The Youngest Has-Been, The All-Time Scammer.

“Haha, Kin-san. It's an anime. Anime.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“So you've watched up to episode 12 today—what's your take?”

“Ah, at first I thought it was one of those shoot-'em-up soccer manga like God Hand or whatever. You know, the one with all those crazy techniques from when I was a kid. Yeah, that one. But nah, it's surprisingly well-researched. The protagonist's got charm too. I heard there are real people who see the field like that—from above, y'know? Weak physically but playing with insane soccer IQ... you can tell the author did their homework on the sport. Makes sense why it's so popular. Solid soccer details, and that budding romance line gives you butterflies.”

“So, Kin-san, do you think the protagonist, Haruto-kun, could make it pro?”

“Haruto? Honestly, tough sell. If he's getting bodied physically even in high school, adults would eat him alive. And yeah, he reads the flow like a genius in high school games, flipping the script single-handedly. But in pro leagues these days? One guy changing everything? Nah, doesn't fly. Feels more like the coach's tactical genius, but even that's too 'do it, Haruto' one-trick. Still, hits that nostalgia for fantasy stars we don't see anymore.”

“But Messi's not physical either, and he's the world's best.”

“Ow! PD, come on! Messi's not weak physically—that's bullshit from people who don't know soccer. Saying that after seeing his center of gravity control? Ah, I could explain for hours... Anyway, point is...”

After that, Kin-san spent a solid 15 minutes singing Messi's praises...!

“Haha, so what about Luka?”

“Luka? Guy's broken. Runs fast, shoots like a rocket, holds his own physically against high schoolers—no contest. Even as a mixed-race kid, no high schooler has specs like that. Straight-up cheat character, no emotional investment. Mbappé speed, Zlatan shot power, Ronaldo jumps. Total freak. Kills the immersion.”

“But Luka always tops the popularity polls.”

“Rivals often steal the show. Whatever. Some prefer Ronaldo over Messi—makes sense.”

“So, could Luka hack it pro?”

“I said it already. Kid belongs in pro leagues, not high school. Japan's age rules... hell, just ship him overseas for trials and debut. How low is his soccer IQ to still be in high school with that physique?”

“Fuck...”

I grabbed my phone out of habit, checked soccer communities in Korea and Japan, spat a curse, and stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray.

“Hoo...”

A sigh with the last puff of smoke. I knew I shouldn't, but like always, I lit another. Harsh smoke filling my lungs. Chain-smoking gave me a slight headache, but it drowned out the noise in my head—small mercy.

But peace never lasted. The cig burned down to a hot sting at my fingertips.

“Fuck, shouldn't do this.”

Stubbed it out, muttering the usual. I knew better than anyone. Smoking, searching my name on hate-filled internet—both no-gos.

But I couldn't cope otherwise. My soccer career was done.

My eyes drifted to the massive surgical scar on my left knee.

If that surgery had just gone right...

First ACL tear. Dumbass doc didn't check my growth plates, butchered it—left leg crooked. At 20, my final growth spurt: 7cm taller. Now left leg 4cm shorter than right.

Sudden height, shortened leg, desperate speed training. My explosive dribbling was my edge—ACL was death row. Leg imbalance wrecked pelvis to body, even healthy right leg needed surgery.

Injury after injury. Scammer, scammer, scammer. Ended up in Japan, clowning for salary via merch/marketing. Looks help—club owner thrilled I earn more off-pitch—but as player? Over.

All I could do: cling to past glory, search my name hoping. Results? Same shit. Wanted to kill them all. Gullible me chasing calls, doc who ruined my leg, current team turning me clown... and fairweather fans sucking up peaks then mocking falls.

“Uwaaaah! Fuck!”

Rage boiled; I yelled, rummaged for smokes. Empty—last one gone.

“Yeah, when's shit ever gone my way.”

Threw on club windbreaker, slipped on slippers, headed to convenience store.

“Snow too? Great.”

Hands in pockets, snow falling—my shitty life looked extra pathetic.

Phone rang. Joo Cheol hyung, my agent.

“Hyung? What's up?”

—“Taehyun-ah. Saw the club vid? Our Ground? Blew up—nearly 100K views in a day. Club thrilled, collab with manga side...”

“That why you called?”

—“Nah, heard the mangaka's your fan? Loved your play back then. Collab...”

“Forget it. Collab my ass. Any transfer offers?”

—“Yah, who wants a has-been? Only cuz me you got Urawa.”

“Thanks a ton, fuck. Korea tho? Nothing?”

—“After your shit-talk? Play in Korea? Temper down. Told ya—Koreans prize humility.”

“Didn't plan this. They started shit—how hold back? Sigh... Hyung. Retire in Korea tho.”

—“...Yeah? Check real? Low pay tho?”

“Short on cash?”

—“True, you ate big n dipped.”

“Ffs no scammer talk!”

Talking with Cheol hyung—backed me since kid—eased me. Yeah, he cashed in big, top agency boss now. But stuck through hell? Top 0.1% loyalty.

—“Korea then? Book flight?”

“Uh... hold up.”

Something nudged my leg. Unforgettable feel—lifelong companion. Soccer ball.

“Mister! Kick it back!”

Kids waving from field across crosswalk. Snowy day soccer? True Asian soccer kings Japan?

Korea soccer tanked—me injured, sank with it. Or already sunk; I carried all youth teams anyway.

Supposed to extend Korea's once-per-decade legend line—fans expected. Ended like this. Maybe why extra hate.

Wait, I got us RO16 fine—ungrateful fucks mock anyway.

Rage surged.

“Mister?!”

“Wait.”

—“Huh? What?”

“Kids want ball back.”

70m. Normie impossible—kids knew, approaching. But pro. Even washed—easy...

Forgot: slippers, icy snow, one hand pocket, other phone.

“Ack!”

Plant foot slips, body airborne backward. Headline flashed: Fallen Soccer Genius Dies Kicking Ball on Ice!

...Fuck, going out artistic.

Skull-cracking impact, Cheol hyung screaming “Taehyun-ah!”

One more chance... just one...

Last thought amid shattering pain.

“S-sorry! You okay?!”

Eyes open: Kazama Haruto from anime days ago.

...Wait, why the fuck are you here?