The worst sound in the world isn't a bone snapping.
It's the squeak of crutches on a hospital floor.
Squeak. Step. Squeak. Step.
Soccer hated it. He hated the rhythm. It was slow. It was clunky. It felt like walking through molasses.
He sat on the exam table, his legs dangling. One was tanned, scarred, and muscular. The other was encased in a black "Walking Boot" that looked like something a robocop would wear to a funeral.
Dr. Sarah Mitchell held the MRI film up to the light box. She was a woman who looked like she ran marathons for fun and ate nails for breakfast.
She hadn't blinked in thirty seconds.
"This is..." She tapped the film. "Impossible."
"Is it broken?" Luna asked, squeezing the strap of her bag. Her knuckles were white.
"No," Dr. Mitchell adjusted her glasses. "Look here. This is the Anterior Talo-Fibular Ligament. In a sprain this violent—Marcus said he was tackled mid-air by a linebacker—this ligament should be shredded. Like spaghetti."
"It hurts," Soccer admitted, swinging his good leg. "Like a fire ant bite. A big one."
"It's not shredded," Mitchell muttered. "It's frayed. But look at the density. The fibers are three times thicker than a normal teenager's. It's like... kevlar."
She turned to Soccer, staring at him as if he were a lab specimen.
"How often did you roll your ankles as a child?"
Soccer shrugged. "Every day? The rocks move. You roll with them. If you stay stiff, you break. If you bend, you just bounce."
"You built up a tolerance," Mitchell concluded. "Your body created scar tissue over scar tissue until it built a natural brace. That's the only reason you aren't in surgery right now."
"Can he play?" Coach Cross asked from the doorway. He looked tired. He hadn't slept since Regionals.
"Play?" Mitchell laughed dryly. "He shouldn't be walking. The inflammation is massive. If he runs on this before it heals, that kevlar ligament will snap. And then his foot will just... hang there."
Soccer looked down at his boot.
"How long?"
"Four weeks of zero impact. Then two weeks of rehab."
"We play at Nationals in fourteen days," Cross said grimly.
Mitchell pulled the film down. "Then you're going to play without him. Unless you want to cripple him for life."
The room went silent. The squeak of a nurse's shoes in the hallway sounded like a scream.
Soccer looked at his toes wiggling out the end of the boot.
"Doc," Soccer said.
"Yes?"
"What is 'zero impact'?"
"It means your foot does not hit the ground hard. No running. No jumping. No kicking."
Soccer smiled. A small, dangerous upturn of his lips.
"Okay. What if I don't touch the ground?"
Northwood High Pool. 10:00 PM.
The natatorium echoed. It smelled of chlorine and humidity. The blue water was perfectly still, reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead.
It looked peaceful.
SPLASH.
Soccer cannonballed into the deep end.
He sank to the bottom.
He sat cross-legged on the blue tiles, twelve feet underwater. His cast was gone (Dr. Mitchell had swapped it for a waterproof brace).
Above the surface, Luna and Coach Cross watched.
"Is he... meditating?" Luna whispered.
"He's holding his breath," Cross said, checking a stopwatch. "Two minutes so far."
"Why?"
"Lung capacity. Altitude training. If he can't run to build cardio, he has to starve his body of oxygen to trick it into making more red blood cells."
Bubbles rose to the surface.
Underwater, Soccer opened his eyes. The chlorine stung, but he was used to mountain streams that were glacial-cold.
He looked at his legs. They floated weightlessly.
Zero impact.
Dr. Mitchell said no hitting the ground. She didn't say anything about fighting water.
Soccer stood up on the bottom of the pool. The water pressure pushed against him. It was heavy. It was like wearing a suit of armor.
He tried to run.
It was slow motion. His legs pushed, but the water fought back. It filled every gap, resisted every motion.
Good.
Soccer grinned, releasing a silver cloud of bubbles.
If I can move fast in this... air will feel like nothing.
He started to perform high-knees underwater.
Thump-swoosh. Thump-swoosh.
He pushed through the pain in his ankle. The water supported the joint. No impact. Just pure, crushing resistance.
Above surface: 2 minutes 45 seconds.
"He's going to drown," Luna said, stepping toward the edge. "Soccer! Come up!"
Soccer pushed off the bottom.
He didn't swim. He launched.
Like a torpedo, he streamlined his body and kicked violently.
He broke the surface.
GASP.
He sucked in air, hair plastered to his face, looking like a seal.
"I found it!" Soccer yelled, treading water.
"Found what?" Cross asked.
"The viscosity!" Soccer splashed the water. "Air is thin. Water is thick. If I cut through the water... I learn to cut through the wind!"
He dove back down immediately.
Cross stared at the ripples.
"He's adapting," Cross whispered. "He's not rehabbing. He's evolving."
The Dorms (Empty Classroom)
Since Northwood didn't have dorms, the school had set up a cot in the Phys Ed classroom for Soccer so he didn't have to commute two hours to the temporary foster home the state had placed him in.
It was humble. A mattress. A sleeping bag. A pile of football magazines Marcus had donated.
Luna sat on a folding chair. She had a cooler of ice.
"Leg up," she ordered.
Soccer flopped onto the mattress. He was shivering. Three hours in the pool had turned his skin prune-like.
Luna unwrapped the wet brace. The ankle was purple, yellow, and black. Ugly.
She placed the ice pack on it.
Soccer hissed. "Cold."
"Good cold," Luna said softly. She secured the pack. Her fingers brushed his calf. His muscle twitched.
It was intimate. In the quiet of the dark classroom, with just the moonlight filtering in, the energy shifted. Luna wasn't just the manager anymore.
She looked at him. The scars on his chest. The definition of his abs. He was built like a greek statue carved out of granite, yet his eyes were so innocent.
"You're scaring everyone," Luna said quietly.
"Why?" Soccer asked, staring at the ceiling.
"Because you don't stop. Most people get hurt, they rest. They watch TV. You... you try to fight the ocean."
"I have to."
"Why? For the trophy?"
"No." Soccer turned his head. "For the pack."
He reached out and poked Luna's knee. A gentle, brotherly poke, but it sent electricity through her.
"Marcus feels bad," Soccer said. "He thinks he let me get hurt. Dylan is scared of Nationals. If I stop... they stop."
Luna looked at his hand. His fingers were rough, calloused. The hand of someone who had climbed sheer rock faces.
"You're not a decoy, are you?" she asked. "For Nationals. You plan to actually play."
Soccer grinned.
"Decoys get eaten. I plan to bite."
The door creaked open.
Marcus and Elijah walked in. They were carrying a laptop and a bag of burgers.
"Food delivery," Marcus announced. "And nightmare fuel."
"Burgers are fuel?" Soccer asked, sitting up.
"No. The laptop." Marcus set it down on a desk. "The bracket for Nationals just dropped. And they released the scouting tape on our opponent."
Soccer dragged his ice-wrapped leg to the edge of the bed. "Who is it?"
"We got a bye for the first round because of the Regionals score," Elijah explained, opening a burger. "But in Round 2... we face Southern Academy."
"Vincent Drake," Luna whispered.
Marcus clicked a video file. "Watch."
The Video.
The screen was grainy footage from a different regional final.
Southern Academy vs. some poor team in white jerseys.
Vincent Drake wore Number 10. But he wasn't small like typical playmakers. He was huge. Six-foot-three. Long dark hair tied back. He looked like a Viking who stumbled onto a football pitch.
In the video, Vincent got the ball at midfield.
Three defenders rushed him.
Vincent didn't dribble around them.
He ran through them.
He lowered his shoulder and hit the first defender. The kid flew three yards through the air.
Clean shoulder charge.
The second defender tackled Vincent's legs. Vincent didn't fall. He stumbled, dragged the defender for five yards, and shook him off like a annoying dog.
He reached the box. The keeper came out.
Vincent didn't place the shot. He didn't finesse it.
He struck the ball with pure, unadulterated violence.
BOOM.
The camera shook. The net ripped. Literally. The ball tore through the mesh and hit the advertising board behind the goal with a thunderous clang.
"He... he broke the net," Dylan whimpered from the doorway (he had been lurking).
"He has nineteen goals this season," Marcus said. "And twelve yellow cards. He's not a striker. He's a natural disaster."
Soccer watched the video. He watched Vincent's eyes in the close-up. They were dead. Empty.
Kai Rivers had eyes of ice. Calculating.
Vincent Drake had eyes of fire. Consuming.
"He looks angry," Soccer noted, taking a bite of his burger.
"He's known as 'The Dragon'," Marcus said. "Because he burns everything he touches. He injured the last three captains he played against."
Soccer watched Vincent stiff-arm a defender into the mud.
"He relies on power," Soccer analyzed. "He pushes. He thinks everyone will move."
"And they do," Luna said. "Everyone moves for him."
Soccer tapped the screen.
"I won't move."
Marcus looked at the ice pack on Soccer's leg. "Bro, if you try to tank a hit from him right now, your ankle will disintegrate. You can't overpower him."
"I know." Soccer finished his burger in two bites. "You can't stop a landslide with a wall. The wall breaks."
"So how do you stop it?"
Soccer looked at the pool pass hanging on Luna's bag.
"You divert it," Soccer whispered. "You become the river."
One Week Later.
"Get him!" Coach Cross screamed.
The pool was churning.
Soccer was underwater. He wore a weighted vest. Twenty pounds of lead.
Marcus, Elijah, and Dylan were also in the pool. They were treading water, trying to catch him.
"This is ridiculous!" Marcus shouted, splashing. "I can't see him!"
The water rippled.
Suddenly, Soccer breached the surface behind Marcus. He didn't make a splash. He surfaced silently, like a crocodile.
He tapped Marcus on the shoulder.
"Dead," Soccer whispered.
Marcus spun around, yelping. "Jesus!"
Soccer dove back down before they could grab him.
Coach Cross watched from the deck.
"His movement..." Cross muttered. "It's changed."
Before, on land, Soccer moved with sharp, explosive angles. The Ghost Step. The Storm Dribble. It was jagged.
Now? In the water?
He was undulating. His core moved like a snake. He didn't fight the resistance; he slid around it. He was learning Fluid Dynamics.
"Time!" Cross blew the whistle.
Soccer climbed out of the pool.
He walked.
No crutches. No boot.
He walked to his towel. He didn't limp.
It wasn't a perfect walk—there was a slight stiffness—but the agony on his face was gone.
Dr. Mitchell, standing by the lockers, lowered her clipboard.
"It's been nine days," she said. "Biology doesn't work this fast."
"He ate a lot of calcium?" Luna offered weakly.
Mitchell shook her head. "His metabolism is hyper-active. And the cold water reduced the inflammation faster than any cryo-chamber. But..."
She walked over to Soccer. She poked his ankle.
"Does it hurt?"
Soccer looked her in the eye.
"Pain is just information," he quoted something he made up on the spot. "It tells me the ankle is still there."
"Can you run?"
"In water? Yes. On land? Probably."
"Can you survive a tackle from Vincent Drake?"
Soccer put his towel around his neck. His shoulders were broader now. The swimming had built his upper body. He looked thicker. Stronger.
"Doc," Soccer said. "I don't plan on letting him tackle me."
The Bus to Nationals.
The bus ride was long. Four hours to the Metropolis Stadium.
The mood was somber. Regionals felt like a high school memory. This was the big leagues. The parking lot was filled with charter buses, news vans, and scouts.
Marcus sat next to Soccer.
"Hey."
"Hey Cap."
"I got you something."
Marcus handed Soccer a box.
Inside was a shin guard. But not plastic.
It looked metallic. Dark grey. Light as a feather.
"Carbon fiber," Marcus said. "Custom molded. My dad owns a shop... we made it based on your scan. It's thinner than paper but stronger than steel."
Soccer touched the surface. "It feels cold."
"It goes on your bad ankle. If Vincent kicks you there... this will take the hit."
Soccer looked at Marcus. The cynical captain who hated tryouts was gone. This was a leader protecting his pack.
"Thanks," Soccer said softly. "I'll wear it."
"There's one more thing," Marcus hesitated. "A rumor."
"About?"
"Vincent. They say he didn't want to play in the first round."
"Why?"
"Because he was waiting for 'The Anomaly'." Marcus showed him a tweet on his phone.
It was from Vincent Drake's official account. Just one line.
@TheDragon: Bring the mountain to me. I want to shatter it.
Soccer stared at the screen.
He didn't type a reply. He didn't understand Twitter anyway.
He just closed his eyes and visualized the pool. The heavy, crushing water. The silence.
Shatter me?
Soccer touched the carbon fiber guard.
You can try.
Metropolis Stadium. Tunnel Entrance.
This was it. Round 2 of Nationals.
The stadium held twenty thousand people. The lights were blinding. The turf was a different breed—hybrid grass, expensive and fast.
Northwood stood in the tunnel. They looked small.
Southern Academy lined up opposite them. They looked like professional soldiers. Black and Red kits. Huge players.
And at the front... The Dragon.
Vincent Drake was even bigger in person. His presence sucked the air out of the tunnel. He didn't look at his teammates. He didn't look at the refs.
He walked straight up to Soccer.
Vincent looked down. He was four inches taller.
"You're small," Vincent rumbled. His voice sounded like grinding stones.
Soccer looked up. He was wearing his old black Copa Mundials, polished and clean.
"You're big," Soccer replied.
Vincent sniffed the air near Soccer.
"You smell like chlorine."
"I went for a swim."
Vincent leaned in. His eyes were burning pits of aggression.
"I saw the video of Kai," Vincent whispered. "He's weak. He tries to be perfect. I don't care about perfect. I care about domination."
Vincent grabbed Soccer's shoulder. Hard.
It wasn't a friendly squeeze. It was a vice grip meant to bruise.
"If you try that dancing garbage with me," Vincent promised, "I will break every bone you have left."
Soccer didn't flinch.
He didn't pull away.
He remembered the water. Resistance. Flow.
Soccer relaxed his shoulder completely, becoming fluid. Vincent's grip slipped slightly as the muscle lost tension.
"Dancing is fun," Soccer smiled. The smile didn't reach his grey eyes. "But swimming... swimming makes you heavy."
Soccer stepped forward, invading Vincent's space.
"Have you ever tried to punch water, Dragon? You just get wet."
Vincent's eye twitched.
The referee shouted. "Captains! Out here! Now!"
They broke the stare down.
As they walked onto the pitch, the roar of the crowd washed over them.
But in Soccer's head, there was silence.
The deep end of the pool.
Be water, he told himself. Flow. Crash. Drown them.
He checked his bad ankle. The carbon fiber shield was snug. The tape was tight.
The Dragon wanted a war.
The Assassin was bringing a flood.