The victory high had faded hours ago, replaced by the chilling, phantom weight of the 30-day draw penalty Rio had narrowly avoided.
Rio sat alone in the stark, tiled locker room of the training center. The rest of the team had already showered and left for the bus, their laughter echoing down the hallway like a taunt. Rio remained, shirtless, his chest heaving with a heavy, dull throb that the heart monitor faithfully registered.
Thump... pause... thump.
He ignored the pain; he was focused on the profit.
[CURRENT LIFESPAN: 52 Days, 01 Hour]
"You are a terrifying man," Specter noted, floating cross-legged on top of a locker, adjusting his spectral fedora. "You survived Guntur's budget. You survived Bambang's sabotage. You survived your own heart. You've earned yourself some breathing room."
"Breathing room?" Rio scoffed, wiping cold sweat from his neck. "Fifty days is nothing. One bad tackle, one draw, and I'm back in the red."
Rio knew he needed to solidify the alliance with Bambang. Their cooperation on the pitch had been effective, but it was fragile. It was based on a momentary alignment of interests. He needed to ensure the captain understood the terms permanently before they left the safety of home.
Creak.
The heavy metal door swung open.
Bambang stood there, blocking the fluorescent light from the corridor. He wore a clean team tracksuit, his hair freshly gelled, but the fury etched onto his face was raw, cold, and calculating. He didn't look like a teammate; he looked like a loan shark collecting a debt.
"You risked everything," Bambang hissed, walking toward Rio. His footsteps were heavy on the tiles. "You ran the clock down at 184 BPM. You should be dead, Valdes."
"But I'm not," Rio replied calmly, pulling on his training jacket to hide the monitor. "And we won. I gave you a hat-trick. You gave me the win bonus."
Bambang leaned over, slamming his hand against the locker next to Rio's head. The sound rang out like a gunshot.
"You chose to live by stealing the spotlight," Bambang accused, his eyes sharp. "Why didn't you pass me the last ball? The score was 3-1. We had won. It was meaningless."
"It was meaningful to me," Rio stated, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I needed the 2-day goal bonus. If I had passed, you would have gotten the assist, and I would have gained nothing. I need to live, Captain. And to live, I must be selfish."
Bambang stared at him. He didn't hate the selfishness; he understood it. As a striker, he respected the hunger. He understood the need for quantifiable success.
"Fine," Bambang finally grunted, pulling back. "But I need guarantees for the qualifiers. I need to be the Asian top scorer to get a contract in Europe. I need the perfect ball every time."
"I guarantee nothing but this: If you follow my math, you will score," Rio countered, his voice low and dangerous. "If you try to show off, you'll miss, and the team loses. If the team loses, I lose 30 days of my life. Your goals are my fuel. You cannot afford to lose me, because no one else in this squad can see the game like I do."
Bambang paused, absorbing the terrifying logic. He was shackled to the success of the fragile number 7.
He extended a hand. It wasn't a friendly gesture; it was a business contract.
"You are the brain, Valdes. I am the finisher. If you give me the perfect ball, I won't ask questions about your heart or your secrets."
Rio shook his hand. The contact was brief, cold, and professional.
The hostile alliance was sealed.
THE DEPARTURE AND THE MISSION
Two days later, the Indonesian U-20 National Team boarded a charter flight at Soekarno-Hatta International Airport.
Their destination: Doha, Qatar, the host nation for the crucial AFC U-20 Asian Cup Qualifiers.
The cabin was filled with the nervous energy of young men about to step onto the international stage. But Rio sat alone in a window seat near the wing, staring out at the receding skyline of Jakarta—his home, his battlefield, his death row.
He checked his timer.
[CURRENT LIFESPAN: 50 Days, 02 Hours]Note: Two days of travel preparation and rest consumed two days of lifespan.
"The world is about to get a lot smaller, Rio," Specter said, floating across the aisle, passing through a sleeping stewardess. "And the opponents are about to get a lot bigger."
"And a lot colder," Rio replied, adjusting the uncomfortable strap of the heart monitor underneath his hoodie.
Guntur Wijaya walked down the aisle, his eyes scanning the team like a shepherd counting sheep—or perhaps a butcher counting heads. He paused by Rio's seat.
"Valdes," Guntur said, his voice barely audible over the roar of the jet engines. "We've done the math."
Rio looked up. "The math?"
"Based on the tournament schedule and the points required to qualify," Guntur stated, leaning down so only Rio could hear. "You need a minimum of 70 days of lifespan banked before the final group match against Vietnam."
Rio's eyes widened. "Seventy days? I only have fifty."
"Exactly," Guntur whispered grimly. "You are in a 20-day deficit. You need two guaranteed wins, and you need to score or assist in every single game to bridge the gap. The schedule is brutal. We have Iran, Qatar, and Vietnam."
Guntur's shadow enveloped Rio.
"I can only keep your secret for so long. The moment we start losing, the pressure from the Federation will force me to sideline you. If you sit on the bench, you earn nothing. You die."
Guntur tapped the headrest of Rio's seat.
"We have zero margin for error. If you draw against Iran, you are finished."
The stakes were clear: Rio had to perform at an elite level in the most competitive tournament of his life, or face certain death before the week was over.
THE QUALIFIERS: HOSTILE TERRITORY
Doha, Qatar.
The heat hit them the moment the plane doors opened. It wasn't the wet, suffocating heat of Jakarta; it was a dry, searing blast, like opening an oven door.
The facilities were immaculate—cutting-edge technology, pristine grass, and blinding stadium lights that turned night into day. It was a playground for the rich, built for the beautiful game.
The team checked into the luxury hotel. Rio was immediately pulled aside by Guntur for a final tactical briefing in the strategy room.
Guntur had prepared a devastatingly detailed analysis of their first opponent.
"Iran," Guntur said, pointing to the projection screen. "They are physically massive. Their central defense is anchored by Saeed, a 192cm wall who plays in the Iranian Pro League. He crushes strikers for fun."
Guntur tapped the screen.
"Their weakness is the midfield triangle—they overcommit to the right side when pressing high. They leave a gap behind the pivot."
Rio activated his [Eagle Eye] (Passive) and [Vulture's Eye] (Passive). He instantly saw the tactical data merge with the psychological profiles Specter had uploaded on the Iranian players.
He stared at the footage of Saeed.
"He's strong," Rio muttered, his eyes narrowing. "But he turns his hips too slowly. Look at minute 42."
Rio pointed at the screen.
"When the ball goes to his left, he takes a hesitant step with his right foot first. It's a habit. A mechanical flaw."
Guntur raised an eyebrow. "You saw that from one clip?"
"I see everything," Rio said coldly. "I need to attack their right-side weakness. They commit too many resources there. We can use quick one-touch passes to bypass the press and exploit Saeed's turning radius."
Guntur nodded, satisfied. "Your job is to break the physical wall using your brain. Do not engage Saeed physically. If he tackles you, your bones—and your heart—will shatter."
As Rio walked back to his room, walking down the plush, silent corridors of the hotel, Specter gave a final warning.
"This is it, Rio. The friendly games were kindergarten. Iran will play to crush you. The physical impact alone could send your heart rate spiking past 185 within ten minutes. You can't rely on the Life Saver Pill anymore; that was a one-time trick. You have no buffer."
"I know," Rio said, staring at the closed door of Room 707.
He looked at his hand, tracing the faint outline of the scar near his wrist where the IV drip had been during his collapse.
"I don't need a buffer," Rio whispered, opening the door to the dark room. "I just need to be faster than the reaper."
He was ready to begin the final, high-stakes phase of the game.