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I looked back at the goal. Anatol was nodding at the camera drone hovering above the penalty box, adjusting his position as if rehearsing his close-up.

He was not bluffing. If Leander scored, he would not just report it; he would make it a spectacle on the national feed, force an inquiry that not even the Director could sweep under the rug.

The trap snapped shut. If Leander scored, it was over for us.

“Ball in play!”

The cannon fired.

I trapped the ball with my chest. The impact grounded me, and for a second the instinct took over.

I accelerated down the left flank.

“With you!” Leander shouted.

He was right there on my hip. The haptic sensors in our suits hummed with a steady vibration, and we were perfectly synced, green lights flashing on the perimeter drone. SYMBIOSIS: 98%.

Of course it was 98 now. Now that every shared percentage point was a nail.

We cut through the defenders. It felt effortless. Leander cleared the path, using his body to shield the ball, opening the gap for me to dribble through. We were a machine. The machine was working, and I had never hated a clean drill more in my life.

We reached the penalty box.

The defensive line collapsed on me.

“Wide!” Leander screamed. He peeled off to the right, wide open.

It was the perfect play, the one the drill existed to produce. Draw the defense, slip the pass. He would bury it in the bottom corner where Anatol could not reach, the algorithm would sing, and thirty seconds later Anatol would be howling for bloodwork in front of a national lens.

Leander was ready. He expected the ball.

The keeper was not looking at Leander. He was staring at me, waiting.

Do it.

I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw ached.

I kept the ball and drove straight into the cluster of defenders, and my own body fought me the whole way. A rookie move. Suicide, by design.

A defender clipped the ball. I stumbled as I lost control.

The ball rolled free, harmless, bouncing toward Anatol. He scooped it up with a cocky grin and punted it downfield, clearing the danger.

“Cut!” Gallus blew the whistle. “Cento, what the hell was that?”

I stood there, hands on my knees, staring at the synthetic turf. “I lost the line.”

“You had an open man!” Gallus screamed, pointing at Leander. “Regillen was clear! That is a goal nine times out of ten. Why are you hoarding the ball?”

“I thought I had the angle,” I lied, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

Heat radiated against my back a second before a hand clamped onto my shoulder, spinning me around to face Leander’s fury.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, his eyes wild. “I was open. You saw me.”

I shoved his hand off. “I slipped.”

“You didn’t slip. You choked.” He stepped closer, invading my space. “Or maybe you just couldn’t handle me scoring the winner.”