Four Years Ago
The streets of South London shimmered with morning mist as the car turned onto Wexley Drive. The sign ahead read: Suns Academy – Est. 1984. Beneath it, a mural of past champions loomed—dozens of faded faces, each once a dreamer like the boy in the backseat.
Thirteen-year-old Scott Mason sat quietly, his duffel bag pressed to his knees, boots hanging off the side. His father, John, glanced over with a smile too tired to be hopeful.
"You ready?" he asked.
Scott nodded. Not because he was, but because there was no room to say otherwise
They drove past the outer wall and into a world far removed from Sunday leagues or muddy rec grounds. Three pristine full-size pitches gleamed under halogen towers. Fitness domes. Recovery pools. Stat screens. This wasn't training—it was a system.
"Coach Bradley," John said, stepping out and spotting the man across the pitch. "Brought you the new kid."
Coach Bradley, early 40s, military posture, steel eyes, turned without blinking. "Does he know the grind?"
"Tough one," John said. "Won't quit easy."
Bradley looked Scott up and down like inspecting a piece of machinery. "We don't do baby steps here. You pass or disappear. We don't expel—we let the system filter the weak. Play well, and offers will chase you."
He turned toward the center pitch. "Let's see if you survive, Mason."
The first session hit like war.
Warm-ups were timed. Sprints logged. Touches counted. GPS sensors strapped to calves. Every pass, run, and mistake was tracked and scored. Players called it The Eye—a real-time breakdown of who you were, second by second.
Scott felt like he was drowning.
"I was never the social one," he'd reflect later. "Kept to myself. Focused on the ball."
Still, friendships formed. He met Manny—a loud, too-friendly kid who somehow broke through Scott's walls. There was Charles and Derick, a duo bound by competitiveness more than friendship. They didn't hang out. But on the pitch? They made it work.
"Charles! I'm open!" Scott called one afternoon in a scrimmage.
Charles glanced his way—then sprinted in the opposite direction.
The Shadow grinned.
[Of course he ignored you. Get used to it.]
Scott clenched his teeth and reset his position. The ball cycled back around, and he seized his chance quick touch, slick pass to Karl, a lazy genius who'd either disappear or do something magical.
This time, magic.
Karl lobbed it over the line to Brian, team captain and moral core. Brian read the field like a general, glanced once, and found Scott.
Ball to feet.
Scott scanned—Charles was free, but Derick was already covered.
Time to stop being background.
He sprinted.
One nutmeg to shake off a midfielder. A feint to drop a defender. Then—boom.
Far post. Keeper full stretch—too slow.
GOAL.
"John's kid has potential," an assistant murmured.
"You don't say," Coach Bradley replied, deadpan.
That season, Titans Academy defeated Wind Academy in the semis. But whispers spread—Coach Nasser was leaving Titans for West Ridge. Everyone knew what that meant: the birth of a powerhouse.
"Looks like the Titans are passing the torch," Bradley muttered. "And West Ridge is about to get a lot scarier."
Bradley was all about systems. Control. Clean execution. You didn't rise by raw flair alone—you had to buy into his way.
And over time, Scott rose. And years went by
His quick feet, composure under pressure, and tactical IQ made him the midfield fulcrum. The team began to lean on him.
One day, after prior to the Inter academy tournament drills, manny approached Scott
He turned to Scott. "Where do you want to play after this?"
Scott thought for a moment. "Bastion. Or Riverpol. Maybe Red Devils."
"What about you, Manny?" he asked.
The city spread beneath them like a low-lit maze. Stars flickered through the London fog.
Manny exhaled. "I'm not going pro."
Scott blinked. "What?"
"I love the game, man. But I don't want to burn for it. I want a future, not a medal."
Scott froze. "You're serious."
"Been serious for months."
"I thought we were making the leap together."
Manny's voice cracked. "This isn't my game anymore. But it's yours. You… you are football, Scott. And that scares me."
Scott exhaled, emotion rising, then freezing.
Manny held out his hand.
Scott didn't take it. He pulled him into a hug instead. Silent. Final.
Manny bumped his shoulder. "You'll make it. Just… don't lose whatever's human in you, yeah?"
[What a waste of talent], the Shadow muttered. [But that's what some parents say when their kids choose art or sports.]
"Well, good luck, man," Scott finally said. "Hope you shine there."
"You too, Scott."
"Yo," Manny added later, "Charles is hosting a party. You coming?"
Scott didn't look up.[ No] "I'll see if I can make it
"Typical Scott rejection." Manny chuckled. "What's up with you two anyway?"
[pettiness]"nothing"
"Come on, man." Manny grinned. "See you next week."
At home that evening, Scott sat by the window, bootlaces dangling from his fingers. John stood nearby, reading the silence.
"I heard about the goal," he said finally. "You owned the pitch."
Scott gave a small smile.
"You know… Elliot was Suns' first golden boy. You're the second Mason to wear the badge."
Scott didn't reply. The name Elliot Mason hung in the air like fog. Everyone in the Mason family spoke of him in fragments—high praise cut short by silence. No trophies in the house. No medals. Just stories and a watch that never ticked.
John didn't react. "You don't believe me."
Scott forced a grin. "No—yeah. I do."
"Your mom and I are heading out tonight. House is yours."
"Okay."
He stared down at his boots, knotted and stiff. Still too clean. Still unproven.
Outside, the sky began to fade. A storm was brewing. Scott went upstairs.
"No problem."
Later that night, Scott stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the steam clouding the glass.
In the reflection, he saw himself.
And behind it—himself again.
Expressionless. Observing. Calm.
Then the figure smiled.
[Hello, stranger. Is it that time of day again?]
Scott said nothing. He wiped the mirror. The second face faded.
[You're just the best player in your academy] the voice whispered.
[But still a frog in a shallow well. Ken… now there's a monster. West Ridge's indomitable sword.]
"It's just the beginning I'll make it " Scott murmured .
Elsewhere – Anderson POV (Bastion Munich)
In a sleek office inside Bastion's Jugendzentrum, Mira slid a folder across the desk.
"Final shortlist. Suns Academy player—Scott Mason. Midfielder. Thirteen. Low media profile. Decision-making index: Top 3%."
Anderson, sleeves rolled and coffee untouched, flipped through the dossier. GPS heatmaps. Passing webs. Clips.
"He's not flashy."
"No," Mira replied. "But sharp. Composed."
Anderson tapped the page.
"Get him in. Jugendzentrum's midfield depth is thin—and next season, we push harder. 2012/2013 will be different."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "Not Ken?"
"Jugendzentrum needs midfield brains"
"What do you see in him?" Mira asked.
Anderson's expression didn't change.
Anderson stared at the screen—Scott twisting away from a press, slipping a ball through two lines.
"What's best for us," he said, "is rarely what's loudest out there.