The stadium buzzed with energy. Flags waved high on either side of the stands, each cheer from students and parents rattling through the evening air like thunder. The grass shimmered under the floodlights, and the pitch pulsed with tension as the final minutes of the semi-final match ticked away.
On one side, Crane High School—white tops marked with a bold red stripe—led confidently, the holographic scoreboard reading 3 - 1 in their favor. On the other side stood Volt High, dressed in fiery orange with black trim, fighting to stay alive in the game.
Their final push was nothing short of desperate.
Volt High had taken control of the midfield, threading quick passes with a fluid rhythm that felt like the beating of a drum. In the center of it all, a boy with low-cut hair and thick brows—midfielder Luis Ortega—deftly slipped the ball through the legs of a charging opponent. Without hesitation, he glanced right and launched a curling pass into space.
Down the flank, sprinting like his life depended on it, came another Volt High player: Enzo Moretti, average height, longish blonde hair, and the intense stare of someone with too much to prove. The ball dropped out of the air and he controlled it with his chest, cushioning it before trapping it at his feet.
Two Crane High defenders closed in fast.
Enzo didn't stop.
With a flurry of quick stepovers, he hugged the byline, dancing past the defenders. Near the corner flag, he shifted direction, cut in sharply, and lifted his head just long enough to see the shape of hope—right in the penalty box.
He whipped in a deadly, curved cross.
Time seemed to freeze.
The ball cut through the air, its flight perfect. The entire stadium held its breath.
And then, inside the box, it landed at the feet of Enzo Moretti himself—he had made the run, following the pass he sent like a message into destiny.
Beads of sweat streamed down his face. His boots struck.
A blistering volley, first-time. The defenders flinched. The keeper dove.
Swoosh!
The net rippled. The stadium exploded.
GOOOOOOAAAAALLL!
The fans screamed, some in joy, others in awe. Even Crane High's crowd couldn't help but cheer. It was a masterpiece.
But Enzo didn't celebrate.
He sprinted toward the net, yanked the ball from it, and ran it back to midfield. His eyes were on the clock. Hope flickered—just maybe...
Then the whistle blew.
Full-time. 3 - 2.
The stadium's roar died into murmurs. Some cheered, others groaned. Enzo stood still, shoulders heaving, the ball slipping from his hands.
"Enzo! That was an awesome goal!"
A short-haired teammate clapped him on the back. "Seriously, man—that volley? Unreal."
Enzo didn't respond.
"Crane High really are something, huh?" the teammate added with a shrug. "Guess we're lucky we made it this far."
Enzo looked up slowly. His lips twitched into a faint, hollow smile.
"Yeah… I know."
That night.
The locker room was silent. The others had left already—laughing, shrugging off the loss like it was just another game.
But Enzo remained, staring at the floor.
He had scored twice. Carried the team. Bled for every inch of the pitch.
And it still wasn't enough.
Worse—he knew now, from the way no one seemed really disappointed—that he had been the only one who believed they could win. The only one who expected to make it to the finals.
A deep ache sank into his chest. He clenched his fists.
"Maybe I was the fool."
When Enzo got home, the house was quiet. His parents were out, and the silence only made the weight on his shoulders feel heavier. He kicked off his cleats and dragged himself to his room.
That's when he saw it.
A letter. No postage. Just sitting on his desk.
He frowned and approached cautiously.
To: Enzo Moretti
From: STRIKE Initiative, U.S. Division
His heart skipped. He tore the envelope open.
"We've been watching.
Your vision. Your instincts. Your hunger.
You may not have made the finals—but you've caught the eye of those who understand what that means.
We are the STRIKE Initiative.
We build strikers.
Legends.
Monsters.
If you accept this invitation, your journey begins now.
Enclosed: coordinates.
Come alone."
Enzo stared at the letter for a long moment.
He read it again.
And again.
His chest tightened, not with pressure this time—but with possibility.
The STRIKE Initiative. He had heard rumors from football forums, whispered stories in locker rooms. A secret program that trained strikers outside the jurisdiction of clubs and national teams. Some claimed their graduates were already infiltrating elite clubs, scoring impossible goals, rewriting tactics by their very presence. Others said the Initiative didn't exist at all—just a myth to scare average strikers into trying harder.
But now it was real.
It had found him.
Enzo looked out the window at the quiet street below, his mind racing. The sting of defeat still sat in his chest—but beside it now was something stronger.
Something dangerous.
A grin broke across his face. The first real one all day.
The world had just changed.
And for the first time that day... he smiled.