't pity or forced recognition. It was real intrigue.
His lips tugged into a faint smile.
> "So it begins," he murmured to himself.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Come in," he called out, pushing himself up.
Lucia poked her head through, her messy morning hair spilling over her shoulders. "You're trending again," she said flatly, though her tone carried the sharp edge of disbelief. "Dad was watching the rerun. Mom almost screamed when she saw the comments."
He raised an eyebrow. "Screamed?"
Lucia rolled her eyes. "The part where the host asked about your mindset before a match, and you said, 'Instinct guides me. Not nerves.' She said you sounded like some poetic assassin."
Jaeven smirked, standing and stretching. "Maybe I am."
She groaned. "You're impossible."
By the time he made it downstairs, his father was sipping coffee while scrolling through his tablet. Marco Moretti was a man who rarely complimented lightly, but when Jaeven entered, the faintest smirk tugged at his lips.
"Your pilot was good," Marco said simply, not looking up. "Your answers were sharp. You didn't sound rehearsed."
"That's the point," Jaeven replied. "Authenticity sells more than perfection."
His mother, Han Mirae, appeared from the kitchen holding a plate of toast. "Authenticity is fine," she said with a smile, "but please don't give your father a heart attack by saying things like you don't feel nerves. He thought you were arrogant."
"I didn't say that," Marco muttered defensively.
Lucia snorted. "You totally did."
They all laughed softly. It was a rare, quiet morning—one that felt too calm for the buzz that surrounded his name online.
But even as he ate, Jaeven's mind wasn't entirely here. He was already thinking about the next stage of Rising Boot. The pilot was just an introduction; what came next would decide reputations, sponsorships, and visibility. Cameras would follow every step—training, challenges, matches.
He'd need to dominate, not just impress.
---
By noon, he was already out.
A luxury black van waited outside the building, with a driver and one of the show's coordinators, a young woman named Giulia, standing beside it. She bowed slightly as he approached, a faint flush on her cheeks.
"Good morning, Han Jaeven. The production meeting will start in thirty minutes," she said, voice slightly too formal for someone her age.
He gave a polite nod, sliding into the van. "Morning, Giulia. You've been busy?"
Her hands fidgeted with the clipboard. "Ah, y-yes. There's a lot to prepare since your segment was the most discussed after the pilot. The producers want to… expand your screen time for the main series."
He turned to look at her, faint amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "So I'm the favorite already?"
Her cheeks went crimson. "N-not exactly! It's just that the feedback on your part was… overwhelmingly positive. They think you draw attention well."
"Then I'll give them more to talk about."
When he said that, his tone wasn't cocky—it was deliberate, confident, the kind of voice that made people want to believe him.
Giulia swallowed, face still pink, before hurriedly switching topics.
Inside the van, he scrolled through clips again—his scene at the pilot, the brief shot of him smiling slightly before the camera faded to black. The comment sections were alive. Analysts were dissecting his posture. Fans were clipping his interview into edits with slow music and overlays. It was surreal how fast an image could spread.
But behind every trend, Jaeven reminded himself, was momentum that could vanish if not sustained.
He leaned back, eyes half-lidded. "If I want this to last," he murmured, "I need to keep evolving."
---
The studio was busier than before.
Dozens of staff members moved across the set, adjusting lights, setting up props, checking camera lenses. Several of them greeted him with hesitant smiles, while others—especially the younger female assistants—looked away quickly when he met their eyes, cheeks tinted with pink.
One of them accidentally dropped her tablet when he passed, stammering apologies while he helped her pick it up.
"It's alright," he said calmly, offering the device back. His voice was low, gentle.
She nodded quickly, unable to meet his gaze. "T-thank you."
He walked away without another word, though a faint smile played at his lips. It wasn't arrogance—it was awareness. He knew the effect he had. The sharp jawline, lean build, and those calm, unreadable eyes—it all formed an image that the camera, and apparently the staff, couldn't ignore.
He'd lived with a weak, frail body once. Now he carried a presence that even professional idols might envy. And he planned to use that advantage in full.
---
In the conference room, the director and producers were waiting. They replayed parts of the pilot, pausing during his introduction.
"Here," the director said, pointing to the large screen. "This moment, when you looked straight into the lens and said—'Football doesn't give chances, it rewards those who create them'—the audience engagement peaked. We want more of that energy."
Jaeven nodded. "Understood."
Another producer leaned forward. "We'll be filming the first challenge episode in two days. It'll feature skill trials and interviews. You'll be grouped with three other players. We expect some competition."
He smiled faintly. "Competition brings the best out of me."
The team exchanged quick looks—half amused, half impressed.
As the meeting continued, plans unfolded: future segments, sponsorship shoots, promotional material. Every mention of his name carried a subtle weight, a sign that the pilot's success had tipped the scale in his favor.
When it ended, the director approached him personally. "You've got something rare, Han," he said. "It's not just talent—it's how the camera seems to orbit around you. Keep that up, and this show could be your stage."
Jaeven gave a polite bow. "Then I'll make sure it is."
---
By late afternoon, he found himself walking through the production corridors. Outside, the city shimmered with autumn light, gold reflecting off car roofs and glass buildings. He could hear voices—crew members gossiping softly as he passed.
> "He looks even better in person…"
"Did you see his smile during the interview?"
"He's so composed—it's kind of intimidating."
He ignored them, though a quiet satisfaction stirred in his chest.
As he stepped outside the studio, his phone buzzed again—this time, a message from his manager.
> [Manager]: Congratulations on the pilot's success. Sponsors are already asking about you. We'll talk soon. Don't lose focus.
He locked the screen and slid it into his pocket.
Focus. That word echoed in his mind like a mantra.
He was no longer the boy who dreamed of playing football while trapped in a weak body. This time, he was on the field—both literally and figuratively—and the world had started watching.
---
Evening came with a calm that felt deceptive.
Jaeven sat on his balcony, the city lights stretching like veins below. He replayed moments from the pilot again—not for vanity, but to observe himself objectively. His posture, tone, timing. Every detail mattered. Every impression built a legacy.
A soft notification popped up on his feed.
> "Rising Boot – Episode 1: Coming Soon"
#HanJaeven #RisingBoot #FootballProdigy
His reflection stared back from the phone's black screen, lips curving slightly.
> "They've seen the surface," he whispered. "Now they'll see the fire."
He leaned back, closing his eyes, feeling the cool Milan breeze brush past him.
Tomorrow, training would begin again. Cameras, lights, pressure—it didn't matter.
Because Jaeven Moretti Han wasn't here just to perform.
He was here to rise.