Theo dreamed of the pitch before he reached it.
Not the grass.
Not the lines.
The space.
An endless stretch where the ball rolled without sound, where his feet moved but never touched the ground. He was running, but not arriving. Calling for the ball, but no voice came out.
Then something moved behind him.
Not fast.
Patient.
Theo woke with his heart thudding, the ceiling still dark, the fan above him slicing the air into slow, uneven shadows.
For a moment, he didn't move.
He waited for the feeling to pass.
It didn't.
The academy felt different that morning.
Not quieter.
Not louder.
Hollow.
Theo noticed it the moment he stepped through the gates. The usual presence — the calm gravity of the head coach, the watchful stillness of the assistant — was gone. The cones were set, the balls lined up, but something essential was missing.
Paulo jogged up beside him, rubbing his eyes.
"Coach isn't here," he said.
Theo frowned. "Late?"
Paulo shook his head. "Senior team trip. Coach and the assistant both. Month, maybe two."
Theo absorbed that slowly.
"Who's running things?"
Paulo nodded toward the far touchline.
A man stood there alone.
Tall. Broad. Still.
Not watching the players.
Watching the space between them.
"That's the proxy," Paulo said. "Name's Coach Varela. Youth development, tactical discipline. Very… quiet."
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Varela turned.
His eyes found Theo instantly.
Theo looked away first.
Training began without ceremony.
No jokes.
No easing in.
Just a short whistle and motion.
Varela didn't walk among them like the usual coach. He stayed still, hands clasped behind his back, letting the shape of the drill reveal itself.
Theo played well.
Too well.
He moved where space opened, drifted inside when pressure built, dropped deeper when the rhythm slowed. The ball came to him naturally — not demanded, not forced.
But every time he shifted, Theo felt it.
A delay.
Not in his legs.
In his head.
He scanned, chose, released — but something followed the decision, like an echo arriving a fraction too late.
By the second drill, Theo received the ball.
And the world stopped.
Not slowly.
Not gently.
It snapped.
Sound thinned — boots on grass, breath, distant voices pulling away — — all cut clean, like a wire pulled too tight and finally broken. The pitch dimmed, colors draining until green turned to ash and white lines blurred into nothing.
Theo stood frozen with the ball at his feet.
Then the darkness moved.
The space in front of him thickened, folding inward like smoke dragged by invisible hands. From it, a shape began to form — not stepping forward, not approaching — simply existing, impossibly close.
Face to face.
The shadow had his outline.
Same height.
Same posture.
But where Theo's eyes should have been, there was only depth — endless, swallowing, watching. The air around it trembled, vibrating with a low, grinding sound that didn't enter his ears so much as tear through his skull.
A single note.
Metallic.
Screeching.
Relentless.
Theo's heartbeat surged into his throat.
Thump.
Too loud.
Thump.
Out of rhythm.
His chest felt tight, lungs pulling at air that wouldn't fill properly. Sweat prickled along his spine as the sound rose, climbing higher, sharper — like strings pulled until they screamed.
The shadow leaned forward.
Not moving its feet.
Just… closing the distance.
Theo tried to step back.
His legs didn't answer.
The shadow tilted its head, as if scanning him — not his body, but the thoughts behind his eyes. Every doubt he'd buried scraped against the inside of his skull.
What are you?
Where do you belong?
Choose.
Choose.
The sound peaked — a violent shriek that split his focus apart—
"THEO! Choose the pass "
A voice tore through the darkness.
A hand slapped his arm.
A flash of white exploded behind his eyes.
Sound crashed back all at once — shouting, breath, the ball rolling free — the pitch snapping into place like a broken film reel forced to continue.
Theo staggered.
The forward was screaming for the ball, arms wide, frustration sharp and real.
"What are you doing?" someone shouted.
Theo blinked.
The shadow was gone.
But the echo wasn't.
His heart still raced. His hands trembled as he bent slightly, hands on knees, trying to steady his breathing.
The ball sat a few feet away.
Innocent.
Ordinary.
Theo straightened slowly.
Around him, training continued.
No one had noticed.
Except—
From the touchline, the proxy coach stood perfectly still.
Watching Theo.
Not confused.
Not alarmed.
Interested.
And for the first time since stepping onto the pitch that morning, Theo understood something with quiet certainty:
The shadow hadn't come from the darkness.
It had come from inside him.
Training resumed.
At least, that's what it looked like.
Theo jogged back into position on the right, legs moving automatically while his mind lagged a step behind. The grass looked the same. The sky hadn't changed. His teammates laughed, argued, complained about missed passes.
But something had shifted.
The pitch felt… narrower.
Not physically — but perceptually. Like invisible walls had crept inward while no one was looking. Theo caught himself scanning more than necessary, eyes flicking toward empty spaces where nothing stood.
Yet.
A pass came to him again.
This time, the sound didn't vanish.
But it dulled.
Muted, like he was underwater.
Theo controlled the ball cleanly, turned, played a simple pass inside. Correct decision. Applause from the drill leader. Normal.
Still, as he jogged back, he felt it.
A presence just behind his right shoulder.
He didn't turn.
He knew better.
The whistle cut through the air.
Not the familiar one.
This whistle was sharper. Shorter. Less forgiving.
Everyone stopped.
The man's eyes swept across the group, lingering on no one and everyone at once.
"I'm Coach Vale," he said. "I'll be overseeing sessions while your regular staff is away with the senior side."
No jokes followed.
No smiles.
"Line up."
They obeyed.
Theo felt the shadow stir.
Not visible.
But awake.
The drills changed.
Same shapes. Same cones.
Different intent.
Pressing triggers were stricter. Passing lanes closed faster. Mistakes weren't shouted at — they were noted. Written down. Filed away behind Vale's eyes.
Theo rotated again.
Right wing.
Right half-space.
Deeper.
Vale said nothing.
But every time Theo drifted, the coach's gaze followed — not approving, not disapproving.
Measuring.
During a positional game, Theo received between lines and instinctively turned inward, slipping past a marker with a sharp touch.
The shadow flickered in his peripheral vision.
Closer this time.
The pass afterward came late.
Vale's whistle blew.
"Stop."
The group froze.
Vale pointed at the space Theo had vacated. "Why is this empty?"
Theo opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"I thought—"
Vale raised a hand. "Thought is not positioning."
Silence.
Then Vale looked directly at Theo.
"Again."
Training ended without ceremony.
No circle. No jokes. No cooldown banter.
As the others drifted off toward the benches, Vale called out calmly:
"Theo. Stay."
Theo felt his pulse spike.
The shadow leaned in.
Vale walked closer, stopping just outside Theo's personal space. Close enough to feel observed. Not close enough to feel threatened.
"You move well," Vale said. "You see angles others don't."
Theo waited.
"But you don't anchor," Vale continued. "You don't demand a space. You occupy it briefly. Then you leave."
Theo swallowed.
Vale tilted his head slightly. "Why?"
The pitch felt too quiet.
Theo's ears rang faintly — not from sound, but from memory. That screeching note. That impossible silence.
Vale repeated the question.
"What do you want to be on this pitch?"
Theo's answer came before fear could shape it.
"I just want to be free."
The word hung there.
Vale studied him.
Not amused.
Not impressed.
Curious.
"Freedom," Vale said slowly, "is expensive."
He stepped back.
"We'll see if you can afford it."
Vale walked away.
Theo didn't move.
Later that evening, in a quiet office far from the pitch, a notebook lay open.
Not Theo's.
The handwriting inside was neat. Precise.
Player: Theo
Position(s): Undefined
Strengths: Awareness, spatial intuition, technical adaptability
Concerns:
– No positional loyalty
– Plays between instructions
The pen paused.
Another line was added beneath.
Psychological profile:
-- Responds to chaos with creativity.
The notebook closed.
Outside, somewhere across the city, Theo kicked a ball against a wall.
That night, the shadow didn't just follow.
It observed.
Every touch Theo took was mirrored a second later — not physically, but conceptually. When Theo scanned left, the shadow leaned right. When Theo hesitated, the shadow stepped closer.
Theo tried to ignore it.
Focus on technique.
Receive. Open body. Release.
But every time he chose safety, the shadow tilted its head.
Disappointed.
When Theo tried something risky — a sharper angle, a quicker turn — the shadow's outline sharpened.
Interested.
Theo felt sweat run down his spine though the air was cool.
"You're not real," Theo muttered.
The shadow didn't answer.
It didn't need to.
It already knew his tempo.
That night, Theo dreamed of the pitch.
Empty.
No lines. No goals.
Just grass stretching forever.
He stood alone at the center.
Then footsteps.
Not running.
Walking.
Measured.
Behind him.
Theo turned.
The shadow stood there now — clearer than ever. Taller. Sharper. Wearing his number.
"You want to be free," it said.
Its voice sounded like his.
"But freedom costs , pay up . Or choose "
Theo woke up gasping.
His room was dark.
Too dark.
For a moment, his shadow remained standing by the door—
Even after he sat up.