The sky above Westlake was blue, but it felt artificial—like a painted ceiling in a simulation too perfect to trust. Kyrie Barnes stood at the edge of the field, boots still tied from the morning's scrimmage, but he hadn't moved in ten minutes. The others had gone inside. He remained.
Watching. Thinking.
The simulation wasn't just running. It was watching him.
Coach Dominguez's Office
The desk was covered in clips, heatmaps, and printouts—but this time, they weren't from Westlake. They were from Rudderfield Academy.
Coach Dominguez closed the blinds. He tossed a tablet onto the desk with more force than necessary.
"They're broadcasting the match," he said flatly.
Kyrie blinked. "What?"
"Full-stream. Multiple angles. Commentary team. Federation scouts confirmed."
A slow breath escaped Kyrie's lips. "So it's not just about winning."
Coach leaned forward. "It never was. Not with Rudderfield. Not with a kid like Caden Vale running things."
Kyrie sat down across from him, expression unreadable. But inside? He was scanning.
Why me? Why now?
"They're not coming to win," Kyrie said. "They're coming to make a statement."
Coach nodded slowly. "You've made noise, Barnes. Bigger than this school. Bigger than the league."
Kyrie turned his head slightly, as if hearing something no one else could. "So they're trying to silence it."
Coach added, "Or control it. Maybe both."
Locker Room
Taylor was the first to speak, bouncing a ball between his palms. "You all feel that? This thing with Rudderfield. It ain't just a game."
"It never was," Ren replied calmly, tying his laces without looking up.
"They're watching us," Evan muttered. "All of us. Like lab rats."
Dante let out a low whistle. "So what? We put on a show. They want fireworks? I'll give 'em a freakin' solar flare."
Quinn shook his head. "They're not looking for flash. They want a collapse. Ours."
All eyes turned to Kyrie, who hadn't said a word since entering. He stared at the whiteboard, empty save for the match date.
"They're not studying how we win," Kyrie said, his voice measured. "They're studying how I break."
The room went still.
Dante raised an eyebrow. "That paranoia or intel?"
"Both," Kyrie replied. "They call me 'X'. Not a name. A placeholder. An unknown. Because to them, I'm a variable. Not a person."
He stood slowly and walked to the whiteboard. Picked up a marker.
"Why target me?" he wrote.
Then, underneath:
1. Influence velocity exceeds model scope. 2. System scalability: Threat level red. 3. Collapse potential: Narrative inversion.
Ren looked over his shoulder. "What does that mean?"
Kyrie turned to face them. "It means I'm not just a player to them. I'm a virus. A flaw in their equation."
Jordan, silent in the corner, finally spoke.
"Then they're not coming to beat you. They're coming to disinfect you."
Charlie's Room
Later that evening, Kyrie sat on the floor of Charlie's room while she flipped through a sketchbook. She didn't look at him while she spoke.
"They're afraid of you, huh?"
"Maybe. Or they just see something useful."
Charlie set the book down. "You ever think about what they're not watching? Like... the things that matter."
Kyrie frowned. "Like what?"
She stared at him. "You. The real you. Not the passes. Not the simulations. The version that doesn't write formulas in the air when he's trying to fall asleep."
He didn't answer. But his silence wasn't denial. It was fear.
She leaned forward. "You said they call you 'X'. Like an unknown. But what if you're the one who doesn't know who you are anymore?"
The words hit harder than any threat from Rudderfield.
Rudderfield's Nest
Caleb Vale watched replay footage of Kyrie slipping a pass past three defenders.
Pause.
Reverse.
Zoom.
Overlay.
Kyrie's momentum. Gaze. Pulse. Shoulder angle.
All logged. All predictable.
Behind him, a Rudderfield analyst adjusted sliders on the simulation.
"We've mapped 84.7% of his decision branches. By day six, we project a full confidence threshold."
Caleb nodded. "But perfection isn't found in clean data. It's in the crash. The instant something breaks."
The analyst frowned. "So what's the actual objective?"
Caden stood. Calm. Detached. "We don't need to beat him. We just need to show the world that he can be beaten."
He gestured to the screen.
"A system that fails is no longer genius. It's obsolete."
Night — Kyrie's Room
Kyrie lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the room dark except for the low hum of his charging laptop. His notebook was on the pillow beside him.
What if Charlie's right? What if I've rewritten myself so many times there's nothing left to erase?
Then he sat up.
And he knew.
That's why they picked me.
Not because I'm strong. Not because I win.
But because I stopped being human. Because they think I'll break quieter. Easier. Because I look like the kind of person who won't scream.
He stood, walked to his desk, and began writing.
New Code: Phantom Rebuild
Code 11.1 — Cognitive Inversion
Reintegrate emotional entropy as strategic misdirection.
Break system view of self. Force simulation error.
Human unpredictability = only untraceable variable.
Underlined:
Become the part of the game that cannot be digitized.
Practice
Coach blew the whistle.
Scrimmage. High-intensity. Final prep.
Kyrie moved differently.
Not like a metronome. Like a dancer.
He smiled once after a clean interception. He called out to Quinn before a pass. He let Ren lead a possession. He let go.
And Rudderfield's models would never see it coming.
From the sideline, Dominguez nodded slowly.
Jordan jogged past Kyrie and muttered, "Whatever you're doing... keep doing it."
Kyrie just said:
"We're not just gonna play them." "We're gonna haunt them."
The Broadcast Begins
A screen flickers on.
Broadcasters in suits, names beneath them. "Westlake vs. Rudderfield. A battle of minds, systems, and futures."
Camera cuts to the tunnel.
Caleb Vale. Calm. Controlled. Kyrie Barnes. Quiet fire.
Charlie at home, watching. Coach Dominguez pacing. The world tuning in.
Above the field, a drone camera locks onto Kyrie. Label appears:
X
Then...
MATCH STARTING IN: 10 SECONDS.