2025-03-13, 03:17 PM - Word count: 527
Mobek’s alarm blared at 1 PM, but he was already awake, eyes wide open, pupils tiny, heart slamming against his ribcage like a war drum. Sleep had been phased out of his routine. It was a weakness, a distraction from the only thing that mattered. His hands trembled slightly as he sat up, but not from exhaustion—this was something else, something deeper. He reached for the crushed ketamine on his nightstand, ran his finger through the powder, and licked it clean. The Adderall was still working from last night, but it didn’t matter. Another pill went down, chased by a sip of Red Bull that burned like gasoline.
Breakfast was mechanical. Three cheeseburgers disappeared in seconds, fries covered in crushed stimulants, a protein shake spiked with something he didn’t even bother identifying. He wasn’t eating for pleasure. This was fuel, nothing more.
The training ground was deserted when he arrived. It didn’t matter. He sprinted from goalpost to goalpost, faster, harder, again and again. His boots chewed through the grass. His lungs burned, but the fire inside him was worse. In the gym, the weights piled higher than they should, the bar bending under the pressure. Squats, deadlifts, bench presses, every movement executed with the precision of a machine. His muscles begged for mercy. He didn’t listen.
When the rest of Istanbul arrived, they found him still on the treadmill, his jersey drenched, face blank, staring into something only he could see. Stefan Davidović nudged Sergej Nadj. "He’s been at it for hours."
Predrag Dobrić leaned against the doorframe, shaking his head. "He’s more alive than any of us."
The coach hesitated before stepping forward. "Mobek, maybe you should—"
Mobek stepped off the treadmill without a word. He didn’t even look at the man. Just walked past him, boots clacking against the floor, heading straight for the pitch.
Drills started, and he was everywhere. Marcel Voda tried threading a pass through the middle—denied. Marean Dohbra took a long shot—punched away like it was nothing. Alen Patak found space inside the box, but the second he took the shot, Mobek’s hand was already there, smothering the ball. Thomas Jimotheus crossed one in for Predrag Dobrić, the big striker rising to meet it, but Mobek exploded off his line, punching it into the stands before Dobrić even made contact.
Jovan Jakovljević chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow. "He’s not human."
Voda scoffed. "That, or he’s gonna drop dead any second now."
The final scrimmage of the day came, and it was carnage. Mobek stood in goal, a force of nature, screaming at his defenders like a man possessed. Every shot that came his way was erased. His body moved before the ball did. It was unnatural, terrifying.
By the time training ended, everyone was gasping for breath. Mobek wasn’t. He was still standing, his chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm, his face emotionless. He walked off without a word, showering in ice water, barely feeling it, then stepping out into the night.
Davidović turned to Nadj. "He’s going to burn out."
Breakfast was mechanical. Three cheeseburgers disappeared in seconds, fries covered in crushed stimulants, a protein shake spiked with something he didn’t even bother identifying. He wasn’t eating for pleasure. This was fuel, nothing more.
The training ground was deserted when he arrived. It didn’t matter. He sprinted from goalpost to goalpost, faster, harder, again and again. His boots chewed through the grass. His lungs burned, but the fire inside him was worse. In the gym, the weights piled higher than they should, the bar bending under the pressure. Squats, deadlifts, bench presses, every movement executed with the precision of a machine. His muscles begged for mercy. He didn’t listen.
When the rest of Istanbul arrived, they found him still on the treadmill, his jersey drenched, face blank, staring into something only he could see. Stefan Davidović nudged Sergej Nadj. "He’s been at it for hours."
Predrag Dobrić leaned against the doorframe, shaking his head. "He’s more alive than any of us."
The coach hesitated before stepping forward. "Mobek, maybe you should—"
Mobek stepped off the treadmill without a word. He didn’t even look at the man. Just walked past him, boots clacking against the floor, heading straight for the pitch.
Drills started, and he was everywhere. Marcel Voda tried threading a pass through the middle—denied. Marean Dohbra took a long shot—punched away like it was nothing. Alen Patak found space inside the box, but the second he took the shot, Mobek’s hand was already there, smothering the ball. Thomas Jimotheus crossed one in for Predrag Dobrić, the big striker rising to meet it, but Mobek exploded off his line, punching it into the stands before Dobrić even made contact.
Jovan Jakovljević chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow. "He’s not human."
Voda scoffed. "That, or he’s gonna drop dead any second now."
The final scrimmage of the day came, and it was carnage. Mobek stood in goal, a force of nature, screaming at his defenders like a man possessed. Every shot that came his way was erased. His body moved before the ball did. It was unnatural, terrifying.
By the time training ended, everyone was gasping for breath. Mobek wasn’t. He was still standing, his chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm, his face emotionless. He walked off without a word, showering in ice water, barely feeling it, then stepping out into the night.
Davidović turned to Nadj. "He’s going to burn out."
