Truth Untold のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 7

The Ostin family estate perched on the cliffs overlooking the bay like a gleaming predator—floor-to-ceiling glass, white marble, and sharp modern lines that screamed old money wrapped in new ambition. Late-afternoon sun poured through the windows, turning the grand living room into a cathedral of light and shadow. Crystal chandeliers caught the rays and scattered them like accusations.Martin Ostin, 22, stood rigid near the marble fireplace in a tailored black suit that felt more like a straitjacket. The collar dug into his throat with every swallow. His dark hair was styled back, but a few rebellious strands had already escaped, falling over his forehead. He kept his hands clasped behind his back to hide the way they trembled.His mother, Elena Ostin, moved through the small gathering like a queen. At 48 she looked a decade younger in a sleek white silk dress that clung to her figure. Diamonds glitter at her throat and ears—gifts, no doubt, from the man standing beside her. She smile

Four years earlier.The university pitch smelled of fresh-cut grass and fallen leaves, the autumn sun low and golden, turning everything warm and forgiving. Martin Ostin, eighteen, all sharp elbows and restless energy, sprinted down the wing like he was being chased by something he couldn’t name. His first senior practice. He was skinny, still growing into his frame, but his feet were lightning.Damien Vale, twenty-three, final-year captain, stood at the sideline in the navy training top, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded from years of play. Already scouted by three pro clubs. Already spoken of in whispers as the next big thing behind the whistle instead of in front of it.Martin took a through ball, controlled it with the outside of his boot, and cut inside. The defender lunged; Martin dropped a shoulder, let the man slide past, then curled the shot low and hard. Bottom corner. Net rippled.The team erupted.Damien blew the whistle once—short, approving. Then he jogged over

The taxi idled at the curb outside the estate’s service gate, engine humming low like a secret. Martin slid into the back seat, cap pulled low over his eyes, hoodie zipped to his chin. He gave the driver the international terminal address in a voice that sounded like someone else’s.“Late flight?” the driver asked, glancing in the rearview.“Something like that,” Martin muttered, eyes fixed on the side mirror. Every headlight that swept past felt like an accusation. Every shadow on the sidewalk looked like Damien stepping out to stop him.At the airport he moved fast—self-check-in kiosk, no luggage to tag, just the black duffel slung over one shoulder. He bought the ticket with cash and the emergency ID he’d kept hidden in the lining of an old gym bag: Marc Evans. Twenty-two. No middle name. No history that could be traced back to Ostin.One-way to Westbridge, a gritty industrial city four hundred miles north, home to Westbridge United—a mid-table rival club known for scrappy, hungry

Rain came down in silver sheets, driven sideways by a wind that cut through soaked kit like knives. The Westbridge United academy pitch had turned into a battlefield of mud and churned turf. Marc’s boots sank an inch with every stride, sucking at his soles, making every turn feel like wading through quicksand. Forty hopefuls had been whittled to twenty overnight; the rest had been sent home with polite nods and promises of “maybe next cycle.”Reyes stood under the overhang of the equipment shed, arms folded, whistle idle around his neck. He didn’t bother shouting over the storm—his gestures were enough. Sprints first: forty yards up, forty back, repeat until lungs screamed. Then shuttle runs, touching cones set at five, ten, fifteen yards. Marc’s quads burned, calves cramped, but he finished every rep ahead of the pack. Not showing off. Just unable to slow down. He was running from something, and the pitch was the only place he could outpace it.Then came the 5v5 full-pitch scrimmage.