Chapter 8

Reunited With Her

The screen lights up.

The comments under my viral clip have exploded overnight — thousands, if not tens of thousands, already dissecting it like wolves around a carcass.

A lot of praise. Plenty of awe. But I see them — the doubters too.

"Powerful, but raw."

"That spin will be predictable with film study."

"Any experienced defender can shut it down."

"His plant foot's exposed. Exploitable."

"He's not even fully in control of the technique yet."

I scoff.

They're not wrong.

But they don't get it.

They don't understand what it will become.

Then my eyes land on a blue checkmark — a verified response tucked within the chaos. One name:

Julian Loki

"That shot… there's nothing I've ever seen before that can compare. But I'll stop it."

My heart skips — not in fear, but excitement.

I type fast, without thinking:

"How will you stop it? Godspeed won't be enough. Especially when it's complete, Loki."

A few seconds pass. Then the reply pings in.

"Maybe not. But I've got a new move. It's not finished yet either… but when we play, I'll use it."

He adds a smirking emoji.

I pause, lips curling into a quiet grin.

It's on then, Julian.

I swipe upward, scrolling mindlessly, but something else pulls my attention. A clip.

A name flashes across the top:

Noel Noa — The Cyborg.

I click it. The video plays.

Noa's movement is mechanical in its beauty — all angles calculated, posture always ready, weight centered with cold, surgical precision. His footwork is so perfect it almost looks like he's skating. No wasted motion. Not a single unnecessary gesture.

Then… he shifts.

His body twists into a sudden lean, deceiving two defenders. He recalibrates his body mid-step, reads the pitch like it's been frozen in time for him.

Then—

A bicycle kick. Half-suspended.

The keeper can't even react.

Goal.

He lands. Unbothered. Calm.

Cold, aloof. A true machine in human form.

This is the highest tier. This is what perfection in football looks like.

I sit silently, watching the replays on loop.

Positioning. Deception. Trap-based flaws.

Everything he shows his opponents is intentional — bait.

He's not just playing flawlessly.

He's playing ahead.

I turn off my phone.

And I know what I need.

Flight. Destination: Russia.

I book the ticket.

The next morning, I'm at the airport, hoodie over my head, duffle bag slung over my shoulder.

7 hours later

The plane touches down.

Moscow.

Cold winds. Grey skies. But something about it feels... nostalgic.

I grab my bags and take a taxi through streets that awaken something buried in me — echoes of a past life. Street corners. Faded signs. The scent of baked rye and diesel in the air. All familiar. All distant.

I reach my hotel. Nothing fancy. Just enough.

Inside, I change — short black athletic pants, a loose tank top. Fingerless gloves. Bare ankles.

I want to feel the chill.

Let it wake me.

I walk the streets again.

Turn left.

Then right.

And then I find it.

The Gym.

Same rusted exterior. Same faded red door.

But inside —

it's alive.

—

I walk in.

Thuds. Slaps. Kicks.

I hear her before I see her.

Sharp cracks as gloves meet pads.

Rapid shifting stances — then roundhouse kicks.

Switch. Sprawl. Grapple.

Ju-jitsu roll.

Taekwondo snap.

She moves with a grace that feels choreographed but deadly. Like watching a dancer wielding invisible weapons.

Then —

She slips.

Just slightly.

She crouches to rise again, but stops —

As if sensing something.

She turns slowly, predator reflexes kicking in.

Her emerald eyes lock with mine.

And just like that —

her face flushes deep red.

There you are, Alina.

She reacts instinctively — legs sweeping under me, low and fast.

I leap forward — flip into a handstand.

My balance is clean, sharp.

She spins again — fluid, almost too fast to follow.

I transition into an air flare — one-handed spin — then pivot mid-air.

Snap.

My heel taps the back of her ankle and she stumbles.

She falls —

Straight into me.

Impact.

She lands atop me.

Sweat on her brow.

Hair messy and wild like a raven's wings, draped down over her flushed cheeks.

She straddles my waist.

Thighs tight.

Hips stronger than steel.

Her arm snakes around my neck —

A chokehold.

I freeze.

Not from fear.

From memory.

From the flood of something… warm.

Her breath is close.

Panted. Measured. Focused.

Her jaw is sharp, feminine, regal. But her body is forged from battle — strength coiled beneath flawless beauty.

Then —

She looks down at me.

Our eyes meet.

I stop breathing.

She's holding me.

Like she never let go.

And then…

Slowly, she releases the pressure.

Lingers.

Then pulls back.

Just inches from my face.

I pounce.

Gently.

Pinning her under me.

I lean in — not to kiss —

but to kiss her nose.

Soft. Delicate. Real.

This girl beneath me… is Alina Rossa.

Russian mother.

Brazilian father.

Amateur MMA fighter. Age: 16.

Height: 180cm.

Power, discipline, fire.

I met her after I kicked my monstrous father in the face…

…After I disarmed six cops using nothing but a ball and rage.

That day — a stranger led me to a fighting gym.

And she was there.

We met in Germany.

She'd just won a match.

I was still shaking from my own fury.

She taught me breathing drills.

Said I had "a natural predator's motion."

Called my legs "the fastest she'd ever seen."

We've been in each other's orbit ever since.

A weird relationship.

Not dating. Not distant. Something in between.

But whatever it is — it saved me.

Without her… I would've drowned in the darkness before ever entering this world.

She punches me lightly in the shoulder.

"Stop spacing out," she snaps in Russian-accented English.

I blink.

She's back in her calm mode now — composed and cool.

"When did you get here?"

"I flew in after my match yesterday," I answer.

She eyes me, half-annoyed, half-something-else. Then tosses me a towel.

I catch it mid-air.

She wipes her sweat, then throws on a hoodie.

I step forward. Begin warming up.

Shadow kicks.

Shin whips.

Breathing drills.

Then…

Kaiser Impact: Prototype.

I try to apply the motion — the same way I did during the match — but clean, on pads.

BOOM.

The sound is thunder.

The pad topples over.

Alina glances over, raising an eyebrow.

I move to the heavy bag.

Again.

Boom.

The chain rattles.

I try a front flip —

Land too hard. Almost crash.

Alina bursts out laughing.

Her voice is sweet, light — like a breeze cutting through steel.

I grin.

Try a J-step gainer.

Fail.

Try again.

Land it on the third attempt.

When I look up —

She's stepping out of the shower area.

Fully dressed.

Long coat. Hair tied.

My pulse slows.

I hit the showers too.

We walk through the snow-slicked streets.

Then we stop.

Ice cream.

Yeah. Ice cream.

In this cold.

But that's just how we are.

Vanilla for her. Dark chocolate for me.

We sit near the train station.

Laugh. Talk. Touch shoulders.

No awkwardness.

Then she says:

"Let's go to Spain tomorrow."

I nod. No hesitation.

That night, I book a hotel in Barcelona.

Back at my room —

I collapse onto the bed.

The ceiling above me is cracked.

The heater hums.

And I smile.

For a moment, football isn't everything.

For a moment… I just feel alive.