Chinedu walked fast when he was hurting. Not because he wanted to get anywhere — just because movement was easier than stillness.
Daniel caught up first.
"Hey." He didn't say calm down like a command. Just fell into step beside him and said it like a reminder. "It's okay, bro."
Chinedu exhaled slowly. Deliberately. Like he was releasing something he'd been holding since the corridor. "Sorry. I let my emotions get the better of me."
Behind them, Tunde and Ayo finally closed the gap — both slightly out of breath.
"Bro." Ayo put both hands on his knees. "How do you walk that fast?"
Tunde ignored him. His eyes were on Chinedu, and they were serious. "What was that back there? I could feel the hatred coming off you. That's your brother. What did he do?"
Chinedu was quiet for a moment. Then: "I can't get into it right now." He looked at the ground. "All I'll say is — he destroyed my family."
Nobody pushed further.
Daniel reached over and wrapped an arm around Chinedu's neck, easy and unannounced. "We wait until you're ready," he said simply. "And until then—" he gave him a light shake, "—we're family. You know that."
Something in Chinedu's expression loosened. Not much. But enough. He let out a low breath and smiled. "I appreciate that. Really."
Tunde put a hand over his chest, visibly moved. "Bro, I'm not going to lie, when you stepped to him like that, cold as ice — for a second I didn't even recognise you. Where was the Chinedu I knew? The brainbox?"
Chinedu looked at him. The smile stayed. "He's still here."
Ayo's stomach chose that exact moment to make a sound like a small earthquake.
Everyone turned to look at him.
He straightened up with full dignity. "Guys. I think we need to go to the cafeteria. This is urgent."
They stared at him for half a second.
Then they all burst out laughing — and it was the kind of laughter that loosens something tight in your chest.
The cafeteria was busy, warm, and smelled like a real meal for once.
The four of them loaded their trays and settled at their usual table. Ayo looked down at his plate like a man greeting an old friend.
"Okay. This is looking good."
They were barely about to eat when a figure stopped at the edge of their table.
"Can I sit with you all?"
Farouk. Tray in hand. Expression neutral, but something underneath it that wasn't quite pride — more like someone who'd rehearsed asking and still found it hard.
Tunde looked up. "Why is ours the only table?"
"Yeah," Ayo echoed.
Daniel set down his fork. "It's fine, guys." He met both of their eyes. "Farouk isn't a bad person. He just has things he's working through. Same as everyone here."
Tunde's jaw shifted. "You're asking me to trust that."
"I'll testify." Chinedu's voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "I was there. I saw it."
Ayo leaned toward Tunde and lowered his voice — not quietly enough. "If Chinedu's vouching, I'm in."
Tunde studied Farouk for one more moment. Then he looked away and picked up his fork. "Fine. Sit."
Farouk sat down without ceremony. "Thank you."
No one made a big thing of it. That felt right.
They ate.
The screen on the wall flickered to life.
"Classes will begin tomorrow. All candidates are to be ready. Venue details will be relayed shortly."
Then it cut off.
Ayo pointed at it with his spoon. "Called it. Boring."
A few minutes later the cafeteria shifted again.
Sadiq, Noah, and Yusuf came in from the far entrance — and behind them, Kai.
The temperature of the room changed. Not literally. But the noise dipped and then spiked, and across the hall the girls' section practically reorganised itself around the fact that he'd walked in. Whispers moved like a current.
Noah scanned the room. "Have you seen Hassan and Obinna?"
"No," Yusuf said.
Sadiq shook his head. "We barely just got here and they're already moving around the facility."
"Nothing wrong with that." Kai's voice was even, unbothered. "They just want to understand the environment."
Nobody had a response to that. He said it like it was obvious — like most things were obvious to him and he was simply being patient about it.
In the far corner, partially separated from the noise, Vesper sat with Mendes and the rest of the Timor members. They ate without talking much. Watching.
Vesper set down his cup.
"We've been quiet too long." His voice was low. Unhurried. "It's gotten boring."
Mendes looked at him with a slow smile. "A little chaos wouldn't hurt."
"Tonight," Vesper said. "We meet tonight." His eyes moved across the cafeteria — across all of it, like he was already measuring something. "We've waited long enough."
Daniel finished his meal,
After eating, Daniel stood.
"That was good. I'll head back."
"Alright," the others said.
The corridor was quieter in the late morning. His footsteps were the loudest thing in it.
He was still thinking about Chinedu, about Obinna's smile, about Farouk sitting down without ceremony — until when he saw Martins.
He was leaning against the wall like he'd been waiting. Arms folded. Watching Daniel approach with an expression that gave nothing away.
"You got time to spare?"
Daniel slowed. "Yeah."
"Walk with me."
They fell into step together. For a while Martins said nothing, and Daniel didn't push. He'd learned by now that silence with Martins wasn't empty — it was loading.
Then:
"You should quit before it gets worse for you."
Daniel looked at him. "What do you mean?"
Martins kept his eyes forward. "Every game you've played so far — what's kept you alive in them? It isn't technique. It isn't raw ability." He paused. "It's adaptability. Reading the game before it reads you. That's genuine. That part is real."
He let that sit for a second.
"But you're hiding something. There's a part of you that you either can't reach or won't. And as long as that part stays locked, you're not whole." His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "You can't win a battle with half your arsenal."
They walked a little further.
"When I look at you and your roommates — your little group — I feel something close to frustration." His tone dropped a degree. Colder now. Not angry. Colder than angry. "This facility wasn't built for friendships. It wasn't built for bonds. It was built to create rivalries that tear all of that apart. Every relationship you're investing in is a wound waiting to happen."
He stopped walking.
Turned to Daniel fully.
"Let me ask you something." His eyes were direct. Unblinking. "What is football to you?"
Daniel opened his mouth.
Nothing came.
Not because he was caught off guard. But because he reached for the answer — the real one, not the surface one — and found that the shelf was empty. He didn't know. He'd never had to know. He'd just always played.
Martins watched him. Watched the silence stretch.
Then he stepped closer, and his voice dropped to just above a whisper.
"You compete like a man with a philosophy. Like a man with something to prove, something to protect." His eyes didn't move. "But you don't even know what it is yet."
He put one hand on Daniel's shoulder — not roughly — and pushed him back just slightly. Then turned and walked away.
"I thought you were something special."
A quiet scoff.
"My mistake."
His footsteps faded down the corridor.
Daniel stood there.
The hallway was empty. The facility hummed around him with its usual low noise — distant voices, ventilation, the ambient sound of a place that never fully went to sleep.
One thought moved through everything else like a current.
Is he right?