The sky over Marrowfield, Robin Ashwood’s neighborhood, was a canvas of rust and smoke. Concrete buildings leaned tiredly over muddy alleys. The streets smelled of engine oil and grilled plantains. Horns blared like war drums. Somewhere far off, a baby cried. A couple argued. A dog barked.But none of that mattered to Robin. Not when he had a football under his foot.On a makeshift pitch behind an old car wash, Robin danced with the ball as if born with it. His bare feet kissed the leather with delicate precision, juggling, flicking, twisting mid-air, then catching it on the back of his neck before flipping it over his head.He wasn’t training for fun. He was training for escape. "Yo, Rob!" a voice called out from behind the fence. It was Kev, one of the boys Robin used to hang with. He leaned lazily against the wall, chewing gum, smirking. Malik and Jordan were with him, laughing."Still out here doing circus tricks, eh? Thought you'd be rich by now," Kev jeered.Robin ignored them.

The stadium lights at San Siro beamed like twin suns. Over 70,000 fans roared, their voices shaking the steel beams of the iconic Italian arena. Flags waved. Drums pounded. Chants echoed. In the locker room tunnel, Robin stood silent, hands at his sides, heart hammering.He wasn’t just stepping into a football match. He was stepping into a world that had once ignored him… now watching every move he made. “Deep breaths,” whispered Coach Velasquez, patting his shoulder. “Don’t chase the noise. Let the ball find you.”Robin nodded. His boots were laced tight. The Inter Milan jersey hugged his chest like armor. He whispered to himself, “For Ma.”Warm-Up...The camera flashes were blinding. Every flick of Robin’s boot, every step he took, drew attention. Fans chanted his name “Ash-wooood! Ash-wooood!”The Bayern Munich squad eyed him curiously. Some smirked, some shrugged. He was just a street kid. Viral for now. Forgotten later. At least, that’s what they thought. Until the whistle blew.F

Pain had a rhythm. A slow, dull throb that pulsed behind Robin’s eyes and down his leg. He lay in a white hospital room in Madrid, leg wrapped in bandages, head resting on a stiff pillow, and eyes wide open.The injury wasn’t the worst part. The silence was. No crowds. No chants. No ball. Just stillness and static on the muted TV screen. His phone lit up with missed calls, voice notes, and news alerts. Most of them... weren’t kind.“BREAKING: Robin Ashwood Accused of Age Fraud”“Former Friends Claim He Lied His Way Into Football Fame”“Anonymous Sources Leak Suspicious Documents”Clips of him scoring and celebrating now ran alongside headlines questioning if he was “another age-cheating street kid from Africa.” His name trended globally, not as a hero, but as a scandal. They weren’t just trying to doubt his skills. They were trying to erase him.Inside an upscale Madrid office, Don Marco’s jaw tightened as he scanned the headlines. “This isn’t just sabotage,” he growled. “It’s coordin

The Stade Louis II in Monaco gleamed under the Mediterranean sun. A parade of Ferraris lined the streets. Cameras were everywhere. Billionaires in suits sat next to kids in jerseys. The atmosphere buzzed with excitement.This wasn’t just an exhibition match. It was a battleground. And in the middle of it all stood Robin Ashwood, suited up in a crisp white kit. On his back, the number 10. His name, no longer just a whisper from the streets, it was a banner that carried weight.He stood at the center circle, calm as a monk, eyes closed. Beside him, football legends did their stretches.Zinedine Rivera, the midfield magician.Diogo Carmal, the free-kick king.Marcus Holt, Premier League golden boot winner.Robin was the only “unknown” in the squad. Yet every camera pointed at him. The whistle blew. And for the first five minutes, Robin stayed quiet, observing, moving in rhythm. Then the ball came to him. A slick pass. Fast. Unexpected.He stopped it dead with his heel. Rivera whistled. “

Midnight in Lisbon. The villa was quiet except for the steady tap of fingers on keys. Robin sat in front of a laptop, eyes locked on a paused video: his childhood friend Ade being dragged by Interpol agents through a crowded Nigerian market, face bloody, yelling something Robin couldn’t hear.Ade, the boy who once gave up his only pair of boots so Robin could train. Now being used as bait. Framed as a drug mule. The money from Robin’s early academy days allegedly “laundered” through Ade’s former phone number. A number Robin hadn’t used since he was sixteen.Don Marco leaned against the doorframe. “They want you to lose your mind. To lash out.”Robin didn’t even blink. “They’ve taken my peace. Now I take theirs.”Velasquez entered with a folder. “Our legal team has reviewed the footage and the transactions,” he said. “It’s fabricated. The timeline doesn’t match. The account number belongs to a bank that didn’t exist when you turned pro.”Robin cracked his knuckles. “Then we need to mak