Tito Gustov was no longer the boy who flinched at the first touch of the ball.
Since the moment the Performer System descended into his life like a whisper from the universe, his routine had shifted entirely. What once began as a shy child's day of school and quiet, awkward silence had now become a disciplined, consuming cycle of football, football, and more football.
Every morning before the sun rose above Boden's grey northern skies, Tito's body would already be in motion. In his room, still dressed in pajama shorts and a t-shirt, he would stretch on the floor as silence loomed around him. One leg up, twisted backward, arms extended overhead—his frame bent like a willow under pressure.
Each stretch was an act of devotion. Every drop of sweat a small coin offered to the altar of performance.
The calendar on his wall no longer marked school tests or homework deadlines. Instead, it had stretching goals, training sets, shadow-dribble sessions, and agility ladder routines. His grades, once passable, had started slipping. Tito didn't even notice.
At school, he became a ghost.
He stared out of windows during math. He scribbled football formations in the margins of his notebooks. At lunch, while others laughed in loud groups, Tito sat alone with earbuds in, watching highlight reels of Ronaldinho, Neymar, Jay-Jay Okocha—magicians who had dazzled before him.
His classmates barely acknowledged him now.
"Isn't that the kid who cried after that match?"
"Didn't he do some stupid trick and fall on his face?"
"I heard he talks to himself."
He didn't care.
He was too busy dreaming.
At home, his mother Cherry worried quietly.
"John, he's not doing his assignments. He's failing English. And yesterday, he skipped school altogether."
John, usually the calmer parent, exhaled slowly. "Let him be for now. He found something. Something real. We'll keep an eye on it."
But Tito didn't hear their concern. Or rather, he did, but didn't acknowledge it.
Because football was no longer something he wanted to do. It was what he had to do.
---
Every evening, after sunset, Tito would be found alone at the small concrete futsal court behind his apartment block. The metal fence rattled with each shot. He set up cones made from crushed soda cans and empty milk cartons. His slippers—torn and overused—gripped poorly on the surface, but he didn't care.
He dribbled until his thighs trembled. Practiced feints until his calves twitched. Every move was meant to be seen, felt, remembered. He played like there was always an audience, even when he was alone.
And sometimes, he was.
A few boys once wandered past and watched him.
"What's he doing?"
"Trying to breakdance with a ball?"
"Freak."
They walked away laughing. Tito heard it all. It didn't stop him.
Not even once.
At night, when his body could move no more, he would lay in bed and stretch while lying down. His eyes stared at the ceiling, tracing imaginary plays in the darkness. Step-over. Flick. Dribble. Twist. Spin. Nutmeg. Shot.
He replayed it all in his head like a sacred choreography.
His body felt bruised, overworked, nearly rubber. His joints ached, and sometimes, his neck wouldn't turn completely. But none of it stopped him.
Because with each passing day, he wasn't just changing how he moved. He was changing who he was.
Tito Gustov, the boy who once flopped and cried and locked himself in a room—was gone.
In his place, a boy with a strange gleam in his eye had taken root.
Not the strongest. Not the smartest. Not the most reliable.
But he had something else.
A desperate, unrelenting hunger…
To dazzle.
Bodens BK's youth academy felt like a different world to Tito Gustov. A world made of grass, sweat, barking instructions, and untold expectations. The club's modest training grounds weren't flashy, but to Tito, they looked like the gates to a new reality—one where he could reshape himself entirely.
He arrived an hour early every day. Not because he was asked to. But because he couldn't sit still at home. The moment school ended, he sprinted home, dropped his bag, changed into training gear, and pedaled furiously to the club on his rusty bicycle.
The main field stretched wide and green under the northern sky, peppered with cones, hurdles, mannequins, and hopeful players. Tito kept his eyes low, his presence quiet, but his movements—deliberate.
He didn't talk much. He listened.
Watched.
And most importantly—mimicked.
---
At first, the drills felt mechanical. Tito struggled with tactical positioning and passing triangles. During 3v2 transitions, he often held the ball too long or attempted something too flashy at the wrong time.
"Simple pass, Tito!" shouted the assistant coach for the third time.
Tito gave a nod, eyes blank, mind spinning.
But when the ball hit his feet and the drill wasn't watching, he let it happen—a stepover, a cut, a feint, a flick. For just a breath, the ordinary dissolved.
The older kids rolled their eyes.
"Show-off."
"Wasting time."
Some smirked. One of them tried to nutmeg him out of spite. Tito responded by rainbow-flicking the ball over the boy's shoulder.
"Alright, Gustov," the assistant coach barked. "You want to dance? Save it for the 1v1s."
---
That was where things changed.
During 1v1 drills, something shifted. The moment it was just him and one opponent—Tito came alive.
No more confusion. No more hesitation.
Just movement.
Lightning-quick footwork, shimmying shoulders, deceptive body angles. His opponents couldn't predict where he'd go because Tito didn't know himself. He danced on instinct.
One player lunged—Tito twisted out.
Another tried a shoulder block—he bent like rubber, spun, and kept going.
He didn't always score. But he was always watched.
Even the quiet technical coach raised an eyebrow after one session.
---
Daniel Forsberg, now more curious than skeptical, stood beside the assistant one afternoon.
"That kid," he said, pointing at Tito. "He's the one from the match last week?"
The assistant nodded. "Struggles with tactics. Off-ball movement's poor. But… in 1v1, he's different."
"Different how?"
The coach hesitated. "Unpredictable. Can't explain it. It's like he's not even thinking. Just reacting."
Forsberg hummed, arms folded.
---
That Friday, after training ended, Forsberg called over Dalton.
"Put Gustov in the U18 friendly squad for tomorrow."
Dalton blinked. "He's thirteen."
"He won't play the full match. Just a look."
"You think he's ready?"
"No," Forsberg said. "But I think we need to see what happens when he's thrown in."
---
Tito sat on the locker room bench that night, still drenched in sweat. His kit smelled like turf and exhaustion. His fingers trembled—not from nerves, but from the residual hum of adrenaline.
He was in.
Tomorrow, he'd play in the U18 friendly.
Against boys older, stronger, faster.
He smiled faintly.
That meant more eyes to watch.
More kings to fool.