____________________________________
"People's behavior makes sense if you think about it in terms of their goals, needs,
and motives."
— THOMAS MANN
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"Whatever is now covered up will be uncovered and every secret will be made known."
— Melina Marchetta
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DAY 02 OF THE COMPETITIONS
Tahir walked into the second day of the Elite Championship with his usual calm—hands in his pockets, expression unreadable, steps unhurried. To anyone watching, he was just another sharp student blending into the crowd.
That was exactly how he wanted it.
His objective hadn't changed: ensure C.A.A.'s victory, quietly and efficiently, while keeping his identity, abilities, and reputation buried beneath layers of deliberate mediocrity. He didn't want the spotlight. Not now. Not here. Drawing attention would only complicate things.
And more importantly—
He is after something.
Or rather… He is trying to unravel something.
A whispered legend threaded through all nine elite schools:
The League of 9 Shadows (T.L.0.9.S)
A rogue organization rumored to exist beyond rules, beyond loyalty. One member per elite school. Identities hidden—even from their own teammates. They leaked confidential information, sabotaged elections, orchestrated expulsions, terrorized students, and manipulated outcomes from the dark, loyal to no one.
They answered to no school.
They served no banner.
They acted only for themselves.
For 9 years, no one had ever proven they existed.
No faces.
No names.
No mistakes.
Until 5 weeks ago.
Five weeks ago, the Shadow Network received a message that shattered their equilibrium.
Not a rumor.
Not a whisper.
A direct transmission.
I have gained access to the Shadow Network.
I know all your identities.
I will expose every one of you.
I am sick of living in fear.
Fear that any mistake or slip up.
Or just being unlucky.
Will lead to my expulsion.
I reject that.
I'm in one of the 9 Elite Schools.
This session will be your worst.
I am coming after all of you.
One by one… I will end you.
Panic spread through the unseen.
Internal protocols were activated. Backchannels flared to life. Emergency measures were taken. The Shadows—who had terrorized others for years—suddenly found themselves being hunted.
They launched a secret investigation of their own.
What none of them knew—
Was that the message came from Tahir.
And the truth behind it?
His threats were hollow.
He didn't know who they were.
He didn't have access to their identities.
He hadn't cracked their system.
Not yet.
He'd sent the message for one reason only:
To bait them.
For fun.
And curiosity.
Tahir suspected something simple, something elegant—
When a Shadow graduated, they didn't vanish.
They chose a successor.
Someone from their own school.
That was the only explanation for how the organization survived so long without exposure. Legacy. Continuity. Selection in silence.
Which meant—
Right now, somewhere in this competition, among these students, teachers, halls, and rivalries…
A Shadow was watching.
And perhaps, unknowingly…
Being watched back.
Tahir's lips curved faintly as he entered the grounds.
Day Two had begun.
And this time, the game wasn't just about points, victories, or championships.
It was about pressure.
About who cracked first.
About who noticed they were no longer the predator—
But the prey.
__________________
The Morning Matches
The second day began warm, the air thick with dust, heat, and anticipation. The stands buzzed with restless energy—students chanting school names, drums beating out uneven rhythms, teachers shouting futile instructions for order. It felt less like a school tournament and more like a battlefield dressed up as sport.
Two football matches were lined up before noon.
Match 1: A.M.A Vs C.C
On paper, C.C should have crushed them. Bigger players. Better funding. Years of dominance.
But football had never cared much for paper.
A.M.A's defense lived up to its reputation—disciplined lines, brutal interceptions, no wasted movement. C.C attacked relentlessly, but every attempt died at the edge of the box.
3 counterattacks.
3 clean goals.
A.M.A played like they had nothing to lose. They ran harder, tackled sharper, pressed without fear. When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard read 3–2.
A.M.A had won.
The underdog section of the stands exploded. C.C's supporters sat stunned, some already packing up bags in disbelief.
There is a 30 minutes break before the 2nd match.
__________________
30 minutes before the 2nd Match begins
The Locker Room Secret:
Tahir slipped back into the locker room the way a shadow slips under a door—quiet, uninvited, unseen.
The air inside was thick with sweat, liniment, and low voices. Lockers slammed occasionally, studs scraped against concrete, but in the far corner, near the tactical board, Jamil stood with two defenders leaning in close. Their voices were hushed. Intentional.
Jamil and his team mates in the locker room, voices low, smug, careless.
They had no idea that Tahir was listening, they thought that all the other teams have left already.
Tahir didn't move closer. He didn't need to.
The noise of the stadium, echoing through the window dulled, like someone had pressed cotton against his ears.
His eyes lifted slowly toward the window.
I can't hear them well, I need to get closer.
Tahir slipped Closer and closer without making a sound, close enough to see them, their plotting.
"…during the shot," Jamil was saying, fingers tracing an imaginary arc in the air, "both of you go in together. Scissor tackle. Hard. One from the front, one from the side."
One of the defenders hesitated. "That'll snap his leg."
Jamil's jaw tightened. "That was the point."
Tahir's eyes narrowed slightly.
So that's how he initially planned to injure Jamal.
His own twin brother.
"Make it messy," Jamil continued. "One of you goes down too. Sell it as an accident—clash of legs. Balanced injury. The Referee won't suspect a thing."
A short, grim silence followed.
"Once Jamal's out," Jamil added coldly, " We go after Mustyy, then C.A.A collapses. Then we clean up the rest. One key player at a time."
Tahir exhaled quietly through his nose.
So that was A.R.C's real game.
But then—
Tahir had footsteps from the door, he quickly moved towards the shower curtains. Concealed his presence.
A voice cut in from the doorway. "Coach just confirmed the lineup."
Jamil turned. "And?"
"Mustyy's in. Jamal's injury is much worse, he is benched."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Jamil's expression didn't flicker for long—just a brief recalibration, like a chess player spotting a different opening.
"…As predicted," he said after a beat. "Slight change of plan."
The defenders leaned in again.
"We don't break legs," Jamil said. "Too risky now. Mustyy lacks training. And we don't have much data on his play style, It's riskier."
He lowered his voice further. "The plan now is to pin him down in the box. Corners. Scrambles. When the ref's blind—elbows, knees, to the ribs or his thighs. Make him scared to run. Make him hesitate."
One defender grimaced. "That's also dirty, now that since Jamal is already out, it means that we can probably win, easily now."
Jamil's eyes hardened. "This is A.R.C. We don't operate on probabilities. We win. Whatever it takes."
"…he's predictable," one of them said.
"Mustyy?" Another one scoffed. "Yeah. Left foot, diagonal runs. We watched all his clips last night."
"We neutralize him early. Tire him out. Push him into fouls." Jamil said aggressively.
The others laughed.
Then one of them said "Doesn't matter anyway. We already accounted for him. Early or late, we will crush him just like you planned."
Tahir slowed his breathed to few a minute, hiding.
One of the player leaned closer. "So the plan is that simple huh, with Jamal, their star player injured, we target and break Mustyy, then C.A.A collapses strategically, and subsequently mentally. Especially now that they are all going to rely on him."
A pause.
"And the other players like Sadeeq ?, James?, and the late added substitute, what's that his name, oh yes, Tahir or something" one of their defenders spoke, wondering, "What if he is their new ace, or hidden wildcard or a back up plan huh ?"
Jamil snorted. "Who? The lazy substitute? I heard from Safeeyah, she said not to worry about him. He's irrelevant." He paused "forget about Sadeeq and James, and the others. Let's break Mustyy first."
Tahir held his breath.
Tahir felt nothing regarding what they are plotting against Mustyy, because deep down, it doesn't matter to him.
He was just glad.
His earlier maneuvering had worked. Jamal wasn't ready for this match—not emotionally, not mentally. Facing his twin under these conditions would have shattered him. Being benched today was necessary for Jamal's growth.
Besides… Jamal was essential to C.A.A's long-term plans.
Tahir had other uses for him next term.
As for Mustyy—
Tahir's gaze drifted to the floor, unreadable.
He had no intention of stepping in.
If Mustyy took a beating, so be it.
I sensed that he is much capable of taking it all, there is a sense of darkness surrounding his cheerful energy. Something tragic I guess
And besides, as long as goals were scored.
As long as C.A.A won.
Victory was the only currency that mattered.
Tahir adjusted his posture, turned, and slipped back out of the locker room the same way he'd entered—silent, invisible, carrying secrets that could burn the entire tournament to the ground.
And he kept walking.
Unnoticed.
_______________________
The Confrontation
On his way out, Tahir nearly collided with a wall of rage.
Jamal stood directly in his path, braced awkwardly on one crutch, the other angled like a weapon. His eyes were sharp, bloodshot with humiliation and fury.
Tahir quickly glanced around to see the cameras, turns out to be a blind spot. Which is a perfect place for what he anticipated is about to happen next.
"I warned you not to hang out with my girlfriend," Jamal said coldly.
Tahir stopped. Slowly raised a brow.
"Hmm. Yeah," he said evenly. "You did. And so?"
Jamal's jaw tightened. He leaned closer.
"I saw you yesterday at the pitch," he hissed. "Throwing popcorn at each other. Laughing. I'm gonna ask you once—do you like my girlfriend?"
Tahir didn't blink.
"You don't want to know."
"I think I should know," Jamal pressed, voice trembling now. "Tell me."
Tahir shifted his bag on his shoulder.
"I'm late. The team is waiting."
He tried to step aside.
Jamal's grip tightened around the crutch. His voice dropped to a low, venomous growl.
"I'm coming for you. When my leg heals, I'll crush yours. I promise."
"Do whatever you want, Jamal," Tahir replied calmly, brushing past him.
That should've been the end.
It wasn't.
The crutch came swinging.
Tahir moved on instinct—stepping forward just as the first strike cut through the air behind him. Before Tahir could recover, the second crutch flew toward Tahir's head.
Tahir caught it.
Bare hand.
Metal biting into his palm.
Pain flashed—but his grip didn't loosen.
He yanked Jamal forward hard.
Jamal stumbled, balance gone, crashing down onto his hands and knees with a strangled grunt. Tahir stepped in immediately, ruthless and precise—sweeping Jamal's hands out from under him.
Jamal hit the floor face-first.
A sickening crack echoed through the corridor.
Nobody is around to hear them, all students went to the pitch already.
Blood splattered the tiles.
Tahir crouched.
He grabbed Jamal by the hair and forced his head up, blood dripping from Jamal's nose onto Tahir's fingers.
"I told you," Tahir said quietly, his voice terrifyingly calm, "the only one who can beat me… is me."
Jamal's breath came out ragged.
"Sprained ankle or perfect health," Tahir continued, eyes cold, "you'd lose all the same. And did you know that animals avoid fights they cannot win."
He leaned in slightly.
"Walk away while you still have your dignity."
He released Jamal's head and stood.
Jamal collapsed back onto the floor, shaking with pain and humiliation.
As Tahir turned to leave, Jamal screamed after him, voice cracked and unhinged:
"I'll break you! I will come after you ! I will beat you to a pulp, and I'll make you polish my shoes with your tongue!"
Tahir laughed—a low, mocking sound that echoed down the hall.
"Mua-ha-ha… I'll wait for that day, senior loser. Make sure you get stronger, and manifest more hatred, because I don't want to fight a weakling."
He didn't look back.
He never needed to.
He walked straight to his locker and put his back inside, and headed to the football field.
_______________________
The 2nd Match
A.R.C Vs C.A.A
The stadium shifted.
This wasn't just another match. This was rivalry. History. Ego. Revenge.
Students leaned forward. Teachers stood. Even officials straightened in their seats.
A.R.C took the field first—confident, loud, unified.
Afreen sat at edge of the A.R.C's section, unreadable, eyes already scanning the pitch like a general surveying terrain.
C.A.A followed. Mustyy bounced on his heels, stretching, trying to mask nerves.
He looked around to see where MiMie is.
MiMie sat on the front center sit, close to the C.A.A's substitute bench, arms folded, watching everything.
Sadeeq whispered something to the coach.
And Tahir—
Tahir moved quietly toward the substitutes' area, head down, posture lazy.
Invisible.
That was the plan.
________________
Afreen stood up and walked the A.R.C sideline, calm, composed, speaking briefly with Safeeyah. She didn't look in Tahir's direction.
Not once.
So that's how she sees it, he thought.
Not a threat.
Not a variable.
Not even worth accounting for.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Behind him, the referee's whistle blew sharply, calling both teams to the center.
The match was about to begin.
And in that moment, Tahir made a quiet adjustment to his calculations.
A.R.C wasn't just planning to win.
They were planning to break C.A.A. Again.
Which meant—
The lazy substitute was going to have to move.
Just enough.
Not to be seen.
But enough to change everything.
____________________________
The Match Begins
The moment everyone had been waiting for finally arrived.
A.R.C vs. C.A.A.
Players from both schools stood poised on the pitch as the referee's whistle sliced through the air.
A.R.C kicked off with a long back pass to their defender, and C.A.A. immediately responded—each A.R.C player marked tightly, relentlessly.
For a while, the match appeared evenly balanced.
Five minutes passed.
C.A.A. still hadn't stolen the ball once.
That was when the truth surfaced.
A.R.C wasn't rushing.
They were bleeding C.A.A dry—forcing them to chase, to sprint, to burn stamina with every pointless pursuit. They were waiting for exhaustion. Waiting for breathless mistakes.
Then A.R.C struck.
A sudden surge. A clean opening.
The ball slammed into the net.
1–0.
C.A.A. restarted quickly, attempting a coordinated push forward—but Jamil intercepted with brutal precision. In one blistering counterattack, A.R.C scored again.
2–0.
The stands erupted.
"A.R.C! A.R.C! A.R.C!"
C.A.A.'s supporters fell silent. Hope thinned. Shoulders slumped.
On the bench, Tahir sat among 4 other substitutes, quiet and still. His eyes moved constantly—tracking formations, memorizing passing rhythms, mapping weaknesses.
A.R.C's defensive structure.
Their tempo.
Their spacing.
He almost had it.
But he needed one more A.R.C attack to confirm his theory.
Which meant—
A.R.C had to score again.
Yet if they did, the odds of recovery would plunge to roughly 39%
Tahir exhaled softly.
"Mustyy has to score now."
He looked up.
Mustyy was trapped.
Every time he moved, A.R.C swallowed him. Passes intercepted. Teammates blocked. Bodies larger, faster, stronger.
Possession read 70–30, A.R.C dominating.
The nightmare was repeating.
______________________
Mustyy's Awakening
Frustration carved itself across Mustyy's face, edging dangerously close to defeat. This wasn't him. He had faced worse—harder pitches, meaner players.
He glanced at his teammates. Seniors. Brothers-in-arms.
Too many of them already looked beaten.
A memory surged—
Kaduna.
The gang.
The fights they survived.
The vow never to bow.
Mustyy clenched his fist.
The ball rolled toward him.
Three A.R.C players charged.
"Enough," he muttered.
He dropped into a runner's stance—like a sprinter waiting for the gun.
Then he exploded.
He tore past all three, reached the ball, and twisted between an A.R.C player and a teammate without touching either. He surged straight into a wall of defenders.
No hesitation.
One defender lunged—Mustyy curved the ball between his legs, twisting mid-air, redirecting his momentum. His right foot struck the ground first, absorbing the impact, launching him forward again.
Three defenders left.
Two charged like bulls.
Mustyy feinted a pass. Both bit.
Easy.
One defender remained.
The C.A.A. crowd rose as one, as if the ground itself burned beneath them.
Mustyy faked a powerful shot. The defender raised a leg—
Too late.
Mustyy dribbled past him.
Now it was only him and the goalkeeper.
No contest.
He spun the ball into the net.
GOAL.
2–1.
C.A.A. exploded in sound. Mustyy sprinted in celebration, his name tearing through the stands.
But Tahir wasn't cheering.
He was watching Jamil.
Jamil was signaling.
And Tahir knew that signal.
He knew exactly what was coming.
_______________
A.R.C's Dirty Play
ARC restarted with a sudden shift—faster passes, sharper angles. They reached C.A.A.'s goal with alarming ease.
But they didn't shoot.
Instead—
The first shot attempted smashed into the goalkeeper's face.
He staggered.
The second shot slammed into his stomach. He dropped to a crouch, gasping.
Only then did A.R.C strike the third ball into the net.
3–1.
Dirty.
Ruthless.
Perfectly disguised as coincidence.
The crowd murmured in outrage, but the referee could do nothing. No fouls. Just "misdirected shots."
Halftime arrived.
Students from every school except A.R.C looked shaken. A.R.C's brutality was unmatched—hidden behind flawless plausibility.
_____________
Halftime Resolve
In the locker room, C.A.A.'s coach gathered the team and outlined a new plan. He turned to the goalkeeper.
"Substitution?"
The boy stood. His face still throbbed.
"I'll continue," he said quietly. "Win or lose… we fight to the end."
Hope flickered back to life.
Tahir leaned against a locker, watching.
This was the moment.
The formation settled into place:
Mustyy and James as attackers
Sadiq Amad anchoring defensive midfield
Adams at central midfield
Drew Thomas holding central defense
Perfect.
Two minutes before returning, Tahir approached Mustyy.
"Shoot whenever you see me with the ball," he said softly. "I'll pass."
Mustyy nodded. "Just make it clean, Attacking Midfielder."
They stepped onto the pitch.
Tahir and two others were subbed in.
Most spectators barely noticed—benchwarmers, nobodies.
Except MiMie.
Except Malik.
Malik warned Jamil—but Jamil dismissed it, confident in his knowledge of every elite-school player.
Still, he kept one eye on Tahir.
Tahir expected that.
Malik had never seen his full strength.
___________
The Comeback Begins
C.A.A kicked off the second half.
The ball moved quickly between their players as they attempted to settle into a rhythm, but A.R.C immediately stole possession. To everyone's surprise, they launched the exact same offensive strategy they had used in the first half.
They weren't changing anything.
Either they believed C.A.A still had no answer to their attacks…
Or they wanted to see if C.A.A had figured out a counter.
ARC surged toward the goal once more.
This time, however, C.A.A was ready.
A perfectly timed tackle stopped the attack, and the ball was won back.
Immediately, a counterattack began.
Sadiq Amad controlled the ball briefly before spotting Tahir and sending a pass his way.
Tahir received it without drawing much attention to himself.
Then, almost instantly, he released a perfectly weighted through-ball.
The pass sliced through A.R.C's defensive line.
Mustyy was already sprinting onto it.
He had beaten the defenders without drifting offside.
The crowd erupted.
One-on-one with the goalkeeper.
A dream scenario.
But Mustyy knew better.
He wasn't in the best position to shoot.
Instead of forcing it, he made the unselfish decision.
He passed sideways.
James was waiting.
Unmarked.
Ready.
James struck first time.
The ball buried itself in the back of the net.
GOAL!
The stadium exploded.
3–2.
A.R.C still led, but only by a single goal.
For the first time all game, C.A.A could feel hope returning.
Students stomped their feet against the stands.
Others clapped wildly.
Some screamed themselves hoarse.
And it wasn't just C.A.A students anymore.
Nearly every elite school in attendance—except A.R.C—had begun supporting the underdogs.
The energy pouring into C.A.A's players was impossible to ignore.
Their morale skyrocketed.
_____________
Tahir remained calm.
He knew something important.
If he delivered another pass like that immediately, Jamil would start paying close attention to him.
And Tahir wasn't ready for that.
So he deliberately ruined his next two opportunities.
Both passes were slightly off.
Both were intercepted.
To everyone else, it looked like a mistake.
To Tahir, it was camouflage.
It took several minutes before C.A.A regained possession again.
When they did, Tahir spotted an opening.
He launched a high cross toward Mustyy.
The ball spun through the air beautifully.
But Jamil was already there.
Marking him personally.
Both players tracked the descending ball.
Jamil understood something.
Mustyy was taller.
If the ball reached him cleanly, there was a very good chance he would score.
So Jamil made a decision.
A cruel one.
As the ball descended, Jamil performed a fake jump.
Mustyy saw the movement and reacted instinctively.
He exploded upward.
Higher than usual.
Much higher.
Using every ounce of strength he possessed.
His leap carried him above Jamil's shoulders.
Only then did Mustyy realize something was wrong.
Jamil had never intended to challenge for the ball.
The fake jump had been bait.
The ball floated toward Mustyy.
He prepared his header.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Jamil jump.
Not vertically.
Diagonally.
Directly into the path where Mustyy would descend.
A cold realization flashed through Mustyy's mind.
He wasn't going to land safely.
________________
Mustyy made contact.
The header was perfect.
The ball rocketed toward goal.
But he had already lost his balance.
His body tilted sideways.
Instinctively, he stretched out both hands to break the fall.
Then he realized only one arm would reach the ground in time.
His left.
The impact was unavoidable.
_______________
The ball hit the net.
GOAL!
3–3.
The crowd erupted.
Hundreds of voices merged into one deafening roar.
The comeback was complete.
But beneath the celebration—
A sickening sound echoed across the field.
A crack.
The unmistakable sound of bone breaking.
Mustyy hit the ground hard.
His left arm twisted beneath him.
Pain exploded through his body.
Yet almost nobody noticed.
Everyone's eyes were on the goal.
On the scoreboard.
On the miracle equalizer.
________________
The referee blew the whistle.
The goal stood.
Only then did players realize something was wrong.
Several rushed toward Mustyy.
Even ..C players sprinted over.
Including Jamil.
In fact, Jamil was the first to reach him.
He grabbed Mustyy's shoulder.
Trying to help him sit up.
Acting concerned.
Acting innocent.
As if this had simply been an unfortunate accident.
As if Mustyy had jumped too high and lost control.
And to everyone watching…
That's exactly what it looked like.
No foul.
No penalty.
No suspicion.
Just bad luck.
Mustyy was rushed to the emergency room.
And the match continued.
_______________
Tahir watched everything unfold.
He has predicted this.
So he wasn't surprised.
Not entirely.
He already knew A.R.C's plans in advance.
He could have prevented this.
But if he does, C.A.A's win will not be guaranteed.
So with cold calculations…
He let Mustyy become the victim instead.
A small prize to pay for Tahir's plans to succeed.
_____________
Less than 7 minutes remained.
A substitute replaced Mustyy.
But everyone knew the truth.
He wasn't Mustyy.
James was now heavily marked.
A.R.C sensed weakness.
And they struck.
Their passing became relentless.
One combination after another.
One defender beaten.
Then another.
Then another.
Soon, A.R.C's attacker found himself one-on-one with the goalkeeper.
He shaped to shoot.
The goalkeeper panicked.
Fearing a powerful strike to the face, he rushed forward.
Exactly what A.R.C wanted.
The attacker simply chipped the ball over him.
The keeper spun around desperately.
The ball bounced behind him.
Another ARC player arrived.
A simple finish.
GOAL.
4–3.
A.R.C led again.
Only 4 minutes remained.
______________
The faces of C.A.A supporters fell.
Hope faded.
Many believed it was over.
But Tahir didn't.
His eyes remained fixed ahead.
His fists clenched.
A storm raged inside him.
No matter what it takes…
I will win.
No matter what.
His thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Toward a girl.
Not MiMie, Not Afreen.
Toward a promise.
Toward a dream.
The dream of exposing the mysterious "The League of 9 Shadows."
The dream of clearing her name.
Name of a certain dream girl.
The dream of seeing her welcomed back into the elite schools she had been unfairly expelled from.
The dream of seeing her graduating from the elite school and studying to become the medical doctor she had always wanted to be.
Even if it costs me everything.
Even if she hates me once she learned the truth.
Even if I had to manipulate people.
Use people. Fight people. Destroy people.
I would do it. For your freedom.
Even if I never find mine.
Tahir lifted his gaze.
High above the stadium.
Birds glided across the sky.
Fluffy clouds drifted without directions.
Free.
Unbound.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Freedom, huh…"
His voice carried just enough for nearby players to hear.
"I guess I'll never know what that truly feels like."
Then his expression hardened.
"But A.R.C isn't winning today."
______________________
Moments later, Tahir intercepted a pass.
He burst forward.
Dribbled past one player.
Then another.
The crowd rose to its feet.
He slipped a pass toward James.
Perfect.
James launched himself into the air.
His body turned horizontal.
An acrobatic bicycle kick.
His battle cry echoed across the field.
"Haiiiiyyyaaaah!"
His foot met the ball perfectly.
The strike was even more powerful than Mustyy's.
The goalkeeper got a hand to it.
But one hand wasn't enough.
The shot blasted through.
GOAL!
4–4.
The crowd went insane.
MiMie and Isham nearly jumped out of their seats.
Only minutes ago, defeat seemed certain.
Now they had a draw.
And perhaps a penalty shootout.
_____________
With only 2 minutes left, most C.A.A supporters were content with that.
A draw was enough.
But A.R.C disagreed.
To them, needing penalties against C.A.A felt insulting.
Humiliating. They wanted victory now.
And they launched one final attack.
A brutal assault. Pure aggression.
Pure force.
Yet just as they sensed victory—
Tahir stole the ball.
Again.
He sprinted forward.
Only two A.R.C defenders remained.
They immediately blocked every passing lane.
James had already dropped back to help defend.
There were no options.
No obvious path forward.
Tahir looked up.
Then smiled.
"Checkmate, A.R.C."
23 seconds remained.
He glanced toward the goal.
Exactly as he'd predicted.
The goalkeeper was standing slightly too far off his line.
That was all he needed.
Tahir flicked the ball upward.
Then struck.
A high, spinning, curling effort.
A desperate Hail Mary.
The last attack of the match.
The ball soared over the defenders.
Over the goalkeeper's fingertips.
The keeper jumped.
Reached. Missed.
The ball dropped.
Bounced 11cm behind the goal line.
And rolled into the net.
For a second, nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Then—
GOAL!
The stadium erupted.
The commentator practically lost his mind.
"UNBELIEVABLE!"
"UNBELIEVABLE!"
"Tahir, the substitute has done it!"
5–4.
C.A.A led.
_____________
Tahir already knew what would happen next.
The spotlight would be on him.
For now.
Only for now.
He would make sure people believed it was luck.
Just one fortunate goal.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
____________
In the stands, MiMie stared at him.
A strange warmth settled in her chest.
Tahir…
Are you trying to help C.A.A?
Is this your way of showing that you care… even if you refuse to say it?
She wasn't the only one wondering.
Jamil was watching him now.
Carefully.
And elsewhere, Malik smiled.
Because for the first time…
He thought Tahir might finally be revealing his true colors.
And he couldn't wait to face him again.
In basketball.
In the rest of the competition.
__________________
16 seconds remained.
A.R.C kicked off one final time.
5 quick passes.
Then—
FWEEEEET!
The final whistle.
The match was over.
C.A.A had won.
While students stormed the field and celebrations erupted everywhere…
_____________
Afreen's Reaction
The final whistle cut through the stadium.
C.A.A. had won.
For a heartbeat, Afreen didn't move.
The roar around her crashed like a tidal wave—students leaping to their feet, banners flying, voices tearing themselves raw in celebration—but the sound reached her late, muffled, distant, as though she were standing underwater.
Her eyes were locked on the pitch.
On him.
Tahir.
The boy who had once stood on a rooftop with a leaf between his lips, smirking like the world was a joke meant only for him.
The boy who had shattered her, even if he never understood how.
Her fingers tightened around the railing. Not in joy. Not in triumph.
In disbelief.
5 minutes ago, A.R.C had been winning.
4 minutes ago, hope had been dying.
And then—him.
Not loud. Not flashy.
Precise. Cold. Surgical.
Afreen swallowed.
Her heart was beating too fast. Too hard.
So this is what you've been hiding, she thought.
The way he moved… it wasn't raw talent. It was calculation. Every step measured. Every pass intentional. Every mistake—deliberate.
He hadn't played to win glory.
He had played to control the outcome.
Her jaw tightened.
She felt something stir—old, dangerous, familiar.
Anger.
Not the burning kind that explodes.
The cold kind that sharpens.
The kind that remembers.
Around her, A.R.C students sat frozen—faces pale, mouths half-open, unable to process how the match had slipped through their fingers. A few stared at Tahir with suspicion. Others with fear.
Afreen noticed.
She always noticed.
They're starting to see you, she thought.
And I am guessing you don't like that.
Her gaze flicked briefly to MiMie.
MiMie was standing now, hands pressed to her mouth, eyes shining—not with victory, but with something far more personal. Relief. Awe. Hope.
Of course, Afreen thought bitterly.
He does this to help you isn't it.
That realization hit harder than she expected.
Her chest tightened—not in heartbreak, not exactly.
In recognition.
So this is the battlefield now, she realized.
Not just schools. Not just trophies.
People.
Hidden motives. Quiet wars.
And Tahir was standing right at the center of it.
She exhaled slowly, forcing her pulse to settle.
Her lips curved—not into a smile, but into something sharper.
A promise.
You broke me once, she thought, eyes never leaving him.
Now I know what you are.
She turned away from the pitch, adjusting her blazer, posture straight, composed—every inch, the girl A.R.C had come to fear.
But inside, gears were turning.
This wasn't just a match, Afreen realized.
This was a declaration.
And whether Tahir knew it or not—
He had just stepped directly into her war.
________________
MiMie Notices Afreen
MiMie was still standing, heart racing, hands trembling slightly as applause thundered around her.
C.A.A. had won.
Tahir did it.
Her eyes followed him instinctively—down on the pitch, surrounded by shouting teammates, hands being grabbed, shoulders slapped. He looked… untouched by the chaos. As if victory was merely another calculation completed.
That familiar calm stirred something deep in her chest.
Relief. Gratitude. Hope.
She exhaled a shaky breath.
Then—
Something tugged at her awareness.
A presence.
MiMie turned her head.
Across the stands, just beyond the cluster of A.R.C students, Afreen stood perfectly still.
Not cheering.
Not reacting.
Not celebrating or mourning.
Just watching.
Watching him.
MiMie's breath caught.
Afreen's gaze wasn't casual. It wasn't curious. It wasn't even angry in the way MiMie remembered from 3 and 1/2 years ago.
It was focused.
Sharp.
Like someone assessing a weapon… or an enemy.
MiMie followed Afreen's line of sight back to Tahir.
Her fingers curled slowly against her palm.
Why is she looking at him like that?
A memory surfaced—unwanted, sharp.
The rooftop.
The puzzles.
The silence between answers.
The way Tahir used to look at the sky when Afreen spoke.
MiMie's chest tightened.
She had told herself Afreen was just another rival.
Just A.R.C's star.
Just a ghost from an old chapter that didn't matter anymore.
But ghosts don't look that alive.
Afreen shifted then—just slightly—and for the briefest moment, her eyes flicked up.
They met MiMie's.
The air between them snapped.
No words.
No gestures.
Just understanding.
Afreen's expression didn't change. No smirk. No glare.
But MiMie felt it anyway—
A line had been drawn.
Afreen turned away first, calm and composed, disappearing into the movement of A.R.C students as if she had never been there at all.
MiMie swallowed.
Her heart, moments ago light with victory, now felt heavy.
Uneasy.
Because for the first time since arriving at C.A.A., a terrifying thought took root:
Afreen isn't just here to win.
She is not here for just revenge.
She's here for him.
And whatever history Afreen and Tahir shared—
It wasn't finished.
Not even close.
_____________
Tahir Senses Them
The noise of the stadium washed over Tahir like static.
Hands grabbed him. Teammates shouted. Someone nearly pulled him off balance in celebration.
He let it happen.
He always did.
But beneath the roar, beneath the pounding of his own pulse, something else registered—quiet, precise, unavoidable.
Eyes.
Two of them.
From different directions.
Tahir's smile—half-formed, lazy, convincing—did not falter.
But his mind sharpened instantly.
One presence felt familiar in a way that was warm and heavy.
MiMie.
He didn't need to look to know she was there. He could almost feel the weight of her relief, the fragile hope clinging to him like it always had. Her gaze carried questions she would never ask out loud.
Is this for C.A.A, or Me?
Do you still care?
He pretended not to feel it.
The second gaze was different.
Cold.
Measured.
Unforgiving.
Tahir's spine tightened almost imperceptibly.
That one wasn't watching the victory.
It was watching him.
Assessing. Remembering. Calculating.
Afreen.
For a fraction of a second, his breath stalled.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
So… you're really here.
He finally lifted his eyes—just enough.
His gaze skimmed the stands, casual, uninterested—
And locked.
Afreen stood still amid the A.R.C crowd, her face calm, her posture relaxed, her eyes sharp as blades. No celebration. No reaction.
Just focus.
On Him.
The noise of the stadium dimmed.
3 and a 1/2 years collapsed into a single, fragile moment.
The rooftop.
The cafeteria.
Her tears. His lies.
The words he could never take back.
I used you.
Something flickered in his chest—tight, brief, unwanted.
Guilt?
No.
Regret was a luxury he couldn't afford.
He looked away first.
Not because he lost.
But because he knew what that look meant.
Afreen wasn't here for a rematch.
She was here for closure.
—or destruction.
As Tahir's gaze shifted back to the pitch, he felt the other presence again.
MiMie.
Still watching. Still hoping.
Still unaware that the battlefield had just changed.
He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off exhaustion.
This is bad, he thought.
Not the win. Not the exposure.
The timing.
Because now—
The girl he broke…
And the girl he built his world around…
We're finally standing in the same arena.
And Tahir knew one undeniable truth:
No matter what move he made next—
Someone was going to get hurt.
____________________
Afreen Walks Away
The stadium was still shaking when Afreen turned her back on it.
A.R.C students surged forward, lamenting over the loss, arguing, replaying goals, already dissecting what went wrong and what had to be fixed tomorrow. Someone bumped her shoulder. Someone else cursed the referee.
Afreen didn't react.
She walked.
Each step was measured. Calm. Precise.
As if the ground beneath her wasn't trembling with echoes of a name she had sworn never to care about again.
Tahir.
She had seen it.
The final goal. The timing.
The calculation.
The way the entire field bent around him in those last seconds.
She hated how instantly she recognized it.
That wasn't talent.
That was control.
He hadn't played to win from the start.
He had waited.
Measured.
Let A.R.C overextend.
Let C.A.A. believe they were drowning.
Then he moved.
Just like before.
On the rooftop. In the cafeteria. In her life.
Always when it was too late to stop him.
Afreen clenched her fingers inside her sleeves, nails biting into her palm.
Three and a half years.
Three and a half years of rebuilding herself from the version of her that trusted easily. From the girl who believed intelligence could protect her from cruelty.
And now he stood there again—unchanged in the ways that mattered.
Still hiding. Still pulling strings.
Still deciding outcomes while pretending not to care.
He hasn't learned, she realized.
He's just refined it.
A bitter smile tugged at her lips.
Good.
That would make this easier.
Someone beside her—one of A.R.C's juniors—groaned loudly.
"We almost had them. That last goal was disgusting and just some dumb luck."
Afreen didn't slow.
"Almost doesn't matter," she said quietly.
The girl glanced at her. "Huh?"
Afreen kept her eyes forward, voice steady.
People like him don't play to almost win. They play to end things.
Her chest tightened—not with sadness, but with something sharper.
Resolve.
She hadn't come here for closure.
She hadn't come to confront him.
She had come to observe.
And what she saw confirmed everything.
Tahir A. Salman was still the same boy who smiled while breaking people.
Which meant he will still be vulnerable to the same mistake.
Underestimating her.
As they reached the corridor leading away from the field, Afreen allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder.
Tahir was surrounded by teammates now, expression relaxed, eyes unreadable.
But she knew.
And he also that knew she was there.
Their gazes didn't meet this time.
They didn't need to.
Run your games, she thought coldly.
I've been preparing for you longer than you realize.
She turned away.
A.R.C's footsteps echoed ahead.
And for the first time since returning to the elite circuit, Afreen felt something settle into place.
Not fear. Not pain. Anticipation.
The war had already begun.
And this time—
She would be the one deciding how it ended.
__________________
After the Victory
While the stadium convulsed with celebration, Tahir disappeared.
No cheers followed him.
No hands clapped his back.
No name was chanted.
He slipped away like he had always preferred—unnoticed, unclaimed, uncelebrated.
The locker room was quiet when he entered, the air still thick with sweat and adrenaline.
As he reached his locker and pulled it open, he stopped.
An envelope rested neatly on top of his folded uniform.
Placed deliberately.
Carefully.
Exactly where his eyes would land first.
Tahir didn't rush. He stared at it for a brief second longer than necessary, then reached out and picked it up.
The envelope was plain.
No name.
No seal.
No symbol.
Inside was a single note.
"I have found your weakness.
Meet me behind the admin block after the 2nd round of the Super Elite Quiz.
Exactly 4:15 PM.
Or I will share it with MiMie
— Afreen."
As he finished reading, something slipped free from the envelope and fluttered to the floor.
Tahir crouched and picked it up.
He turned it over—
And froze.
The photograph showed her.
The dream girl.
Not MiMie. Not Afreen.
The one that he had been trying to tore systems apart for.
The one he is trying to bring back to C.A.A using lies, manipulation, and calculated cruelty.
The girl he had convinced himself justified every sin.
For the first time in a long while, something real broke through his mask.
A raised eyebrow. A flicker of surprise.
Something dangerously close to humanity.
He exhaled a soft, almost amused breath.
"Hmm," he murmured. "So, Afreen… this is how you make your move, huh?"
A slow smirk curved his lips.
"Fair enough."
He slid the photograph into his pocket.
"This is going to be troublesome," he added quietly.
"Very troublesome."
Footsteps echoed faintly down the hallway—the rest of the players returning from the pitch.
In one smooth motion, Tahir tucked the note away,closed the locker, and stepped toward the showers.
By the time the door opened again, he emerged casually, a towel draped around his neck, expression perfectly neutral. But fresh and clean.
No one noticed anything amiss.
He dressed in silence, not before applying his roll on, deodorant and cologne, left the locker room, and walked into the cool corridor beyond.
But now, hindering his path was no longer just the director.
He had another destination.
Another appointment.
And another opponent who had finally learned where to strike.
And for the first time in years—
Tahir was looking forward to the confrontation.
But for now, he needs to make some moves first.
Tahir, checked his phone, saw the last Message Aysha Amad sent him, saying that she will be at the Library, he decided to go meet her.