Sweat dripped from Dylan Allen's brow as he pushed the treadmill to its limit, the hum of the machine drowning out the silence of the empty gym. At 29, his legs still had power, but his mind was a battlefield. CC Como, signed three new midfield prospects this week, young, hungry, and unscarred. The news replayed in his head like a bad highlight reel. Last season, the team limped to a mid-table finish in the Liga A Division, and Dylan? Not a single minute of game time.
The manager, a former player he once looked upto, had promised a chance to revive his career. Dylan scoffed, his breath ragged. He did get a chance, ten minutes in a cup match. A reckless tackle, a red card, and that was it. No more calls, no more trust. Was that why they benched him all season? Or was he just… finished?
He cranked the treadmill harder, trying to outrun the thoughts. You were compared to legends once. Now you're nothing. His chest tightened. At 16, he was Middleton Caynes' golden boy, a midfielder with flair, threading passes like a maestro. Fans chanted "Dylan! Dylan!" Now, they didn't even whisper his name.
The treadmill beeped. Session over. Dylan stumbled off, grabbing a water bottle, gulping it down. His muscles ached, but the pain felt good—proof he was still fighting. He sank onto a bench, staring out the gym's window at Middleton. The city sprawled below, a mix of grey towers and green parks, its canals glinting under the summer sun. Once, this place worshipped him. Now, it forgot him.
In the locker room, he showered, the cold water stinging his skin. Back at his flat, Dylan opened the fridge. His eyes locked on the beer cans, six of them, glinting like old mistakes. He'd sworn off drinking months ago, flushed the cans, the pills, the chaos. But yesterday, weak and angry, he'd bought them again. His hand hovered. One won't hurt. No. He grabbed the cans, stormed to the bin, and tossed them in, the clatter echoing his resolve.
His phone buzzed on the counter. Dylan ignored it, but it buzzed again. A message, not a call. From the club. His stomach sank as he opened it:
"Dylan Allen, we regret to inform you that your contract with CC Como has been terminated, effective immediately, to accommodate new signings. We wish you the best."
He stared at the screen, numb. He'd expected this, braced for it, but the words still cut like a blade. Once, he thought he'd be a legend. Now, even mid-table clubs didn't want him. Another buzz. His agency: "We're parting ways, Dylan. Best of luck in your future endeavors." What future? At 29, he was done. Wasn't he?
Dylan sank onto the couch, memories flooding in. A childhood of pain, abused by a family friend, a woman who stole his innocence. Selling drugs on Middleton's streets just to eat. Football had saved him, given him purpose. But after the red card, the injuries, the tabloid scandals..."Party Boy Allen Wastes Talent", it all unraveled. He'd tried drowning the pain in booze, pills, anything. It didn't work. Even stress pitied him now, too tired to fight.
Maybe it was time to quit. Switch careers? To what? Delivery? Drugs? He had nothing but football. The bank statement arrived, his final club payment. Decent, but not enough to keep this flat. He could sell it, start over. But where? And how?
A thought hit him. The church. He hadn't been since he was a kid, back when hope felt real. Grabbing his jacket, Dylan walked to St. Mary's in central Middleton. Inside, the air was cool, the Jesus statue looming silently. He sat, memories crashing in, fans singing his name while playing for North Lunden White, one of the big six clubs in the Premier Division, the roar of the stadium, his first Premier division goal at 19. Now? Not even a puty message from the fans. He avoided social media; he knew what they'd say. Flop. Washed-up. Done.
Dylan pulled out the bank statement. Enough to survive, maybe rebuild. On impulse, he donated it all to the church, every penny. Let it mean something. Back home, he listed his flat for sale. No more flash, no more pretense. He shaved his head, ditched the designer clothes, and became just… Dylan.
...
He moved to Decanham, a gritty suburb thirty miles away, where terraced houses and corner shops lined the streets. A cheap rental. A fresh start. A place he once lived at in his youth temporarily, where his flair was first noticed.
As he unpacked in the dim room, the silence pressed in. The paint peeled on the walls. The floor creaked with every step. He sat down on the lumpy mattress, staring at the ceiling, when something strange happened.
A flicker. A shimmer. The air pulsed.
He blinked. A faint glow danced in the corner of the room.
"...Have I started seeing things now?" he muttered.
The glow intensified, then, without warning, a jarring DING echoed in the room like a broken microwave.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING…]
[Analyzing target: Dylan Allen]
A bold, glowing interface appeared mid-air. Pixelated text scrolled like it had been displayed on Windows 95.
[Warning: Washed-up Footballer Detected]
[Probability of Comeback: 0.7% – Margin of Error: Who Cares]
Dylan stood up. "What the hell?!"
[Do not panic. You are not hallucinating… although, let's be honest, given your recent choices, it wouldn't be surprising.]
A holographic scan passed over him from head to toe. A loading bar got stuck at 69% for an awkwardly long time.
[Player Profile Generated]
── Dylan Allen ──
Age: 29 (Mentally: 57)
Position: Central Midfield (Unused)
Preferred Foot: Right (used mostly to trip himself lately)
Current Team: None
Contract Status: Terminated
Reputation: "Oh yeah, that guy who got the red card."
Stamina: ⚠️ Rusty
Speed: ⚠️ Slower than you remember
Discipline: 🚫 (Red Card Collector)
Confidence: 🪫 (Battery critically low)
Special Skills:
• Long-range Passes (when sober)
• Partying (not recommended)
• Dribbling (from responsibility)
Dylan gawked at the stats.
[Summary: Once hyped. Now humbled. Currently: Hopeless.]
Then, as if the system itself sighed...
[Sigh... The legend of Dylan Allen: A tragedy. But hey—]
The screen glitched and reloaded.
[UNLIKELY REBOOT GRANTED – "CAREER PATCH V2.0" UPLOADING...]
The glow pulsed again, more real this time. He could feel it humming in his bones.
[Welcome to the "LEGACY SYSTEM" – Congratulations, Dylan. You've been selected for one last chance. And we do mean last.]
The screen darkened, then lit up again with a flashing prompt:
[Quest Unlocked: "From Pub League to Prodigy"]
[Win back your career. Or crash trying.]
Dylan's legs nearly gave out.
"…What the hell is going on?"
[Step One: Stop being pathetic. Step Two: Train. Step Three: Don't screw it up.]
And with that, the system faded to a small blinking icon in his vision.