Wednesday. Overcast skies. A restless wind swept across the Westlake High pitch, stirring the brittle chalk lines and faded turf like an omen. Tryouts had begun.
Kyrie Barnes stepped onto the field without ceremony. No bag. No warm-up gear. Just a worn Westlake uniform and street-scarred cleats—like relics from a forgotten legend. Around him, the other players stretched, cracked jokes, and clung to the fragile comfort of familiarity. Their energy bounced lightheartedly across the grass.
Kyrie didn't acknowledge them.
He didn't need to.
Every glance, every whisper, every smirk—they were all logged in real time, categorized as noise. Statistical anomalies. Background buzz. His eyes swept the pitch with surgical precision. To Kyrie, this wasn't tryouts. This was simulation input.
Each player a variable.
Each mistake a window.
Coach Dominguez—a solid man with a crew cut and a jawline chiseled by years of disappointment—stood with arms folded, clipboard in hand, watching. When his gaze found Kyrie, it lingered.
"You showed," the coach said, unreadable.
Kyrie nodded. Not respect. Just confirmation.
"Warm up."
"I already have."
The coach blinked. The tone wasn't arrogant—just matter-of-fact. Like reporting the weather.
A ripple of amusement passed through the group.
"Who is this guy?"
"Looks like he wandered out of the library."
"He serious right now?"
Kyrie didn't flinch. They weren't threats. They were data points.
Number 14: left-dominant, delayed pivot foot—likely to lunge on feints.
Number 6: stiff hips, double-checks options under pressure. Hesitation index: high.
The whistle blew. Drills began.
Kyrie moved like a whisper—smooth, deliberate, surgical. No flashy tricks. No wasted motion. Every pass was a calculated vector. Every touch was a lesson in economy.
A midfield turnover sent the ball spinning loose.
Kyrie read it before it happened.
He moved—not fast, but efficiently, like gravity shifted in his favor. One touch. A spin. A feint. Number 7 froze, legs tangled in his own reaction time.
The pass that followed wasn't a guess—it was inevitability. A line-drive through ball, threading the defensive matrix with chilling clarity.
The striker didn't even react in time. The pass was already gone.
From the sideline:
"Yo… what was that?"
"He saw that two steps before it happened."
Coach Dominguez lowered his clipboard.
Inner metric: Decision latency—0.3 seconds. Prediction accuracy—94%.
Kyrie didn't smile. He didn't celebrate. This was normal. Expected. All within parameters.
The drill ended. Players caught their breath. The earlier laughter had curdled into uncertainty.
The coach approached, gaze sharp. "You've never played on a team?"
Kyrie shook his head.
"You just… knew?"
"I simulated it," Kyrie replied. "Hundreds of matches. Positions. Variables. Reactions. All processed. I don't play soccer. I play the system."
Dominguez studied him for a long second—caught between disbelief and curiosity.
"You're in."
Kyrie nodded once. No surprise. Just input acknowledged. Outcome accepted.
He turned to walk away.
"Hey!" someone called after him. "What position do you play?"
Kyrie paused.
A faint smirk—barely there.
"I play the system."
And with that, the simulation adjusted.
The system was beginning to respond.