The repetition had become a ritual.
For six days straight, Adrien arrived at the training ground before dawn. The same drills. The same restrictions. One touch. Two touches. Pass. Move. He forced simplicity into his muscles until it felt less like a constraint and more like a reflex.
And it worked.
His teammates passed to him more often. The coach stopped shouting his name. In the last two training sessions, Adrien had lost possession only three times total. Three times. In a full week.
Progress.
But progress had a price.
---
It started as a dull ache behind his eyes.
Adrien noticed it during the morning session on the seventh day. He had been training for an hour, running through his usual drills, when the ball came to him at an awkward angle. He controlled it—first touch—and looked up to pass.
The world sharpened.
Not physically. The field looked the same. The players moved the same. But his perception intensified. He saw passing lanes before they opened. Saw a defender's weight shift before he committed. Saw Haug's run before Haug even started it.
Good. This is good.
He passed. The ball found its target. Perfect weight, perfect timing.
But the ache behind his eyes pulsed. Once. Twice.
Adrien ignored it.
---
By midday, the ache had become a throb.
He sat through the lunch break in silence, pressing his fingers against his temples. Haug sat across from him, eating a sandwich, watching.
"You look like shit," Haug said.
"Thanks."
"Seriously. Your eyes are red."
Adrien shrugged. "Didn't sleep well."
Haug didn't look convinced, but he didn't push.
---
The afternoon session was a tactical drill—positional play, quick transitions, high intensity. The coach split them into two teams and set a ten-minute clock.
Adrien lined up on the left.
The whistle blew.
The ball moved fast. Adrien received it on the touchline, took one touch, and passed inside. Clean. Simple. The throb in his head faded slightly.
I'm fine.
Then the drill reset. The ball came again. This time, a defender pressed him aggressively—body low, feet quick. Adrien saw the tackle coming before the defender even moved. He could feel it. Left shoulder. Two steps. Then the lunge.
He cut inside to avoid it. The defender missed.
But the vision didn't stop.
Suddenly, Adrien could see everything. The midfielder making a late run. The striker drifting offside. The far-side winger hugging the touchline. The goalkeeper's weight shifting to his right.
Too much. Too many.
He hesitated. The moment froze in his mind—five options, six options, all of them possible, none of them clear.
The defender recovered. Poked the ball away.
"Vauclair!" the coach barked. "What was that?"
Adrien shook his head. "Sorry. Lost focus."
He jogged back into position. The throb behind his eyes spiked.
---
The next ten minutes were worse.
Every time the ball came to Adrien, the visions multiplied. He saw passes before the runs developed. Saw tackles before the defender committed. Saw goals before the shots were taken.
And every time, he hesitated.
Because he couldn't filter fast enough. The simplicity he had trained for—the one-touch, two-touch rhythm—collapsed under the weight of too much information.
In the fifth minute of the drill, he tried a through ball that wasn't there. Intercepted.
In the seventh, he held the ball too long and got tackled.
In the ninth, he passed blindly—straight to an opponent.
The coach stopped the drill.
"Vauclair. What's going on?"
Adrien pressed his fingers against his temples. "Nothing. Just—headache."
The coach stared at him for a long moment. "Sit out the rest of the session."
Adrien opened his mouth to argue.
"That's not a request."
---
Adrien sat on the bench, watching his teammates finish the drill without him.
His head pounded. Not a sharp pain—something deeper, duller, like pressure building behind his eyes. He closed them, trying to breathe through it.
What's happening to me?
The ability had never done this before. Flashes, yes. Overload, yes. But not pain. Not this heavy, dragging fatigue that made his thoughts feel slow and syrupy.
He opened his eyes. The field looked normal again. The visions had stopped. But the ache remained.
Haug jogged over during a water break. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You're not fine."
Adrien didn't answer.
Haug crouched beside him, voice low. "Listen. I've seen players push too hard. They break. Don't be stupid."
Adrien looked at him. Haug's face was serious—not mocking, not dismissive. Just… concerned.
"I'll be fine," Adrien said again.
Haug stood. "Your funeral." He jogged back to the drill.
---
Training ended. Adrien walked home alone, slower than usual.
Every step sent a small pulse of pain through his skull. The fog had lifted, but the evening light felt too bright, too harsh. He squinted against it, keeping his head down.
When he reached his apartment, he didn't turn on the lights. He sat on the edge of the bed, the stone in his hand, and stared at the wall.
The cost.
He had been so focused on controlling the ability—on filtering, simplifying, choosing—that he hadn't considered what it might take from him.
Elías Ravn had withdrawn at twenty-six. "Inability to separate vision from reality."
Adrien was only nineteen.
He set the stone down and lay back, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. The pressure helped, slightly.
If I push this… I can go further.
But at what cost?
---
He didn't sleep well that night.
Dreams came in fragments—flooded with images he couldn't control. A stadium. A trophy. A face he couldn't quite see. And then darkness, emptiness, the feeling of being erased.
Adrien woke before dawn, drenched in sweat, his head still throbbing.
He looked at the stone on the nightstand.
E. Ravn.
He thought about not training today. About resting. About giving his body—and his mind—time to recover.
But the pitch was waiting.
And Adrien Vauclair had never been good at stopping.
---
He dressed in the dark and walked to the training ground.
The fog was back, thicker than before, swallowing the world beyond a few meters. Adrien let himself in through the side gate, dropped his bag, and pulled out a ball.
He started slow. One touch. Pass. One touch. Pass.
The ache behind his eyes remained, but it didn't worsen. He kept his focus narrow—not on the possibilities, not on the visions. Just on the ball. Just on the next pass.
Filter. Simplify. Choose.
Not everything. Just enough.
By the time the other players arrived, Adrien was drenched in sweat, his head pounding, but still standing.
Haug walked past him and paused.
"You're an idiot," Haug said.
Adrien almost smiled. "Probably."
Haug shook his head and kept walking.
But he didn't say stop.