The ball rolled to a stop at midfield, and the air was thick with tension.
Botafogo had just gone down 1–0. A team of favela kids had scored on them. In front of a crowd. In front of a scout.
Thiago stood on the edge of the court, hands on his hips, heart pounding. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't celebrating. He just watched as Ferraz picked up the ball and walked back toward the center circle with cold, methodical steps.
The way Ferraz looked at him—he wasn't just annoyed. He was insulted.
Neto clapped twice from the sideline. "Keep your heads! They'll come back harder now. Let 'em rush—we hit again."
Caio pushed a bottle of water through the chain-link fence. "You've got him, mano. Stay sharp. He's rattled."
Thiago nodded. His calves burned. His lungs scraped. But inside, the fire hadn't dimmed. If anything, it was spreading.
He glanced at the scoreboard painted on the back wall. Still plenty of time left.
He lowered his eyes.
"System," he thought. "Status."
Level: 2EXP: 10 / 100Attributes:Pace – 67Dribbling – 63Shooting – 54Passing – 58Physicality – 61Mentality – 52
Sub-Attributes:Ball Control – 66Trick Execution – 57Stamina – 59Focus – 54
Available Skill Points: 1
He considered using it—but held back. It wasn't the time. He'd need it when it mattered most.
Second half.
Thiago could feel the shift from the opening kick. The Botafogo boys had dropped their composure. No more calm rotations or one-touch passes. They came with heat now—pressed higher, fouled faster.
Within minutes, Thiago was shoved into the fence chasing a loose ball. Another time, a foot raked down the back of his calf. No cards. No whistles. Just street rules.
System Alert:Minor Physical Trauma DetectedPassive Active: Pain Resistance I – Performance unaffected
He gritted his teeth, pulled his sock back up, and jogged on.
Ferraz was everywhere now. He didn't stay deep—he stalked Thiago from midfield to the edge of the box, waiting for a slip, a bad touch, anything he could pounce on.
But Thiago wasn't folding.
The ball came to him near the halfway line. He killed it with one foot, turned sharply, and tried to break into space—but Ferraz was on him instantly.
Shoulder-to-shoulder.
Thiago tried a quick cut.
Too slow.
Ferraz swept the ball from under him and launched a long switch to the far side. A few seconds later, Botafogo had their shot. A low drive slipped past the keeper.
1–1.
The crowd exploded. The court trembled. And Ferraz—finally—smirked.
Thiago didn't say anything.
He walked back to position, jaw clenched. Dust clung to his sweat.
He didn't look at the crowd. Or the score. Or Ferraz.
He looked up, toward the thin blue strip of sky between the rooftops.
Then he looked inward.
"System," he thought. "Give me a quest."
System Response:Optional Quest – Turn the TideObjective: Score or assist in the next 10 minutesReward: +1 Vision, +1 Shooting, +25 EXPPenalty: None
Accepted.
The ball came his way again. Left wing. Close to the fence. Now two defenders were ready—not just Ferraz.
"Instinctive Flair," he thought.
The effect wasn't flashy, but it was there—a small opening in their press, a moment of hesitation in the defender's footwork.
Thiago cut inside fast, dragging both players with him. Then he rolled the ball behind him and spun the other way.
One man down.
He exploded down the flank. The pavement beneath his boots blurred. Shouts followed him, footsteps scrambled behind.
Into the box.
Marquinhos was charging in on the far post.
Thiago didn't wait.
A sharp, low cross. Perfect angle.
Marquinhos crashed it into the net.
3–1.
The favela crowd went wild. Some climbed the fence. Others screamed his name.
Caio was laughing, yelling something Thiago couldn't even hear over the roar.
System Notification:Quest Complete – Turn the Tide+1 Vision+1 Shooting+25 EXPEXP: 35 / 100Skill Point Earned
Time ticked down. Botafogo scrambled, desperate to recover the rhythm they'd lost, but Thiago's team never let them settle.
Ferraz made one last desperate run, shoulder barging Thiago near the touchline.
Thiago fell but popped right back up.
"You're not the only one with drive," Ferraz muttered.
Thiago met his eyes. "Yeah? But I don't need to chase. I make the game come to me."
The final whistle blew.
3–1. Final score.
The chaos after the match felt dreamlike.
Kids rushed onto the court. A couple of teammates tried to hoist Thiago up, but he shoved them off gently. He wasn't looking for glory.
He just looked toward the chain-link fence.
There stood a man he hadn't noticed before—mid-30s, calm, arms crossed over a Palmeiras jacket.
He nodded once and motioned for Thiago to come over.
Thiago walked, legs heavy, adrenaline fading.
"You ever play fullback?" the man asked.
Thiago blinked. "No."
"Well," the man said, "you're going to learn."
He pulled a business card from his pocket and slipped it through the fence.
"Trial. São Paulo. Next week."
Thiago took the card in silence.
The man didn't wait for a reply. He just turned and walked away.
Caio jogged up beside him, breathless. "Who was that?"
Thiago looked down at the card, still not speaking.
Then he smiled—tired, quiet, almost to himself.
"Someone who saw what mattered."