It was supposed to be the biggest game of his life.
Seventeen-year-old Eli Ward stood under the floodlights, sweat glistening on his brow, heart pounding louder than the cheering crowd. The regional finals—one match away from a pro contract. Scouts from Europe were watching. Journalists had already begun calling him the future of football.
But behind him, his teammates weren't celebrating his performance.
They were whispering. Plotting.
The final whistle blew. The game ended in victory, 3–2, with Eli scoring the winning goal in the last five minutes. Cameras flashed. Reporters flooded the field. Coaches rushed forward—except his own.
"Nice game, starboy," said Kyle, the team captain, with a grin too wide to be sincere. His arm slung around Eli's shoulder, tight like a noose. "Come with us. Coach wants to talk privately."
Eli hesitated, but followed. He always did.
They led him into the back of the locker room, through a door marked Storage. The door clicked shut behind him.
Then came the first punch.
"You think you're better than us?" snarled Jayden, the center-back. Another blow came—this time to his ribs.
Eli doubled over, gasping. His mind raced. He couldn't understand. These were his friends. His team.
"You hog the spotlight. You get the interviews. You get the deals. And what do we get? Nothing."
"I—" he choked, "I carried us here!"
Wrong answer.
The last thing Eli remembered was the sharp crack of a boot against his skull.
And then—darkness.
When he opened his eyes, there was no pain. No locker room. No teammates.
Just a hospital ceiling—and a voice, unfamiliar and panicked.
"He's waking up! The new kid's awake!"
Eli blinked, trying to move. But his body felt different. Lighter. Younger?
A nurse leaned over him. "Rafael? Can you hear me?"
Rafael?
He looked at his reflection in the glass of the window.
Brown eyes instead of green. Darker skin. A different face entirely.
That's when the memories began flooding in—his old life… and this new one.
Somehow, he had come back. In another body. Another life.
But one thing was certain:
He remembered everything.
And he would never forgive them.
Not Kyle. Not Jayden. Not the rest.
He smiled faintly as the nurse adjusted his pillow.
This time, he'd become something more than a star.
He'd become their reckoning.
Pain was supposed to be the first thing he felt.
But instead, there was silence.
Warm light spilled through the hospital window, casting gentle rays on the white sheets. Machines beeped softly nearby. And yet, everything felt off—his arms were thinner, his voice quieter, his body… younger?
He flexed his fingers. They responded—but slower, weaker.
A mirror on the wall confirmed it again: Eli Ward was gone.
And in his place stood Rafael Solano, a 15-year-old youth footballer from São Paulo, Brazil.
A boy who had just suffered a near-fatal injury after a collision in a youth league match—and was comatose for three days.
Only now… Rafael wasn't Rafael anymore.
Eli sat up slowly. Or rather—Rafael did, with Eli's soul behind his eyes. The memories were still tangled: Rafael's school, his mother, his coaches, the rough neighborhood he grew up in, the hunger, the drive, the love for the game… But beneath all that lived rage.
A rage as cold as the night he died.
"Rafa," came a soft voice from the doorway. A woman—tired, eyes red from crying. His new mother.
She rushed to his side, clutching him like she'd nearly lost everything.
"You scared me, filho," she whispered, stroking his hair.
He hesitated, but let her hold him. He didn't have parents in his old life—just foster homes and long silences. This was… new.
After a few moments, she pulled back. "The doctor says you'll be okay. But you need rest." She hesitated. "Do you remember what happened?"
He nodded faintly. "Football match. A boy took me out."
Her face darkened. "That boy should be banned for what he did. You could have died."
Died.
Again.
He lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling.
A new life. A new body. A second chance.
But fate had made one thing very clear: he would play again. Football wasn't just a game. It was the battlefield. The stage. The weapon.
Later that night, when the nurses had left and his mother had dozed off in the chair beside him, Rafael reached for the small notepad by the bed.
He began to write names.
Kyle Harper. Jayden Mott. Dylan Reyes. Marcus Fane. Zayn Lyle.
The ones who had smiled at him before they broke him.
Some were already professionals. Rising stars. Champions.
But not for long.
He circled Kyle's name. Captain. Leader. First to fall.
He tapped the pen against the paper, eyes glowing with quiet fire.
"This time," he whispered, "I won't just beat you."
"I'll end you—one match at a time."