Striker of The Gods

 The Ghost’s Last Breath

That same night, after the letter and the journal had been read, another package arrived, delivered by the same silent lawyer’s courier. Inside was a small, sealed USB drive and a final handwritten note from Rafael’s attorney. Even for those who grew up, his influence is a major one, conspicuous for its absence. It is therefore only natural that the death of a man’s father is an event that holds incredible and often very painful significance.

I spoke of the ways in which men do. It is not surprising that many of the men who responded to that article alluded to the loss of their father. While a man grieving the loss of his father will go through an experience similar to what was previously discussed, the fact that the deceased is the man’s father makes the experience unique. Many men who have lost their fathers describe it as a loss like no other.

Caos sat alone in the archive room, the three maids waiting just outside the door, respecting the weight of what was coming. He plugged the drive into the screen.

It contained security footage from a private clinic in Barcelona, dated the evening of his father’s death.

Rafael “El Fantasma” Caos’s Final Moments

The hospital room was dimly lit, sterile and quiet except for the soft beep of machines. Rafael lay in the bed, thin and frail, skin pale against the white sheets. Tubes ran into his arms. His breathing was shallow and laboured.

A nurse sat nearby, reading quietly. Rafael’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.

He whispered something. The nurse leant closer.

Rafael (voice weak, cracked, but clear):

Turn on the television… please. The football channel.

The nurse did as asked. The screen showed highlights from one of Caos’s recent matches, a violet blur of impossible movement, a 39-foot chilena, the ball tearing through the net like divine judgement.

Rafael watched, eyes glistening. A single tear slipped down his sunken cheek.

Rafael (whispering, more to himself than the nurse):

Look at him… my boy. He moves like I used to dream of moving. Faster. Stronger. Without shame. Without the fear that destroyed me.

He coughed weakly, pain flashing across his face, but he kept watching.

Rafael:

I should have told him. I should have stood in the stands and shouted his name. But I was a ghost long before I died. A ghost who watched his son become the storm I was too afraid to be.

Another tear fell. His hand trembled as he reached towards the screen, as if trying to touch the image of Caos celebrating with one finger raised to the sky.

Rafael (voice fading, barely audible):

Daniel… If you ever hear this… I was proud. Every goal. Every record. Every time you refused to break. I was proud. The new generation of players don’t have that passion and hunger anymore.

I was just… too broken to say it.

Forgive an old ghost for staying in the shadows.

The machines began to beep faster. The nurse moved quickly, but Rafael raised a weak hand, stopping her.

Rafael (final whisper, eyes still on the screen):

Keep running, my son.

Even when the world tries to slow you down… Keep running.

His hand fell. The machines flatlined.

The footage ended.

Caos sat in perfect silence for a long time after the screen went black.

The journal and the letter lay open besides him. The final words of a man who had lived and died in shadows.

He stood up slowly, walked to the window, and looked out at the dark garden where he had trained so relentlessly.

Caos (whispering to the night, voice steady but raw):

You finally spoke.

At the very end, when it no longer mattered… you spoke.

He pressed his forehead against the cold glass.

Caos:

I forgive you.

Not because you earned it. It’s not the same, not even close, and I wasn’t talking about Barca or Real as whole systems, just stating a fact that young players don’t give as much of a fuck as their predecessors.

But carrying your silence any longer would only weigh me down.

You gave me the fire by staying away.

Now I will burn brighter because of it.

The three maids entered quietly. Zeraphina placed a hand on his back. Keyla leant against his side. Michaela rested her head on his shoulder.

Zeraphina:

He saw you. In the end, he saw what you became.

Caos (nodding slowly):

Yes.

And now the last ghost has spoken.

The Chaos Heart feels… lighter.

He turned away from the window, violet eyes calm but burning with new purpose.

Caos:

The goal count will keep rising.

Not for him.

Not for anyone else.

For the boy who grew up without a father… and still became the storm that no shadow can contain.

The rain continued to fall outside.

Inside, one more ghost had finally been laid to rest.

To be continued…