A Familiar Stranger

The soft hum of the evening prayer call drifted through the academy's dormitories, marking the arrival of dusk. Inside one of the shared rooms, Arya lay on his bed, a book open in his hands. But despite the words sprawled across the pages, his mind was elsewhere—trapped in the lingering weight of Tara's invitation.

hmmm, Starfield.....

He sighed, shifting his position slightly, eyes flicking across the lines of text without truly reading them. The idea of going gnawed at him, tempting yet dangerous. He knew better than to even entertain the thought.

Then—

Thud!

Something small and soft smacked against his forehead.

"The hell—" Arya bolted upright, rubbing the spot where the eraser had hit him. His glare shot across the room to where Raka sat at his study desk, snickering like a child who had just pulled off the prank of the century.

"You looked too serious," Raka said with an innocent grin. "Figured I'd remind you you're still alive."

Arya exhaled sharply, tossing the eraser back at him—though it barely even reached. "You're a moron."

Raka caught it with ease, still grinning. "And you're a bore. Seriously, what's up with you?" He spun his chair lazily before snapping his fingers. "Wait. Don't tell me… you're thinking about what that Tara girl said, huh?"

Arya didn't respond, but his silence spoke louder than words.

Raka leaned forward, his eyes glinting mischievously. "You know… we could just go check it out."

Arya scoffed. "Not interested."

"Oh, come on! It's not like we have anything better to do. Besides—" Raka smirked, "—I won't tell your dad."

Arya's jaw clenched at the mention, but he forced himself to remain indifferent. "Doesn't change anything."

Raka hummed, tapping his chin in exaggerated thought. "Alright, what if I… treat your lunch tomorrow?"

Arya deadpanned. "I have my own money, idiot."

Raka groaned, dramatically flopping onto his desk. "Man, you're tough. What does it take to get you out of this room?"

Then, as if struck by divine inspiration, his eyes widened. Slowly, a devious grin stretched across his face.

Arya narrowed his gaze. "Whatever you're thinking, stop."

Raka ignored him, sitting up straight. "Alright, listen. What if—just what if—I get you something actually worth leaving for?"

Arya remained skeptical. "Like what?"

Raka clasped his hands together, eyes gleaming. "A Brazil National Team Jersey, last world cup edition and the original one."

Arya froze.

Raka grinned wider. "Yep. The one with the legendary number ten. Nilmar."

"I know your father has limited your pocket money so you don't buy things like that, right?" added Raka.

It was a ridiculous offer. Impossible, even. Arya knew how rare those jerseys were. Even in top condition, they were collector's items—expensive and not something Raka would just throw away money on.

"You're lying." Arya crossed his arms.

Raka smirked. "Am I?"

Without another word, he pulled out his phone, tapped a few buttons, and—

Ding!

He turned the screen toward Arya, showing a confirmed purchase. Payment complete. Estimated arrival: three days.

Arya stared. Then back at Raka.

"You… actually bought it?" His voice barely concealed his disbelief.

Raka leaned back, looking smug. "Yup. And since I can't return it… you have to come with me now."

Arya clenched his jaw, trying not to let the excitement show. But the truth was—he wanted that jersey. Badly.

With a reluctant sigh, he muttered, "…Fine."

Raka whooped, already jumping up from his chair. "Knew it!"

Rolling his eyes, Arya set his book aside and stood up, stretching. "Let's just get this over with."

As Arya pulled on a jacket, he noticed Raka rummaging through his closet, stuffing random things into a backpack.

Frowning, Arya asked, "Why are you packing a bag? We're just going."

Raka waved him off. "Don't worry about it."

Arya raised a brow. "That's exactly why I'm worried."

"Relax, man. It's just for… precautionary measures."

Arya wasn't convinced, but he let it slide.

A few minutes later, they stepped out of their dorm, blending into the quiet evening. Arya zipped up his jacket, hands in pockets, while Raka adjusted the straps of his mysterious backpack.

Arya glanced at him, amused. "You look like you're about to hike a mountain."

Raka grinned. "And you look like you're sneaking out for a date."

"Shut up."

With that, they made their way toward Starfield, the night stretching before them, full of unanswered questions.

The cold night air settled over Starfield as Arya and Raka arrived. Despite its name, the place wasn't some grand stadium or well-maintained pitch—it was an open field turned into an underground football haven. Floodlights illuminated the makeshift arena, where young players of all backgrounds gathered.

Arya took a moment to absorb the scene. The place was lively, filled with energy and passion. Some kids were juggling balls with effortless skill, performing insane freestyle tricks, while others passed a worn-out ball in tight spaces, playing small-sided games. A group nearby was engaged in a heated debate about legendary goals and dribbling techniques.

Arya scoffed, shaking his head. "What is this? Just a bunch of freestylers? They're all flash, but most of them can't even play real football."

Before he could continue, Raka nudged him with his elbow, whispering, "Hey, watch your mouth."

Arya simply shrugged and kept walking. They searched for an empty spot to sit and found an old bench near the edge of the field. The view wasn't bad, but Arya still wasn't sure why he was here.

Then, whispers started spreading around them.

"Hey, did you hear? There's a match tonight."

"Who's playing?"

"The local kids against one of the city's football elite School."

"Huh? An Elite School team? For real?"

Arya exchanged glances with Raka. So it wasn't just a casual night of freestyling—there was an actual match.

Before Arya could react, a familiar voice called out, "You guys finally made it."

Arya turned to see Tara approaching with her usual confidence.

His eyes darted toward Raka, who was grinning suspiciously. Arya narrowed his gaze. "You. What did you do?"

Raka feigned innocence, shrugging. "Me? Nothing. She's just good at finding people."

Tara folded her arms. "So, how was the trip here?"

Arya sighed. "Uneventful."

Tara smirked. "Well, then, let's change that. Wanna watch the game from up close? Right next to the players."

Arya immediately shook his head. "No, thanks."

But before he could shut the conversation down completely, Raka leaned in. "You sure? I could still cancel that jersey order…"

Arya shot him a glare. "You wouldn't."

Raka raised an eyebrow, pulling out his phone, ready to make a move.

Arya exhaled sharply. "Fine." He stood up, brushing off his jacket. "Let's just get this over with."

Tara grinned. "Good choice."

With Tara leading the way, the three of them made their way toward the home team's side. The amateur squad was made up of local kids, their jerseys a mix of different brands and colors. Unlike the academy team, which would be in full professional kits, these players had the rugged look of street footballers—raw, unpredictable, and determined.

As they approached, the players took notice of them. A few exchanged glances, curious but uninterested. None of them seemed to recognize Arya or Raka, though their eyes lingered slightly longer on Tara, likely because she was leading two unfamiliar faces into their space.

Arya and Raka returned their stares with awkward smiles.

Then, Tara stopped in front of one of the players.

Arya barely had time to process the scene before his eyes widened in shock.

"…Wait. You're—"

"it's been a while, rookie."