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“Here is the deal,” he said. “I don’t care about the drugs. I care about my clean sheet.”

A clean sheet was a match in which nothing got past the goalkeeper, and Anatol kept a careful count of his.

Some black bubble of laughter rose and died in my throat. He had not come for justice, or even for Leander. He had come for his goals-against average.

“What do you want?”

“If he scores on me today,” Anatol said, “I make a scene on the live feed. I scream bloody murder and demand a scan right there on the field. Once the cameras are rolling, Tegula has to act.”

He tapped his nose.

“You’re the Captain, Cento. You control the ball. Make sure he doesn’t look good today. Make sure he looks like dead weight. If he shines, you burn.”

He clapped me on the shoulder in a crushing gesture.

“See you on the field.”

He walked away, whistling.

I turned back to the terminal and keyed the reboot on a driver with no fault in it, because the story I had told Leander deserved a log entry that matched, and because my hands wanted one procedure, any procedure, that could still be completed correctly.

REBOOT COMPLETE. NO FAULTS DETECTED.

Gravity took over, dragging me down the cold metal wall until I hit the floor.

The equation burned behind my eyes, there was no winning move here.

I could play to win. I could let him fly, let him score the goals that proved he belonged, and then watch the guards drag him away to be liquidated when the scan lit up red.

I could play to lose. I could sabotage him, make the symbiosis look like a failure in front of the entire Academy, and guarantee that he hated me for the rest of his life.

Or I could tell him. I ran that branch twice, hunting for a version where it held, but it collapsed both times at the same joint. Leander with the truth in his hands was Leander crossing a locker room with murder in his stride, in front of cameras that never blinked. Telling him was not a third option. It was the first option with extra steps.

Acidic nausea rose in my throat. I had to become the villain of his story to ensure he survived to tell it.

Two nights ago, in the stairwell, the decision to spend the vial was made where no one saw it. This one came with no such mercy. This one I would have to make in the open, on camera, over and over, every single time the ball found my feet, and I would have to watch his face while I made it.

I pushed myself up, forcing my legs to hold the weight of the lie I was about to live. I was getting ready to betray the only person who started to matter.

The locker room buzzed with the static hum of gossip, but the noise sounded distant, muffled by the blood rushing in my ears.

I sat on my bench, adjusting the captain’s armband on my bicep, but my eyes stayed fixed on the reflection of the room in the chrome door of my locker.

Anatol Getha held court in the center of the defensive aisle. Already suited up, his massive frame expanded the neon-green keeper jersey until the fabric strained across his chest. He was not shouting today. He was whispering.

Three Tier 2 defenders leaned in, listening to him like disciples.

“He shouldn’t be here today,” Anatol murmured, loud enough for the sound to carry but quiet enough to sound like a secret. “I heard the pop. An ankle doesn’t heal overnight unless you’re shooting up illegal stims.”

The defenders nodded, casting suspicious glances toward the door. He was priming the firing squad, isolating the target before we even stepped onto the turf, and I sat ten feet away adjusting my armband like none of it concerned me.

The door opened and Leander walked in.

Silence swept the room like a cold draft. Every head turned. They scanned him for damage, hunting for the drag of a broken foot or the grimace of a man trying to hide his agony.

Leander gave them nothing. He walked to his locker with a steady stride, his new Tier 2 cleats thudding against the floor.

“Morning, ladies,” Leander said, his voice unbothered.