The message came with no subject line.
No sender.Just a time, a field, and a number.
"Field E, 7:30 AM.You are Player 08.Say nothing.Change everything."
Raj read it once.Then deleted it.
Because he understood the trial wasn't about performance.
It was about presence.
Field E was a forgotten patch in the far corner of the training complex. The turf was cracked in places. One sight screen was tilted. There were no benches, only overturned crates used as stools. The players—eleven in total—were a mix of rejected media darlings, failed prodigies, and burned-out egos.
And none of them knew Raj.
Deliberately.
He walked in wearing an unnumbered kit. No sponsor tags. No introductions. Just "Player 08" stitched on his back.
The first look he received wasn't curiosity.
It was suspicion.
One player muttered, "Great. Another experimental body."
Another scoffed, "Hope you know how to fetch balls."
Raj didn't reply.He didn't flinch.
