"Cut inside," Kyrie muttered.
And the striker did—exactly as predicted—before scuffing the shot straight into the keeper's gloves.
Kyrie didn't cheer. Didn't flinch. Just smirked, hoodie half-zipped, hand loosely gripping the strap of a beat-up backpack.
"Correct path. Wrong technique. Weak execution."
The game unfolded in front of him like a broken simulation. Twenty minutes in. Cracked pavement. A patchy field behind rusted fences. Mismatched jerseys, borrowed cleats.
To everyone else, it was just a pickup game.
To Kyrie Barnes, it was data. Patterns. Code.
His eyes flicked like scanners—short pass, weak overlap, hesitation in the transition line. Every missed beat, every bad angle, he catalogued in real time.
"Too slow," he muttered. "Late by half a second. Defender was already shifting his center of gravity."
A bark from a dog, a burst of laughter from the sidelines—none of them noticed the breakdowns. But Kyrie did. He always did.
"Predictable. Wrong foot. Should've gone vertical."
He watched another sequence—ball pinging left to right like a dying rhythm no one knew how to fix. They reacted.
Kyrie anticipated.
His fingers itched—not to play, but to correct. To adjust. To optimize.
In his room, under a loose floorboard, ten years of obsession waited in silence. Diagrams. Reaction ranges. Body mechanics. Movement trees. Theory that became practice. Practice that became instinct.
It lived in his mind now.
He didn't need to look at the Code anymore.
He was the Code.
The game ended in a weak draw. Sloppy. Kyrie turned to leave.
Then—pause.
A group of students loitered near the goal. Same school uniform. Westlake High.
"Tryouts are next week, boys!" one shouted. "Coach says we need a miracle to qualify!"
Miracle.
Kyrie adjusted his hoodie and walked away.
But the word stuck.
Tryouts.
Monday came. Westlake High stood like a concrete box wedged into a crumbling neighborhood. Inside, the same drone of fluorescent lights and half-awake students.
Kyrie walked the halls unnoticed—tall, wiry, black curls falling over cold eyes. He preferred it that way.
In the back of the classroom, headphones in, no music playing, he stared out the window. Calculating.
On paper, he was average—mid grades, quiet demeanor, forgettable presence.
Beneath that?
Obsession.
He had studied pros. Replayed regional matches on repeat. Played in alleys and underpasses just to observe real-time adaptation. He didn't have talent. He had iteration.
A mask he wore. A system he built. A simulation he could run in his head.
Every player is a subroutine. Every game, a testbed.
And no one has ever seen me play.
That afternoon, Kyrie stood outside the gym.
Westlake Acers soccer team was finishing practice. Players laughed, shoved each other, wiped sweat with their shirts.
The coach shook his head and muttered to an assistant, "Still no field vision. No playmaker. No one who sees the whole damn pitch."
Kyrie stepped forward.
"Let me try."
The assistant looked him up and down. "Name?"
"Kyrie Barnes."
"You ever played organized before?"
Kyrie didn't answer. Just looked past him to the field.
"I've seen enough."
The man scoffed. "Show up Wednesday. Let's see if you're more than talk."
Kyrie gave one nod—not of respect, but confirmation.
The system was flawed.
He was here to fix it.