The world was quiet. Too quiet.
It had been a full day since the crash, and the initial shock was giving way to a bone-deep sadness.
The image of Matteo Rossi's smiling face, the one from the TV screen, was a constant replay in my mind. He was just a kid with a dream, a man who had his whole life in front of him. The weight of his loss pressed down on , heavy and suffocating.
My mom sat beside , her hand still holding mine, her presence a silent comfort.
She didn't talk much, just squeezed my hand every so often to let know she was there.
I was bruised and sore, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the emptiness in my head.
The Vision, my special ability, was gone. I tried to call on it, to see the Potential and Current abilities of the nurses passing by in the hallway, but there was nothing.
No numbers, no aura, just a blank, silent wall in my mind. It was a terrifying kind of silence. The thing that made special was just… gone.
It felt like a part of had been ripped away.
Suddenly, the door opened and in ca two more familiar faces. It was our team doctor, Dr. Rossi, and our fitness coach, Alberto. They both had serious, worried looks on their faces.
"Leon, how are you feeling, my boy?" Dr. Rossi asked, his voice low and kind. He looked at my mom and gave her a gentle nod.
"Just sore," I mumbled, my voice still a little rough.
Alberto, a man who looked like he could bench press a small car, just gave a firm nod. He was all about business, all about getting players back on the field. "We'll get you fixed up," he said, but his voice lacked his usual confidence.
They spoke with my mom for a few minutes, their voices hushed. I tried to listen, straining to hear what they were saying. "...very lucky… he's a strong boy…" I heard Dr. Rossi say.
Then, the mood in the room shifted. They moved to the foot of my bed, thinking I wasn't paying attention, and started to talk more seriously.
"The main thing is his knee," Dr. Rossi said, pulling out a tablet with so kind of X-ray on it.
"That ligant took the brunt of the impact. It's a miracle it didn't snap, but it's badly stretched. We can manage it, but he's not going to be back on the pitch for a while."
I held my breath, waiting for the number, the tiline that would define the rest of my season.
"Minimum three months," Alberto said, his voice flat. "Maybe four. We can't rush this. A re-injury could be catastrophic."
Three months.
The words hit like a physical blow, a fresh wave of pain that was sharper than any of my bruises. Three months. The montum, the joy, the feeling of being on top of the world… it was all gone. Wiped out by a single, senseless mont.
"...!"
A fire ignited inside . A hot, furious anger that burned away the sadness. It wasn't fair. I had done everything right. I had been at the top of my ga, and now, because of a mont of carelessness from a stranger, it was all over.
"Three months?!" I shouted, my voice cracking with frustration. My mom flinched, and the two n at the foot of the bed turned to , their expressions a mix of surprise and concern.
"Leon, calm down," my mom said softly, her hand on my arm.
"Calm down? How can I calm down?" I yelled, pulling my arm away.
"Leon, listen," Alberto said, stepping forward. "This is a setback, not the end. You're young. We'll get you back stronger than ever."
But his words just made angrier. "Stronger than ever? I was stronger than ever yesterday! What about now? What about the team? They need !"
"The team is a family, Leon," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "They will be here for you. You need to focus on your recovery. That's your job now. Rest. Let your body heal."
I fell back against the pillows, tears of frustration welling in my eyes. The injustice of it all was overwhelming. My mom looked at with deep sympathy, her eyes glistening.
Just then, my phone, which had been buzzing with ssages and calls since the accident, started to ring with a video call. It was Byon. His face, full of worry, filled the screen.
"Hey, man, I just heard," he said, his voice full of concern. "Are you okay? Your mom told you were awake."
"I'm fine," I snapped, my anger still simring. "Just a little setback."
He saw the look on my face and frowned. "A little setback? I heard about the car. Dude, you're in the hospital. I was so worried."
"You don't get it," I said, my voice low and tight. "I'm out for three months."
Byon was silent for a mont. He knew what that ant to , how much I had been looking forward to the rest of the season.
"Three months is a long ti," he said finally. "But it's not forever. You're still alive. You're okay. That's what matters."
"That's what everyone keeps saying!" I yelled, my voice rising again.
"But what about the guy who wasn't? What about him?" The words hung in the air, a cold, hard truth that none of us could escape.
My mom looked away, and Alberto and Dr. Rossi exchanged a somber glance. They all knew. They had all heard.
Just then, a small TV mounted on the wall, which I hadn't even noticed, ca on with a news broadcast. It was showing highlights from a recent match. A Premier League match between Arsenal and Manchester City. The screen flashed with shots of players in motion. I saw the familiar faces of Erling Haaland and Kevin De Bruyne on the screen. Haaland was making a run into the box.
Try it, a voice whispered in my head. It was a faint, almost nonexistent whisper, but it was there.
Just try.
I focused on Haaland. I tried to see his Potential, his Current ability, the way I used to. My eyes burned with the effort. I felt a familiar tingle, a spark of the old energy… and then nothing.
The screen was just a collection of pixels. The vision was a phantom limb, an echo of what I had lost.
Anger and despair washed over again. I just wanted to smash the TV, to break sothing, anything. I closed my eyes, a silent scream of pure frustration echoing in my mind.
Byon, seeing my distress on the video call, said softly, "Hey, Leon. Listen to . You're not broken. You're just… recharging. You went through sothing huge. Your body needs to heal. And so does your mind. Just breathe."
I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm the storm inside . Byon was right. I was here. I was alive. But the thought of three months, of watching my teammates from a hospital bed, was almost unbearable.
The TV, which was now muted, showed a slow-motion replay of De Bruyne passing the ball, his form perfect. For a brief second, a flicker of light appeared around him, a ghost of an outline.
And then it was gone, before I could even make out a number.
My heart leaped in my chest. It wasn't a full Vision, not a clear set of numbers. It was just a brief, almost invisible glimr.
A tiny flicker of hope in the vast, empty darkness of my mind. It was a sign that it wasn't completely gone. Just sleeping.
I looked down at my hands, flexing my bruised fingers. A new goal had just appeared. I had to heal. I had to train. I had to fight to bring my Vision back to life.
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