Chapter Text
On the night the world began to collapse, the stadium was still full.
The floodlights burned above the roof like artificial suns, bathing the grass in a sharp green too perfect for something that would soon be stained. The stands thundered. Tens of thousands of people stood, sang, whistled, lifted their phones, waved scarves, called the players’ names like prayers thrown into the sky.
No one knew that this would be one of the last matches they would ever watch as ordinary spectators.
No one knew that, a few hours later, the stadium gates would become evacuation routes clogged with panicked bodies. That the VIP corridors would smell of blood and smoke. That the dressing rooms, usually filled with coaches shouting, wet towels, and water bottles, would become places where people held their breath so they would not be heard by things that had once been human.
That night, everyone still believed in football.
So did Gavi.
He stood in the players’ tunnel with his Barcelona jersey clinging to his skin, jaw set, both hands loosely clenched at his sides. Ahead of him, the sound of the stadium pushed through the walls like a massive wave. He could feel its vibration in his sternum, in the soles of his feet, at the back of his neck.
This was not El Clásico, but it felt almost as sharp as one.
An European pre-season tournament too big to be called a mere friendly. A new format, major sponsors, elite clubs gathered in one city, a packed schedule, neutral stadiums, cameras everywhere. Barcelona against Real Madrid was not for the main trophy, nor for league history, but once those two names stood facing each other, no match was ever truly friendly.
Gavi never played friendly against Madrid.
He rolled his shoulders slightly, feeling the tension in his muscles. Knees good. Ankles good. Body ready. He hated words like emotional control, tempo, don’t get provoked, as if the fire inside him was something that had to be put out so other people could feel comfortable.
Fire was part of him. If the world did not like it, the world could move aside.
Pedri stood a few steps ahead of him and glanced back. “Don’t start before the whistle.”
Gavi stared at him flatly. “I haven’t even moved.”
“Your face has already tackled someone.”
“I have a normal face.”
“You are not—when Madrid are in front of you.”
Gavi huffed and looked to the other side of the tunnel.
Madrid stood there.
White, neat, far too calm.
And of course—Jude Bellingham was among them.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His face calm like someone who never felt the need to shout to make the world pay attention. He was listening to something one of the Madrid staff was saying, but his eyes moved briefly toward the Barcelona line.
Only briefly.
Enough.
Their eyes met.
Gavi did not smile. Neither did Jude.
There was nothing that needed to be said. There might be cameras at the end of the tunnel. Other players might be watching. Besides, they were not close. The world had no reason to believe otherwise.
To the world, Jude was the symbol of the new Madrid: mature, dangerous, intelligent, too beloved by the media.
To the world, Gavi was the symbol of a burning Barcelona: small, hard, brutal in duels, always one second from a yellow card and two seconds from making the crowd rise to its feet.
They were easy rivals to sell by the media.
Gavi looked at Jude a fraction longer than necessary, then turned his face away first.
From Madrid’s side, Vinícius laughed quietly at something Gavi did not hear. Jude did not laugh with him. He only lowered his head for a moment, inhaled, then put his match face back on.
Out there, the stadium roared when the big screen showed the starting lineups. No one noticed the small tremor in the tunnel lights.
Gavi noticed because he was looking at the floor at that moment. The white light overhead flickered once. Only for an instant, as if the electricity had taken a breath and forgotten to release it. A few players turned their heads, then ignored it. Big stadiums always had small problems. Cables. Generators. Lighting systems.
No one panicked.
Then, from somewhere far away outside the players’ tunnel, a siren sounded.
Not the long wail of a police siren. Shorter, more broken. Like an alarm that had not yet decided whether it wanted to matter.
Gavi frowned.
Pedri heard it too.
“What’s that?” Pedri murmured.
“The stadium,” Gavi answered. “Technical issue, maybe.”
Pedri did not look convinced.
On Madrid’s side, Trent Alexander-Arnold—who had only months ago made headlines with a major transfer that still looked strange to many people—looked toward the staff entrance. Jude followed his gaze.
A security officer passed quickly at the end of the tunnel.
Too quickly. His face was pale. But before anyone could ask, the match officials gave the signal. The players had to prepare to walk out.
The sound of the stadium rose.
The singing swallowed the siren.
Football, as always, asked everyone to believe that everything else could wait ninety minutes.
They walked out.
The grass felt perfect beneath his boots.
Gavi stepped onto the pitch and immediately felt something inside him lock back into place. All sound became one thing: the stadium, the cameras, the whistle, the coach’s instructions, his heartbeat. He saw the white lines. Saw the opponent. Saw the ball in the center.
The world could be complicated out there.
On the pitch, the world was always simple.
Win the duel.
Protect the space.
Take the ball.
Do not step back.
He stood in position as the tournament anthem played far too loudly. Across from him, Jude stood several meters away, hands on his waist, face turned toward the stands. No looks now. No need.
The first whistle blew.
The match began.
The first ten minutes were fast and rough.
Madrid took early control of the ball. Barcelona pressed high. Gavi moved without much thought, his body reading angles before his mind had names for them. He closed passing lanes, forced a Madrid midfielder to pass backward. Pedri raised his hand, giving instructions. The ball switched sides. The stadium whistled when Vini received it on the left.
In the thirteenth minute, Gavi crashed into Jude for the first time.
Not enough for a foul.
Enough for a message.
Jude received the ball with his back to goal. Gavi came in from behind and slightly to the side, body low, feet ready, shoulder slamming into Jude’s shoulder right as the ball moved. Jude was strong; he did not fall. Neither did Gavi. The ball rolled loose half a meter. Pedri took it.
The stadium exploded. Gavi ran forward without looking back.
Behind him, he heard Jude say, low and almost flat, “Early.”
Gavi answered without turning. “Slow.”
That was all. Two words, and enough.
The match continued. In the twenty-first minute, the stadium lights flickered. This time everyone saw. For one second, the pitch seemed to be pulled into shadow. Then the light returned.
The cheers shifted into a massive murmur. The referee turned toward the officials. Some players stopped for a moment, but the ball was still moving. From the upper stands came the sound of something falling. Maybe a phone. Maybe a plastic seat. Maybe someone.
Gavi looked toward the right stand, there was a small disturbance there.
Several people rose from their seats not to cheer, but because they were trying to move away from something. Security staff climbed the steps. The broadcast cameras did not immediately turn toward it. The big screen kept showing the match, as if the stadium itself were trying to ignore the part that did not fit the script.
“Gavi!” Pedri called sharply.
The ball came.
Gavi focused again.
He received, passed quickly, moved. There was no time to stare at the crowd. No time to think about the siren that had begun to sound faintly again beneath the singing. The match was still alive, and as long as the match was alive, players played.
But something had already changed in the air.
The sound of the stadium was no longer whole.
There was a small tear inside it.
Like fabric beginning to rip from one corner.
In the twenty-eighth minute, that tear widened. From the northern stand, the first scream rang out. Not a cheer, not a protest, but a human scream from someone seeing something the mind could not accept.
Several heads turned. The players nearest that side stopped. The referee blew a short whistle to stop play because the ball had gone out, but he did not immediately restart it. On the big screen, the camera still showed a close-up of the Madrid coach, then hurriedly switched to a wide shot of the stadium.
Gavi saw the crowd moving like disturbed water. People were backing away from one point.
Security ran.
One officer fell.
No.
Not fell.
Was dragged.
Gavi narrowed his eyes.
It was far. Too far for detail. But he saw someone’s body moving unnaturally between the seats. Fast. Stiff. Wild. Several others tried to hold him down. Then another person fell.
The referee spoke to the officials through his communication device and players began to gather.
“What’s happening?” Pedri whispered.
Gavi did not answer.
On the other side, Jude walked closer to his teammates, eyes fixed on the stands. His calm expression slipped a little. Not panic. Not yet. But his focus changed. Football left his face, replaced by something older and more primitive.
Danger.
The stadium tried to calm itself.
An announcement came over the speakers in several languages, asking spectators to remain in their seats and follow staff instructions. The voice was formal. Too formal. Like someone reading a script prepared for a small fire, not chaos beginning to spread through the stands.
The lights flickered again. This time longer, half the stadium went dark for two seconds. When the light returned, several people were running down from the stands. The match did not continued.
Coaches from both teams were already moving toward the edge of the pitch. Security staff entered from the tunnel. Instructions were thrown quickly. Players were told to remain on the pitch for now. Do not go to the dressing rooms. Wait for directions.
Gavi did not like waiting.
“What is this?” he asked one of the Barça staff members who approached.
“We don’t know yet. Stay with the team.”
“You don’t know yet?” Gavi repeated.
The staff did not answer. Because from one of the lower stand entrances, a crowd of spectators suddenly burst into the field area.
Not many.
A dozen.
Then dozens.
At first, Gavi thought it was a pitch invasion caused by panic. Spectators wanted to leave the stands and had chosen the pitch as an exit route. A few security officers tried to hold them back, but the current was too strong.
Then he saw a man fall near the advertising boards.
A woman bent down to help him.
Someone else lunged at her from behind.
Not pushed.
Lunged.
Mouth open.
His body moved strangely, as if his joints were not obeying the same command as his mind.
The woman screamed, the scream cut through the entire stadium. This time, no one could call it a technical problem.
The referee blew his whistle again and again, a small sound that no longer meant anything. Security staff began shouting. Players backed away. Some spectators who had already entered the pitch ran in every direction, some carrying small children, some falling, some crashing into players.
“Inside!” someone from the Barça staff shouted. “To the tunnel! Now!”
Gavi moved with the team. Everything happened fast.
Too fast.
He ran toward the Barcelona tunnel, Pedri beside him, his heart pounding against his ribs. Behind him, the sound of the stadium turned into something he had never heard before. Not the cheers of tens of thousands. Not the anger of fans. This was the sound of a crowd realizing there were not enough exits for everyone.
The lights went out again.
Total darkness.
One second.
Two.
Three.
In the dark, sound became closer.
Screams. Footsteps. Impact. Breaking glass. The speakers died with a choking noise. Someone slammed into Gavi’s shoulder. He shoved back without seeing who it was. Pedri cursed beside him.
The emergency lights came on red.
The stadium changed color.
The green grass became reddish black. Faces turned into masks. Everyone looked like a victim in a nightmare.
Gavi saw the tunnel ahead, then the barrier near the tunnel collapsed. A rush of spectators entered from the other side, cutting off Barça’s path. Some fell. Some got up. Some did not.
One of the people who did not get up suddenly moved too fast.
He attacked a security officer trying to help him.
Blood sprayed across the concrete floor.
Pedri grabbed Gavi’s arm. “This way!”
They turned toward the equipment corridor, not the main tunnel. A few players followed. Staff shouted for them to stay together, but the voices had already shattered into different orders crashing against one another.
Gavi looked back.
He saw the pitch.
Madrid were moving toward their tunnel too, but the crowd had cut off their path as well. Several white shirts were visible among the chaos. Vini pulled someone backward. Trent shoved open a side door. Jude stood half a second too long, his eyes calculating the route, then pulled a ball boy out of the path of panicked spectators.
Gavi saw it.
Very briefly. Not important.
Still seen.
Then Pedri pulled him harder.
“Gavi!”
He ran.
The equipment corridor smelled of rubber, wet grass, and metal.
Usually, it was boring. Trolleys, drink crates, spare equipment, cables, bags of balls. That night, it became a narrow artery where bodies pressed together, searching for survival.
Barcelona staff shoved open a service door, bringing a small group inside. Gavi counted without meaning to: Pedri, two young players, a kitman, one physiotherapist, two media staff, himself. Not everyone. Too few. The others must have taken different routes.
“The dressing room?” one player asked.
“No,” said the club security staff member. “Main tunnel isn’t safe. We go to the loading area, then the bus if we can.”
“If we can?” Gavi sharpened.
“Move.”
There was no time to argue.
They moved down the corridor. The red emergency lights flickered. Behind the walls, pounding sounds echoed. Something slammed repeatedly into a metal door. One media staff member started crying silently. The kitman clutched a communication radio that produced only static.
Pedri walked close to Gavi, his face pale but his eyes focused.
“Don’t go far,” Pedri said.
“I’m not a child.”
“Now is not the time,” Gavi did not answer.
Because it was true.
They passed the first storage room. Empty. The second room had its door open. Inside, several chairs were overturned and there was blood on the floor. No bodies. That was worse.
At the end of the corridor, someone called for help—a man in a stadium security uniform appeared around the corner, one hand pressed to his neck, blood flowing between his fingers. He staggered toward them.
“Help—” he said.
The Barça physiotherapist immediately moved forward. Gavi felt something wrong.
Not because of the blood. He had seen blood on the pitch before. Head wounds, broken noses, split lips. Blood was not new.
What was wrong were the man’s eyes.
Too wide. His pupils were dark, almost swallowing the iris.
The skin around the veins in his neck moved strangely, as if something were pulsing beneath it.
“Don’t,” Gavi said.
The physiotherapist stopped. “What?”
The security man dropped to his knees.
His voice changed.
Not a word.
A wet sound from the throat.
Then he lunged.
Everything happened in one broken movement. A body that should have been weak suddenly exploded forward. The physiotherapist did not have time to step back. Gavi moved first, slamming his shoulder into the physio and shoving him aside. The man hit a metal rack instead of a human being.
The rack collapsed.
Equipment boxes fell.
The man turned too quickly.
His face was no longer panicked.
His mouth hung open, blood and saliva spilling out, his breathing like a broken machine. He looked at them—no, not looked. Scented. Sensed movement.
The club security staff member raised an electric baton and struck his shoulder.
The man did not stop.
A second blow to the head.
Still moving.
One of the young players behind Gavi made a choked sound.
Pedri pulled Gavi backward. “Run.”
The man lunged again.
This time, the security staff member managed to shove him against the wall, but the man bit into his arm. The staff member screamed. The electric baton fell. Gavi grabbed a metal box from the floor and smashed it into the side of the man’s head with all his strength.
The impact was loud.
The man fell.
Still moving, hands clawing at the floor.
“Run!” Gavi shouted.
They ran.
No one asked questions anymore.
The loading bay should have taken them to the team bus.
Should have.
When they reached the large door leading to the underground parking area, the noise beyond it already sounded like hell.
Bus engines running. People screaming. Horns. Gunshots? Gavi was not sure. Maybe something had exploded. Maybe metal doors were being struck.
The security staff member opened the door a little, then immediately closed it again.
His face drained of color.
“What?” Pedri asked.
“We can’t.”
“What do you mean, we can’t?” Gavi moved closer.
The staff member locked the door from the inside. His hands trembled. “The lower area is full. The bus can’t get out. There are infected people down there.”
“Infected?” one of the young players repeated.
The word fell into the corridor like something heavy.
No one spoke at once.
Infected meant outbreak.
It meant the news from the past few days that had been forced into small headlines beneath transfer rumors and match schedules. Gavi remembered flashes: aggressive disease in several cities, government urging citizens to remain calm, no evidence of a widespread threat, tournament continuing with additional health protocols.
Bullshit.
All of it bullshit.
The kitman’s radio suddenly came alive with a broken voice.
“—all units out of the north sector—repeat—avoid direct contact—bites transmit—Code L-9 confirmed—”
Static.
Then another voice, far more panicked:
“Project Lazarus breach—all medical personnel retreat—”
The radio died.
Gavi stared at it.
Project Lazarus. Code L-9.
He did not know what it meant.
But his body knew one thing: whatever it was, it had entered the stadium. From the corridor behind them came the sound of metal racks being dragged.
Something was still moving.
“Up,” Pedri said suddenly.
Everyone turned.
“What?”
“Up. If downstairs is full, we find an exit through the offices or suites. The VIP area has separate access.”
The security staff member hesitated. “It might be locked.”
“Better than this,” Gavi said.
For once, no one argued.
They climbed the emergency stairs.
The stairwell was narrow and smelled of dust. Red lights flashed on every floor. From below came the sound of the loading bay door being hit. Once. Twice. Then more. Not one body. Many.
They climbed faster.
On the second floor, the emergency door opened before they reached it.
A man in a suit stumbled out, his face wet with blood. Behind him, two other people were fighting—no, one was trying to hold back the other, who had already changed. The man in the suit crashed into the kitman. The kitman fell. Gavi grabbed his collar and pulled him up.
“Move!”
Pedri took a small fire extinguisher from the wall.
The infected person burst through the door.
Pedri smashed the extinguisher into his face.
Once. Twice.
The person fell onto the stairs, but his hand clawed at Pedri’s ankle.
Gavi kicked his hand.
“Let go!”
Pedri backed away. The extinguisher fell and rolled down the stairs, hitting the wall with a hollow sound. They climbed again.
On the third floor, their group split apart.
Not by choice.
Panic.
The door below opened again and two infected entered the stairwell. A young player screamed. The physiotherapist pulled him through the third-floor door. Security shoved some people inside. Gavi and Pedri followed, but a small crowd from the other side of the corridor slammed into them.
VIP guests.
Stadium staff.
Two children crying and everyone running in the opposite direction.
Gavi lost Pedri in one second.
“Pedri!”
No answer.
Bodies shoved him sideways. Someone hit his shoulder. He struck the wall. His breath cut off. Ahead, an infected appeared from around the corridor, attacking the nearest person. The crowd broke apart again.
“Pedri!” Gavi shouted louder.
He saw Pedri for a second between people, about ten meters away, being pulled by the physiotherapist toward another door.
Pedri saw him too.
“Gavi!”
Before Gavi could move, an automatic security door dropped from the ceiling of the corridor.
A metal partition.
Emergency containment.
Gavi ran toward it, but too late. The door slammed down hard, splitting the corridor in two.
Pedri on the other side.
Gavi here.
They looked at each other through the small glass panel near the top of the door.
Pedri hit the door. “Gavi!”
“I’ll find another way!” Gavi shouted.
“Don’t go alone!”
“Go!” Gavi pointed behind Pedri, where people were still running. “Pedri, go!”
Pedri hesitated.
Two seconds too long.
Gavi slammed his palm against the door. “Go!”
At last, Pedri backed away, pulled by the physiotherapist. His face stayed turned toward Gavi until the corner swallowed him.
Gavi turned around.
The corridor on his side was quieter.
Too quiet.
There was thick carpet, white walls, VIP suite doors with gold numbers. Some were open, revealing overturned food tables, broken glasses, TV screens showing the stadium broadcast now chaotic and silent.
Somewhere in the distance, something growled.
Gavi took a breath.
He was alone. Not for long, he told himself.
Not for long.
He had to find another stairwell.
Find Pedri. Find the team. Get out of the stadium.
He moved quickly down the corridor, taking a dinner knife from a table in an open suite. Not a good weapon. But its tip was sharp. Enough to make his hand not empty.
From one of the rooms came the sound of a child crying.
Gavi stopped.
Shit.
He turned toward the sound.
No.
Find the way out.
But the crying was small, muffled, like a child who had already learned that sound could kill him.
Gavi cursed under his breath and went in.
The suite was dim. The buffet table had been overturned. The smell of spilled wine, sauce, and blood hung in the air. Behind the sofa, a boy around seven years old was curled up, hands over his mouth. Near the glass balcony door, a woman lay still on the floor.
Not moving.
Gavi approached slowly. “Hey.”
The boy looked at him with huge eyes.
“Alone?”
The boy nodded quickly, trembling.
Gavi swallowed. “Okay. Can you walk?”
Another nod.
From the corridor came footsteps.
Uneven.
Gavi turned.
“Listen to me,” he said to the boy, his voice low. “You hold on to my shirt. Don’t let go. Don’t scream.”
The boy stood on shaking knees and grabbed the back of Gavi’s jersey.
Gavi stepped out first. The corridor was empty for a few meters, then an infected appeared around the corner.
An old woman, maybe a VIP guest, her expensive dress torn, her face bloody. She moved with her head tilted, her breathing like a wet whistle. Her body stopped when she saw Gavi.
The boy clenched Gavi’s jersey.
Gavi gripped the dinner knife tighter.
“Run when I tell you,” he whispered.
The woman lunged.
Gavi did not think like a footballer.
He thought like a body that wanted to live.
He threw a plate from the table near the door at the woman. It struck her face, did not stop her, but made her stagger slightly. Gavi pulled the boy and ran the opposite way.
The corridor felt far too long.
At the end, there was a stairwell door.
Locked.
“Shit.”
The woman was getting closer again.
Gavi pulled the handle harder. It did not move.
The boy started crying silently.
Gavi looked around. Another suite door was open. They could go in, but they would be trapped. Another corridor to the right. No idea where it led.
The woman was only a few meters away.
Gavi raised the knife.
Then someone appeared from the right side and struck the woman with a metal rod.
The sound of cracking bone was horrible. That woman fell sideways, still moving.
The person struck again.
This time, she stopped.
Gavi froze.
Jude Bellingham stood in the corridor, breathing hard, a bloody metal rod in his hand. His white jersey was dirty with dust and red stains that were not all his. Behind him, Trent appeared with a tense face, then Vini, carrying a small medical bag he must have taken from somewhere.
For one second, Gavi only stared.
The world had collapsed far enough that seeing Jude was no longer the strangest thing about the night.
Jude looked at the child behind Gavi, then at the knife in Gavi’s hand, then at his face.
“Are you alone?” Jude asked.
Gavi hated how quickly that voice made his body want to breathe deeper.
He refused.
“Does it look like it?”
Trent looked behind them. “We need to move. West exit’s blocked. There’s a service stair through the VIP kitchen.”
Vini looked at Gavi. “Pedri?”
“Separated. Other side of the barrier.”
Vini’s face changed slightly. He looked at Jude.
Jude did not waste time with words.
“We find a way down, then look for him if the route allows it.”
Gavi instantly tensed. “I’m not leaving without him.”
Jude looked at him.
Not soft and patient.
But calm in an infuriating way.
“You won’t find anyone if you die in this corridor.”
Gavi stepped forward half a step. “Don’t order me around.”
From far away came the sound of more footsteps.
Many.
Jude tilted his head slightly, listening.
Then said, “Be angry later. Move now.”
Gavi wanted to argue.
He really did.
But the little boy behind him was still clutching his jersey. Infected were beginning to appear at the end of the corridor. Vini was already moving. Trent was clearing the way. Jude stood between Gavi and the sound of footsteps, metal rod ready, as if his body had chosen its position before asking permission.
Gavi gritted his teeth.
“Fine.”
Jude looked at him for one second.
Then at the boy. “Stay between us.”
The boy immediately moved closer to Gavi’s side.
They ran.
The VIP kitchen had become a small battlefield.
Overturned pans. A stove still burning on one side. The faint smell of gas made Gavi’s throat go dry. The floor was slick with water, oil, and something darker. Jude moved at the front, Trent behind him, Vini guarding the left side, Gavi in the middle with the boy.
He hated that formation.
Hated Jude in front.
Hated that it made sense.
An infected burst out from behind the storage door.
Jude hit his knee first with the metal rod, bringing him down, then struck his head. Efficient movement. No panic. No excess. Gavi noticed even though he did not want to.
Jude was not only strong.
He learned quickly.
That was dangerous.
They reached the service stairs. Trent tried the door. Open.
“Down two floors, then out to the staff area,” he said. “If the map I saw was right.”
“And if it wasn’t?” Vini asked.
“Improvise.”
“Great. I love dying with half a plan.”
Gavi pulled the little boy closer as they descended. The stairwell was dark, with only a small emergency light at every turn. Below, the sound of the stadium grew more distant, but the screams remained. Sometimes they sounded very close. Sometimes they disappeared, then rose again from another direction.
At the next floor, the door suddenly opened.
An infected man lunged at Trent.
Trent blocked him with his arm and stumbled into the wall. Vini helped, kicking the man away. Gavi pushed the little boy behind him and drove the dinner knife into the man’s shoulder when he tried to get up.
Not enough.
The man turned toward Gavi.
Jude pulled Gavi back from behind, one strong hand at his waist, then smashed the man’s head with the metal rod.
Close.
Too close.
Gavi still felt Jude’s hand on his body even after Jude let go.
He turned immediately. “Don’t touch me.”
Jude did not look offended. “If you’re about to get bitten, I touch.”
“I can handle myself.”
“Not then.”
Gavi stepped forward half a step, anger rising faster than fear.
Jude looked at him, dark eyes under the red light of the stairwell. “Fight me when we’re outside.”
Vini, still breathing hard, said, “Or don’t. Also a good idea.”
Trent pushed the door shut again. “They’re coming from above. Move.”
Gavi gripped the knife, jaw hard.
He wanted to hate Jude.
It was easier that way.
But his hand still remembered Jude’s grip at his waist, pulling him away from the bite, and Gavi’s body—stupid traitor—had recorded the touch as safe.
He hated that more than anything.
The staff area below was not safer.
Quieter, but not safe.
Many of the lights were out. Sprinklers ran in several sections, making the floor wet. The fire alarm had finally activated, flashing without sound because the stadium’s audio system was already broken. On the wall, tournament posters showing the faces of major players still hung. Gavi saw his own face on one of them: young, fierce, alive in a world that still believed there would be another match tomorrow.
He almost wanted to tear the poster down.
No time.
They found three medical staff hiding in the laundry room. One had an injury on his hand. Not bitten, he said. Cut by glass. Jude did not immediately believe him. He asked to see the wound. Gavi noticed how Jude did it: calm, unapologetic, not cruel, but leaving no room for lies.
Annoying.
One of the medical staff recognized Gavi and Jude. His eyes widened. “You’re—”
“Not important,” Gavi said.
Jude gave a small nod. “Is there a way out?”
The staff member looked at them, then at the little boy attached to Gavi’s side. “East service gate, maybe. But outside is chaos too. Police are closing roads. A lot of people—” He stopped, swallowing. “A lot of people have changed.”
“Changed because of L-9?” Trent asked.
The staff member’s face went pale. “You heard?”
“Radio,” Vini said.
The staff member wiped his face. “I only heard pieces from the tournament medical team. Project Lazarus. A regenerative program. They said there was a contaminant leak at the city quarantine center two days ago. The government suppressed the information. Tonight…” He gestured vaguely upward. “Tonight it’s already too late.”
Gavi stared at him. “Are they dead?”
The staff member did not answer immediately.
“The infected,” Gavi pressed. “Are they dead?”
“No,” the staff member finally said. “That’s the problem. Their bodies are still alive. Elevated pulse. Extreme adrenaline. Pain response almost nonfunctional. Consciousness…” He shook his head. “Gone.”
Jude stared at the door.
“Bites?”
“Blood contact. Bites are fastest. Minutes to hours. Depends on exposure.”
Everyone fell silent.
Gavi thought of the wound on the arm of the club security staff member who had been with them earlier.
That man was gone.
He had only just realized it.
“Where’s our security staff?” Gavi asked.
No one answered.
They had lost him on the stairs or at the loading bay. In chaos, people could disappear just like that. Before, disappearing meant falling out of formation. Now disappearing could mean death. Or worse, still moving.
The little boy beside Gavi trembled.
Gavi looked down. “Name?”
The boy answered very quietly, “Leo.”
The irony of the name almost made Gavi laugh.
He did not.
“Leo,” he repeated. “Okay. Stay close.”
The boy nodded.
Jude looked at them and Gavu caught the look and instantly hardened. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m doing something surprising.”
Jude looked at him for a moment, then said, “You’re not as selfish as you try to look.”
Gavi felt heat rise up his neck. “I can still stab you with this knife.”
Jude looked at the dinner knife in his hand. “That’s a butter knife.”
“It can still hurt.”
“Sure.”
Vini covered his mouth, maybe holding back a laugh.
Gavi turned his stare on him too. “You want to try?”
“No. I love being alive.”
Trent said, “We need to go.”
Right.
There was always something bigger than conversation.
And then, they moved again.
The east service gate brought them outside the stadium. Or to what was left of outside.
The night had changed color. Smoke hung over the road. Sirens everywhere. Cars had crashed into one another near the exits. Some were burning. People ran on the sidewalks, some toward the stadium, some away from it, no one truly knowing which direction was safe.
In the distance, the city flickered like a dying body. One block lit. The next dark. A giant advertising screen on the building across the street was still on, showing a football boots ad with the slogan: PLAY WITHOUT LIMITS.
Gavi stared at it for half a second.
Then the screen went black.
There were no limits anymore.
No game either.
They exited through a small metal door beside the loading area. The medical staff chose to stay inside the laundry room, waiting for help that might never come. One of them cried when he saw Leo leave, but did not follow.
Outside, the air was cold and full of burning plastic.
Jude led them toward a row of staff vehicles. Trent searched for keys at the security post. Vini checked the road. Gavi stood with Leo behind him, butter knife in hand, breath still fast.
He looked at his phone.
No signal.
Pedri…
He had to find Pedri.
He turned toward the stadium, now partly dark, partly red with emergency lights. Screams still came from inside it like the breath of a monster.
Jude saw where he was looking.
“Gavi.”
“Don’t.”
“We can’t go back in through there.”
“I didn’t say you were coming.”
Jude stepped closer. “You’re not going in alone.”
Gavi turned, eyes burning. “Who do you think you are?”
Jude did not step back. “Someone who just saw what’s inside.”
“I have to find Pedri.”
“We find a way that doesn’t get you killed in five minutes.”
“I didn’t ask permission.”
Jude lowered his head slightly, close enough for Gavi to see the small smear of blood on his jaw, maybe not his. “And I’m not giving it.”
The tension between them flared fast.
Not like on the pitch. Sharper.
More primitive.
Gavi gripped the knife until his knuckles turned white. “Don’t try to control me.”
“Then stop acting like dying is a plan.”
Gavi almost shoved him.
Almost.
But a scream from the street made them both turn.
A group of infected appeared from the main parking area, running fast toward the service gate. Not shambling like old movies. Running. Broken bodies moving with insane adrenaline.
Vini shouted, “We have to go!”
Trent managed to open a staff van. “Get in!”
Leo let out a small scream, snd Gavi looked at the stadium one more time.
Pedri was inside.
Maybe alive.
Maybe.
He could run back in and die. Or he could leave now, live long enough to find a way back.
The choice felt like betrayal.
Jude did not touch him this time.
Only said, low and hard, “Gavi. Now.”
The name hit harder than a shout.
Gavi’s body moved before his pride finished arguing.
He pushed Leo toward the van, then climbed in after him. Jude got in last, slamming the door as the first infected reached the vehicle. Its hand struck the glass. Its face hit the window with a wet sound.
Trent started the engine.
The van lurched forward.
One infected fell onto the hood, clawing at the windshield. Vini cursed. Jude grabbed the metal rod and struck through the slightly open side window, just enough to send the body flying off when the van turned sharply.
Gavi held Leo so he would not fall.
The stadium receded behind them.
Still standing, partly burning and still… full of sound.
Gavi stared at it through the rear window until smoke swallowed its shape. He did not know whether Pedri was alive.
Did not know whether his team had gotten out.
Did not know whether the world outside the stadium was any better.
Beside him, Leo cried without sound. In the front, Vini tried to contact someone through the vehicle radio. Trent drove with his jaw tight. Jude sat near the door, metal rod in hand, his eyes never leaving the road behind them.
Gavi looked down at his own hand, the butter knife was still in his grip.
Small. Stupid. Not enough.
Like every remaining piece of his old life.
In the distance, an explosion shook the night sky.
The van jolted.
Leo screamed.
Jude turned.
For one second, his eyes met Gavi’s.
There was no rivalry there.
Only two people who had just watched the world end and did not yet know how to stay human.
Gavi turned his face away first.
Not because he was not afraid.
Because he was afraid it showed too much.
Outside, the city began to go dark one block at a time, and the match never ended.