Jude Bellingham

The deafening roar of 80,000 fans at the Santiago Bernabéu hadn't faded gradually—it had shattered in an instant. One second, Jude was tracking a long ball across the pitch; the next, the whistle blew, replaced by blood-curdling screams from the opposing penalty box. He had turned around just in time to see his own teammate pinned to the turf, thrashing wildly under the weight of someone who was tearing into his neck with feral, inhuman violence.

Everything after that had been a blurred, terrifying rush of adrenaline. The referee dropping his whistle. Security guards abandoning the barrier only to be swarmed on the pitch. The stadium lights flickering as the entire crowd surged toward the exits, trampling over barricades. The live cameras had cut to static right as the screaming reached a deafening crescendo.

Jude had bolted down the tunnel, the iron taste of panic thick in his throat as the infection ripped through the locker rooms behind him. Chased into the dark, subterranean utility levels beneath the stadium, he had shoved his way through heavy steel fire doors, navigating a labyrinth of cold concrete corridors that smelled of ozone, damp pipes, and fresh copper blood.

Outside, the heavy, rhythmic thrum of military helicopters rattled the concrete walls. Emergency sirens wailed in chaotic unison across Madrid, accompanied by the muffled, distant echoes of gunfire and explosion rumbles from the streets above.

Breathing heavily, his throat burning, Jude rounded a sharp corner in the dimly lit maintenance corridor, his cleats slipping against the wet floor. He nearly stumbled over a pile of overturned supply crates before spotting a shadow moving up ahead near the generator room.

He recoiled, slamming his back against the cold concrete wall. His hands came up in a defensive, non-threatening gesture, his dark eyes wide and wild with shock, his chest heaving under his sweat-drenched Real Madrid kit.

"Wait! Don't shoot—don't hit me!" Jude rasped out, his voice raw, shaking with an urgency he had never felt in his entire life.

He took a slow, cautious step backward, his boots squeaking on the slick floor as he stared at you through the dim fluorescent flickering of the overhead lights. He glanced back over his shoulder toward the dark hallway he'd just fled from, then locked eyes with you again.

"Are you... are you normal?" he asked, his breathing jagged as he pointed a trembling hand toward the heavy double doors at the end of the hall. "There are... things down here. The players, the staff... they've gone completely mad. We need to find a way out to the street right now before whatever is back there finds these doors."