An Eye for an Eye, a Tooth for a Tooth (Part 1)

"...Are you out of your mind?"

What in the world had that lunatic said in the post-match interview?

I had just rolled out of bed and hopped online to check the recaps from yesterday's match, only to find every sports outlet plastered with headlines like this. Scratching my messy bedhead, I shuffled into the living room, where my agent, Woosung, was slumped on the sofa.

"Look at you, sleeping like a baby," Woosung grunted, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. "You finally awake...?"

"Didn't you get any sleep, hyung?"

"You dropped a nuclear bomb on the media and vanished—how the hell was I supposed to sleep with my feet kicked up?"

"...Fair point."

"That mouth of yours, I swear. You never fly off the handle like that, so what on earth possessed you yesterday?"

With a heavy, world-weary sigh, Woosung hauled himself up from the couch. To tell the truth, I was dying to ask Lee Yeon what the hell had gotten into him, but since that wasn't an option right now, it was maddening. Could two people sharing one body have such diametrically opposed personalities?

"Anyway," Woosung continued, massaging his temples, "I spun it as best I could. Told them that's completely out of character for you, that you were just unusually worked up in the heat of the moment. Just roll with that narrative, and for the love of God, don't ever do it again."

"I'll try."

Of course, it wasn't me who needed to make an effort, but the other guy. Why was it always me who had to sit here and take the scolding?

Woosung downed the glass of grapefruit juice I handed him in one long gulp, then collapsed right back onto the sofa to crash. Having enough tact not to disturb an exhausted man, I quietly gathered my gear and headed out toward the training ground. Walking seemed like the wiser choice today.

The atmosphere at the training ground was remarkably relaxed. Most of the squad was undergoing light recovery sessions after yesterday's fixture, riding high on the momentum of our victory. Perhaps that was why Dominic sauntered over with a broad, teasing smirk plastered across his face as I was casually balancing a ball on my head.

"Han! You're always the one lecturing me to watch my mouth, yet you're the one dropping bombs on the press?"

"......Seriously, man?"

Of all the people on earth, I never imagined hearing those words from him. I wanted nothing more than to scream that it hadn't been me, but denying my own recorded words would only make me look clinically insane. In the end, I decided it was better to just pretend I'd suffered a temporary lapse in anger management. Bouncing the ball on my forehead, I listened half-heartedly to Dominic's nonsense.

"Oh, absolutely. I knew all along that behind that quiet face lurked a savage beast. It's about time the world saw the real you."

"...Did you even finish your drills before coming over here?"

"Obviously! I knew you'd use that as an excuse to kick me out of your sight. Fool me once, Han—not falling for it twice."

Wow. Dominic actually learned. It seemed he was finally developing cognitive faculties not just on the pitch, but in human relationships as well.

That said, he was still spewing utter garbage, and I had zero intention of standing here and listening to it. Pounding passing drills with Giovanni would be a hundred times more constructive than this.

"Hey! Where are you running off to?!"

"Can't hear you."

Judging by his gear, the fitness coach had assigned him a strict conditioning route anyway, meaning he wouldn't be able to chase after me even if he wanted to. Leaving him in the dust without a shred of hesitation, I crossed over to the adjacent pitch.

"So, what got into you yesterday?"

"Did you just want to rip their heads off?"

"You always gave those squeaky-clean textbook answers. Honestly, I loved every second of it!"

The one thing I hadn't anticipated, however, was that the rest of the squad wasn't any different from Dominic. And when the manager himself chimed in with a chuckle, I felt like tearing my hair out.

"Well. You're still a young lad in your prime. It happens."

"No, Boss, the thing is..."

"No, no. It's fine, son. Perfectly fine. Back in my playing days, when I got properly riled up, I used to walk right up to the opposition dugout and pick a fight myself."

"......"

I couldn't explain the truth to him, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nor could I defend myself. I swear, I need to establish another strict ground rule with that guy.

Aside from Lee Yeon's explosive post-match interview fiasco, time marched steadily on. Though our winning and unbeaten streaks in the league had eventually been snapped, Luton Town still maintained an overwhelming pace, boasting a ruthless record of sixteen wins, two draws, and one loss across nineteen fixtures. We had also cruised comfortably into the fourth round of the FA Cup—the Round of 32—thanks to drawing a League One opponent following our hard-fought clash against Leicester City.

We had deliberately sacrificed the League Cup due to our thin squad depth, but no one held any grievances over that choice. Our starting eleven was already logging relentless minutes, and everyone understood that chasing the League Cup on top of our league campaign was an open invitation for a cascade of catastrophic injuries.

On paper, Luton Town seemed brimming with vibrant energy and unbridled joy, but not everyone in the dressing room shared in that bliss. Part of the reason for our two draws and one loss in the league—as well as why the first-choice starters had been forced to feature in the FA Cup—lay with my backup striker, Kayden Obreim. And today, he was visibly drowning in agonizing self-reproach.

Having extended his goal drought yet again, Kayden wore his turmoil plainly on his sleeve; you didn't need to look closely to see the sheer agony in his eyes.

"Why the long face?" I asked.

"Because I failed to score again today."

"You carried out the gaffer's tactical instructions well. That's what matters. Don't beat yourself up over it."

What on earth am I supposed to do with this glass-hearted guy?

Watching Kayden pack his kit in the dressing room while radiating pitch-black gloom was frankly pitiful. Honestly, his overall performances hadn't even been bad. It was just that the goals weren't going in—well, strictly speaking, he had put the ball into the net several times, only for every single one of them to be flagged offside. His defensive pressing was diligent, and his spatial intuition for finding openings was sharp. His outside-of-the-boot passing was so sublime it rivaled Dominic's, curving with razor precision through defensive lines.

Originally, his demeanor had been much more confident and breezy. Of course, you'd be hard-pressed to find a trace of that easygoing charm nowadays. Lady Luck was simply giving him the cold shoulder with vicious consistency. But that wretched luck was more than enough to dismantle a striker's psyche.

Even from my perspective, it was painful to watch. But any further advice from someone putting up historically ridiculous numbers like me would only sound like patronizing arrogance, so I kept my mouth shut. Besides, meddling too deeply was uncalled for among professional athletes.

Time for a shower.

I pulled my gaze away from him and turned to organize my kit on the bench to my left. That was when a sharp gasp cut through the locker room.

"Hiss..."

"Hey. Dominic, your..."

"Did I tweak it on that last pass, maybe?"

"Tweak it, my ass! Your ankle is swollen like a balloon! Are you out of your mind?! You played ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠through stoppage time on that?!"

"I swear, it felt fine while I was running out there..."

"You absolute moron!"

With his football sock peeled away, Dominic's ankle was swollen red and inflamed, as if stung by a hornet. The utter fool. Even if we were only clinging to a one-goal lead, he should have signaled the bench immediately. Without wasting a second, I yelled for the medical staff.

"...We'll need to conduct a thorough scan to know for certain," the team doctor muttered grimly. "It isn't a career-threatening injury, but it's far from minor either. He will likely miss the remainder of the fixtures in the first half of the season."

Rounds 21, 22, and 23—three crucial matches. With the battle for first place heating up fiercely against our title rivals, every single point was vital.

Manager Gordon, who had hurriedly rushed back into the dressing room upon hearing of Dominic's injury, wore a grim expression as he listened to the physio's assessment.

"...I understand. We'll have to find a solution."

Reassuring Dominic that everything would be alright, the manager stepped back out into the hallway alongside Oleg, our tactical coach. Chances were, the lights in the manager's office wouldn't be turning off for days.

"If I push through rehab aggressively, can I come back sooner?" Dominic asked.

"Only if you want your playing career to end just as quickly."

"......"

Silenced by the medic's blunt warning, Dominic quietly watched them secure the splint before hobbling out of the dressing room with assistance. The celebratory mood that had filled the air only moments before cooled considerably. Yet strangely, while Dominic was the one injured, it was his tactical deputy, Kayden, whose face had gone ghostly pale, looking as though he might faint on the spot.

Naturally, the football calendar never halted for a single injured player.

As the referee's whistle echoed across the stadium, both sides bypassed any probing feel-out phase and threw themselves headlong into a brutal slugfest. Counter-attacks answered counter-attacks, punctuated by crunching, ruthless tackles that flew in without hesitation whenever danger reared its head. True to their notorious Stoke City identity, they wasted no time engraving their bruising brand of football into our flesh.

"Oi, stop daydreaming and get on your feet."

"Get your hands off me."

"Shut your trap and get up."

"I can stand on my own, so mind your own bloody business."

Having been shoved to the turf by Martin Trendler, one of Stoke's rugged back-three center-backs, Kayden slapped away the defender's outstretched hand and pushed himself up from the pitch. Though timid by nature off the pitch, between the white lines he played with a fiery determination fiercer than anyone else's.

...Should I give that a try?

Watching the match steadily overheat, I decided to test the unorthodox method Gordon had hinted at. Even if I couldn't banish Kayden's rotten luck, if this worked out, his shattered confidence and trademark work rate would return.

Well, if this fails too, the club will probably just buy a new backup striker in January anyway.

It might sound a bit cold, but with my position as the undisputed starting striker locked in stone and the winter window right around the corner, it was the pragmatic reality. The only reason I was going to such lengths to rehabilitate his form was simply that I preferred working with familiar teammates, not because he was irreplaceable. Thus, with a lighthearted mindset of great if it works, whatever if it doesn't, I set the plan in motion.

"Kayden!"

Whether inside the penalty box or out in the center circle, whenever a loose ball dropped from the sky, I wrestled control of it and funneled it straight into Kayden's feet. The Stoke City players weren't idiots. Realizing early on that I was deliberately feeding him every possession, they swarmed Kayden like vultures throughout the first half. They elbowed him, pinched him, and stamped slyly on his boots—relentlessly battering him the instant the ball reached his feet.

Kayden spent half the half tumbling across the turf in graceless heaps, looking utterly miserable. And that miserable spectacle was precisely what Gordon and I had anticipated.

"You alright?" I asked as I walked over.

"No."

"Looks like it."

As he hauled himself upright once more, his face held no sign of surrender. Instead, a smoldering, venomous fury had begun to burn behind his eyes. When a forward flubs chances on his own, his confidence crumbles into self-loathing. But when opponents blatantly gang up and hack you down with dirty fouls, that self-doubt transforms into raw, incandescent rage. Because in that scenario, you can project all the blame onto the butchers hacking at your legs rather than your own shortcomings.

That was precisely why strikers had to be selfish creatures—sometimes, shameless external deflection was the only psychological lifeline that kept you alive. In that sense, I was almost grateful to Stoke City for bludgeoning him relentlessly, denying him any quiet moments to overthink and wallow in self-blame.

With Stoke conceding yet another foul at an awkward distance, awarding us a free kick, I leaned over to Kayden, covering my mouth.

"Aim straight at the wall and smash it with the intent to kill."

"You don't want me to cross it to you?"

"Just lash it full power like you're trying to decapitate them. I won't say a word. I'll scrounge up the rebound somehow anyway, and let's be honest—you're dying to put a fist through their faces right now, aren't you?"

"Hmph."

The fact that he couldn't even bring himself to deny it was a glorious sight. With the first half winding down, it was high time he vented that pent-up venom. Kayden had the raw striking technique to channel that fury. If he hadn't possessed at least that much, Gordon Morton would never have brought ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠him to Luton Town in the first place.

BOOM!

The moment the referee's whistle blew signaling permission to take the kick, the ball shot forward in a low, vicious trajectory—striking Martin Trendler, Stoke's center-back, square in the face. The deflected ball ricocheted out of bounds for a throw-in, but the set-piece result was beside the point.

"Oof."

Without the mental burden of aiming for the goalposts, his accuracy had been downright terrifying. And thanks to that pinpoint strike, Martin was left with blood gushing from both nostrils. Only after undergoing a hasty pitchside concussion check from the incoming physios could the defender plug his bleeding nose with thick cotton wads.

Meanwhile, having seemingly recovered a flicker of confidence in his striking precision, Kayden strolled back over to me, looking thoroughly refreshed.

"That felt good."

"Told you so."

"I don't know why I didn't do this from the start."

"Better late than never. For the rest of the half, just keep striking like you're beating them bloody."

"That was already the plan."

The grin spreading across Kayden's face looked downright sinister.