Viktor opened his eyes, blinking away a haze that felt heavier than sleep. His ears were met with the low hum of chatter, the clinking of cutlery, and faint music playing in the background. The smell of roasted coffee beans and something fried lingered in the air.
He was seated at a small round table in what looked like a restaurant. Across from him sat a man—slim, well-dressed, and impossibly hairy. His beard looked like it had won awards.
The man's sharp suit, pinned with a badge displaying a logo Viktor didn't recognize, screamed professionalism, but there was a hint of desperation in his eyes.
"...I'm telling you, Viktor, my hands are tied."
Viktor frowned, his brain still catching up. 'What was this guy talking about?'
The man sighed heavily and leaned forward. "The club owners are not happy. They've been on my back for weeks, asking why I'm keeping you on the squad. And frankly, I'm running out of excuses. Your stats are abysmal, your performance is nonexistent, and they're ready to terminate your contract."
The words rattled around in Viktor's mind, but none of them made sense. 'Contract? Club owners? Stats?'
He opened his mouth to ask, "Who the fuck are you?" But his eyes caught the badge pinned to the man's chest.
It bore the name of a football club. Something about it clicked. Manager. This guy's a manager. But whose manager?
And more importantly, how did I get here?
A minute ago, he was in a bus, barreling toward disaster. Now, he was seated in a restaurant, being lectured by some hairy stranger.
The man squinted at him, his brow furrowing. "Viktor, are you even listening? You've been unusually quiet. Is everything okay with you?"
Viktor's instincts screamed to play it cool. If he asked something dumb, like, Where the hell am I? he'd risk sounding like a lunatic. "I'm fine," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
The manager studied him for a moment longer before sighing. "Look, that's all I wanted to discuss. But I'll be honest: if things don't improve, this will be the end of your career. You're 22, Viktor. Twenty-two. Do you realize how lucky you are to still be playing professionally with stats like yours? If they terminate your contract, you won't get another chance. No club will take you. That's reality."
Viktor stiffened, his mind reeling. Career? 22? Last he checked, he was 18, a high school senior who had never kicked a ball in real life. He didn't even like football outside of video games. What kind of sick joke was this?
The manager stood, smoothing down his suit. "I hope you'll think about what I've said. I'm rooting for you, but my patience is wearing thin."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away, leaving Viktor alone with his thoughts.
Football career? What football career?
His pulse raced as he tried to piece everything together. Either the accident was a dream, or this was. But if it was a dream, it was one hell of a realistic one.
Just as the questions began to pile up, a soft chime rang in his ears. Viktor froze as a glowing menu popped up before him, floating in the air like a hologram.
The interface was eerily familiar. His stomach dropped.
[Player Profile
Name: Viktor Montez
Age: 22
Position: Striker
Games Played: 125
Goals Scored: 2
Assists: 0
MOTM Performances: 1
Biggest Achievement: Scored 2 goals in one game
Biggest Award: None
Biggest Trophy Won: Junior Division
....]
'Montez? That's not my surname and whose stats are these?'
Viktor stared at the stats in disbelief. 'Two goals in 125 games? Zero assists? One measly Man of the Match award? And this guy was a striker?'
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Who's keeping this guy on the field? No wonder they're ready to fire him."
His eyes flicked to the team name displayed at the bottom of the profile.
[Club: Ghostofsparta FC]
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. That was his team, the one he'd created in Rivals 22. He stared at the interface again. The layout was identical to the one in the game.
"No way," he whispered. "No freaking way."
The name "Montez" nagged at the back of his mind. He started playing Rivals 22 five years ago, back when the game handed out generic, low-tier players to build your starting squad. Montez must've been one of those freebies—one of the benchwarmers he'd tossed aside as soon as he unlocked better players.
"Why him?" Viktor groaned, running a hand through his hair. "If I had to get stuck in the game, why not as a star player? Why not someone useful?"
As if mocking him, the menu changed.
[Team Objective
Salvage Ghostofsparta FC from relegation.
Current Position: 20th out of 20
Points: 3
Matches Played: 12
Matches Remaining: 26
Gap from 19th Place: 9 Points]
"Are you for real here?"
Viktor's jaw dropped. "Nine points behind the second-to-last team? What kind of dumpster fire is this?"
It struck him then. His team had always been bottom of the table because he barely played league games. He preferred going up against real opponents online, leaving the AI to simulate his league matches or sometimes quit before it ends. Loss after loss had piled up as a result.
Another chime sounded, and a final menu appeared.
[Warning: Failure to meet the objective will result in death.]
The blood drained from Viktor's face. "What the—death?! For not saving the team?!"
His hands clenched into fists as he stared at the ominous warning. This couldn't be real. It had to be a bad dream.
But deep down, he knew it wasn't.