The whistle's scream ripped through the afternoon air.
And with it, the floodgates opened.
Eastbrook attacked like wolves set loose from a cage. Two passes, no hesitation, ball out wide to Hodges. He charged down the right flank, bulldozing through Westlake's defense like a tank carving trenches through the earth.
Kyrie adjusted immediately, sliding into a deeper midfield pocket. His mind sharpened—not in panic, but in brutal clarity.
Hodges is the battering ram.
Claren is the spark plug.
Haden is the conductor.
Haden hovered between the lines, effortlessly weaving into pockets of space. Always open. Always dangerous. As if the game bent itself around him.
Within sixty seconds, Eastbrook nearly scored. A quick one-two between Haden and Claren tore through Westlake's backline, forcing Crest into a desperate, sprawling save.
Cheers erupted from the home crowd.
"WAKE UP!" Dominguez barked from the sideline, his voice slicing through the rising noise.
Kyrie saw it—Westlake's defensive shape crumbling already.
Fear bleeding into their movements. Hesitation poisoning their passes.
He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.
"Fear is the virus.
Control is the cure."
---
5 Minutes In — The First Strike
Another Eastbrook throw-in. Deep in Westlake territory.
Hodges hurled it like a missile into the box. Bodies clashed. Jordan rose to head it—but mistimed.
The ball spilled loose.
Haden was there.
Of course he was.
One touch.
Two.
Then a flick over Adam's desperate slide, followed by a ruthless volley into the roof of the net.
1–0, Eastbrook.
The stadium roared.
The girls screamed his name.
The banners of navy and gold shook in the stands.
Haden stood near the corner flag, arms raised like a monarch surveying conquered land. His smirk was razor-sharp, dripping with disdain.
He pointed, not at Kyrie—but at Dante.
Mocking.
"You're beneath me," his body language screamed.
Dante snarled under his breath, fists clenching.
Kyrie just... watched.
Stillness inside the storm.
"They mistake noise for power," he thought.
"But power is silent. Calculated. Cold."
---
10 Minutes — The Attempted Rebellion
Dante exploded into life after kickoff.
A burst of chaos.
He weaved through three Eastbrook players with reckless beauty, dazzling footwork, raw hunger.
The crowd gasped.
He ripped a shot from twenty-five yards.
It screamed past the post by inches.
Taylor clapped. Ren nodded subtly.
Dante grinned wide, flashing defiance at the Eastbrook bench.
But Kyrie… narrowed his eyes.
"Beautiful... but inefficient.
Flash doesn't break systems. Precision does."
---
15 Minutes — Haden's Counterattack
Haden responded like a surgeon.
Two minutes later, he orchestrated another attack with the cold elegance of a puppeteer.
A diagonal ball from Hodges.
A feint by Claren.
And Haden, arriving late at the top of the box, laced a curving shot into the far corner.
2–0, Eastbrook.
This time, Haden didn't celebrate.
He just stared—straight at Kyrie.
Bored.
Dismissive.
As if saying, "You don't exist to me."
Kyrie felt the weight of that gaze. Not anger. Not shame.
Resolve.
A silent vow crystallized inside him.
"You will know my name before this is over."
---
20 Minutes — Subtle Resistance
Westlake started finding brief footholds.
Ren controlled possession, calming the frantic tempo.
Taylor and Alex made short, deliberate passes, dragging Eastbrook slightly out of position.
Kyrie started laying invisible landmines.
He drifted, baiting Eastbrook's midfielders, forcing them to overcommit ever so slightly.
Passing lanes closed subtly. Pressing angles became awkward.
It was working.
Barely.
But Haden noticed.
And like a grandmaster spotting an amateur's trap, he cracked it open.
A sudden turnover.
A through ball to Claren.
One touch. Shot. Goal.
3–0.
Dominguez slammed his clipboard onto the turf.
Westlake sagged.
Even Dante, fiery as he was, looked rattled.
The referee pointed to the center circle.
Kyrie stood there. Alone. Listening to the thunderous cheers of an enemy crowd.
And he smiled.
A real smile.
"Perfect," he thought.
"Now you're arrogant. Now you're vulnerable."
---
30 Minutes — The First Spark
From the kickoff, Kyrie moved differently.
He wasn't rushing.
He wasn't panicking.
He orchestrated.
Small movements. Misdirections. Delays.
Pulling Eastbrook's shape subtly apart, like unwinding a tightly wound clock.
Ren synced with him immediately. No words needed.
One-touch. Release. Shift.
Dante understood next.
He stopped trying to dribble through crowds, started exploiting the half-spaces Kyrie manipulated open for him.
Taylor saw it too.
Quinn adjusted his runs.
Suddenly, Westlake's attack flowed with a rhythm Eastbrook hadn't prepared for.
Kyrie slipped a disguised pass through two defenders into Evan's feet.
A first-time cross.
And Dante, crashing into the box like a thunderbolt, smashed it home.
3–1.
No celebration.
Only fierce, burning eyes.
Westlake was still breathing.
The stadium murmured—confused, unsure.
On the sidelines, Dominguez simply nodded once.
He knew.
The war was not over.
---
Halftime Approaches — Cliffhanger
The final minutes before halftime were a battlefield.
Eastbrook, momentarily shaken, pushed back.
But Westlake didn't crumble this time.
Kyrie commanded the space with invisible authority, intercepting, redirecting, reprogramming the very geometry of the game.
Still, no more goals came.
The referee lifted his whistle to his lips.
One last corner kick for Eastbrook.
Kyrie marked Haden this time.
They stood shoulder to shoulder.
Haden leaned closer, voice low, venomous.
"You're too slow, little man. You can't catch gods."
Kyrie didn't flinch.
He whispered back, calm, clinical:
"I don't catch gods."
A heartbeat.
"I dissect them."
The corner flew in.
Bodies crashed.
The whistle blew.
Halftime.
---
Final Inner Monologue Cliffhanger
Kyrie walked off the field, not as the defeated.
But as the scientist.
"Their aura blinds them.
Their arrogance isolates them.
Their chaos fragments them."
He tightened his fist around his jersey.
"This is not their game anymore."
"This is the Code's battlefield."
"And by the end of it..."
He looked back at the navy and gold jerseys.
At the smirking king in the center circle.
"...Haden Scott will learn my name."