Thiago's alarm buzzed at 05:58.
He was already awake.
Two weeks into first-team training, and his body now ran on instinct: wake before sunrise, hydrate, stretch, arrive early, speak little.
He didn't want to be noticed.
He wanted to be trusted.
The difference was subtle—but critical.
He stepped into the locker room while most of the squad was still trickling in. Laced up in silence. Bib on. Shin guards tight. He taped his fingers out of habit now, even if he wasn't sure why.
Maybe it just made him feel like a player who belonged.
Training was intense that morning.
Possession drills. One-touch rondos. Half-pitch transitions.
Thiago wasn't the sharpest yet. He still turned too fast when pressured and hesitated in tight triangles. But his energy was consistent, and his movements crisp.
Coach Eneas watched him more often than anyone else.
At one point, when a senior midfielder barked at Thiago for overlapping too early, the coach just raised a hand and said, "Let the kid move. He's reading the space better than you."
Thiago didn't react.
But the heat in his chest lasted the rest of the drill.
After training, he sat alone in the recovery room, legs buried in ice sleeves, arms draped behind his head.
The System flicked quietly in the back of his mind.
No pings. No stats. Just a quiet hum.
He opened the interface anyway.
Level: 12
EXP: 60 / 500
Skill Points: 8
Status: Senior Training –Active
Club Rating: 64 / 100
Next Evaluation: In 2 Match Cycles
He closed it.
Then checked his phone.
One unread message.
Camila:"I saw the clip of your cross from last game. You looked… different. Grown."
He stared at the words for a while.
Then replied:
"Still me."
She didn't text back.
She didn't need to.
Later that afternoon, as he returned from physio, he was stopped near the admin hallway by one of the media staffers.
"Thiago. Got a second?"
He paused. "Yeah?"
"Couple journalists have been poking around lately. Nothing serious—just profiles, youth coverage stuff."
Thiago kept his expression flat.
"I didn't say yes to anything."
"Right," the staffer said. "But Coach Paulo approved one. Thought it'd be good practice. She's not Globo or anything. Small outlet. Local."
"She?"
"Lucia Cortez. Freelance. She pitched a 'rising talent' feature. Came through the youth circuit herself, apparently."
Thiago frowned slightly.
"I don't want to do a full interview."
"Don't worry. Just five minutes. After training tomorrow."
That night, João called.
"You serious? You're doing an interview?"
"I didn't ask for it," Thiago muttered, lying flat on his dorm mattress.
"What are you gonna say when she asks about your childhood? 'Yeah, I played on a broken rooftop and dodged drug boys between goals'?"
Thiago rolled his eyes.
"I'll say I played where I had space."
João laughed.
"She's gonna write some dramatic article: 'Favela Footwork – How the Concrete Made a Winger'."
Thiago chuckled.
Then went quiet.
"You think it's dumb?"
"No," João said. "I think it's part of the game now."
A pause.
"Just don't say anything you'll regret. Press doesn't forget."
Thiago didn't answer.
He just stared at the ceiling until the battery on his phone died.
The next morning, training was lighter. The team had a league match coming up in two days, and rotation players were being pushed harder than starters.
Thiago wasn't starting.
He wasn't even on the bench list.
But Coach Eneas still pulled him aside after drills.
"You're not here to be a sub," he said. "You're here to learn faster than anyone else. Got it?"
Thiago nodded.
"Also," Eneas added, "don't scare the journalist. She's new. Five minutes. PR's orders."
He was sent to the admin wing after showers.
Room 3B. Glass panels. A little media light stand in the corner. Coffee cups on a short table. No camera crews.
Just her.
Lucia.
Early twenties, maybe. Hair pulled back. Simple notebook. Clean blouse with rolled sleeves. And eyes that scanned faster than most defenders.
She stood when he walked in.
"Thiago da Silva?"
He nodded.
"You're younger than I expected."
"Still fifteen," he replied.
"First team training already," she said. "That's fast."
"I don't know another speed."
She smiled slightly. "Sit?"
He sat. Back straight. Hands on his knees like he was about to be tested.
Lucia flipped open the notebook.
"Don't worry. No ambush questions."
"I'm not worried."
"No? Not even a little nervous about how your first quote might look on paper?"
He shrugged. "People will think what they want."
"True," she said. Then paused. "But they're curious about who you are. Not just how you play."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
That got a real laugh out of her.
"Alright. Let's make this easy," she said. "Tell me about your first touch. Not in training—your first touch."
Thiago blinked.
Then leaned back slightly.
"Crushed soda can. Barefoot. On a roof."
"Goalposts?"
"Two bricks and a satellite dish."
She scribbled once.
"And what did it feel like?"
Thiago hesitated.
Then answered, quietly:
"Like the first time I could breathe."
Lucia looked up from her notes.
And didn't write anything else.
"Yeah," she said. "That'll do."
She didn't take the full five minutes.
Didn't push for soundbites.
Just stood, shook his hand once, and said, "I won't write anything fake."
"I wouldn't care if you did."
"Yes, you would," she said, with a faint smile. "You just don't want to."
Then she left.
And Thiago stood there a little longer than he meant to.
Not thinking about what he'd said.
But about what he hadn't.