It was just past 3 a.m. when Robin’s hotel room phone rang. He was barely asleep, still wired from the adrenaline of his spectacular debut at Blackgate United. His muscles ached, his mind raced, and his heart hadn't slowed since the final whistle. But the call wasn’t a celebration.It was Tomas. “We’ve got a problem,” he said.Robin sat up instantly. “What now?”“Interpol just issued an international watchlist update. They flagged a passport. With your photo. Under a different name.”Robin’s pulse froze. “The name is... Darren Kalu.” Within the hour, Robin, Don Marco, Velasquez, and Tomas huddled inside a luxury suite in central London.On a screen in front of them: a digital passport image. Robin’s face. Same eyes. Same cheekbone scar. But the name read Darren Kalu. Nigerian national. Born in Port Harcourt. Last seen in Abuja, six years ago. “That’s not me,” Robin said, jaw tight.Marco’s eyes narrowed. “No... but someone wants the world to think it is.”Tomas turned to the group. “I

Sunday. Dawn cracked open London’s grey skies as the world waited for Blackgate United vs. Ironvale FC, the most anticipated match of the season. But in Robin Ashwood’s world, the match was just one battlefield.Somewhere in the city, Don Marco was being held hostage. If Robin stepped onto that pitch, Marco’s life would be forfeit. If he didn’t, he’d lose everything, his contract, his credibility, and the momentum that took him from slum to spotlight.The message was clear: “Play, and he dies.” But Robin had a plan. He’d do both.Early morning. Robin, Velasquez, Tomas, and Leon Duval huddled in a secure garage near Wembley. A giant tactical board displayed the city grid. At the center: a blinking red tracker on Brockwood Industrial Complex, a condemned warehouse district.That’s where Marco’s car had been last seen. Leon nodded. “We believe Marco’s alive, but sedated. Surveillance drones show three men on guard rotation.”Robin gripped the edge of the table. “I play at 5 p.m. The worl

Zurich. Cold. Quiet. Sophisticated. But beneath its pristine surface, the city was home to secrets wrapped in suits and tied with red silk lies. Robin Ashwood stood at the edge of Paradeplatz, the heart of Switzerland’s financial elite.He wasn’t here to tour banks. He was here to confront a ghost. Jordan Adisa. His childhood friend. His first teammate. His first betrayer. Now in Lucien Virell’s pocket. Stacy had done more than send a photo. She’d sent a time and place. “Jordan’s meeting Lucien again. Tomorrow. Noon.The rooftop restaurant at the Schumann Tower.” Robin turned to Tomas, who sat beside him in the café. “You think this is a trap?”Tomas smiled. “Everything is. But that doesn’t mean we don’t spring it first.”Back in London, Don Marco had fully recovered. And despite warnings to stay low, he was already pulling strings from the shadows. He called Robin that night. “Son, whatever you’re about to do in Zurich don’t just go there to fight a man.Go there to destroy a system.

A storm was coming. Not just over the Bosphorus, where thunder rolled across the Istanbul skyline, But over the world of football itself. Because Robin Ashwood was ready to blow the biggest whistle the game had ever heard. He didn’t just have proof of his innocence. He had the truth about everything.Leon Duval secured the venue: the Grand Hall of the Istanbul Sports Federation, rigged with reinforced security and a live broadcast feed to over 120 countries. It was packed. Journalists. Scouts. Agents. Even former players. Rumors of Robin’s resurrection had gone viral, but no one expected what was coming.Robin stepped onto the stage. Clean-cut suit. Scar under his cheekbone. Eyes blazing not with anger, but with conviction. “Thank you all for coming. I’m not here to defend myself. I’m here to expose the game.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the drive. The room went dead quiet.Leon connected the drive to the main screen. Slide by slide, they began. A timeline of fabr

The files sat on Robin's desk like a coiled viper. Project Obsidian. Lucien Virell’s final, unexecuted masterplan. But as Robin dug deeper into the documents, he realized it wasn’t unexecuted, It had already begun.Obsidian wasn't just a betting algorithm. It was a match-predictive AI linked to seven major sportsbooks, capable of simulating entire league outcomes in real time. It could manipulate odds, inject false injury reports, influence referee decisions, and sway entire fan narratives by hacking social media trends.Robin scrolled through the data, his eyes narrowing. 3.2 billion euros moved in off-market bets in the past 60 days. 13 matches in Ligue 1 flagged as statistically irregular. Anomalous betting spikes during two of Blackgate’s last three games.He called Leon Duval immediately. “It’s already live,” Robin said, voice tense. “Obsidian isn’t coming. It’s here.”Two hours later, Robin met with Leon and Layla in a hidden data center below London’s Docklands. They weren’t al