Caio arrived the same way he always did: on time, wearing a hoodie too big for his frame, carrying a backpack with more compartments than seemed necessary.
"Looks like a drug deal," João muttered from the side, eyes flicking up from his phone.
Caio rolled his eyes. "Relax. I don't deliver kilos. Just cleats and chargers."
He handed the old duffel bag over to Thiago without ceremony. Inside were a pair of black boots—his street pair. Scuffed and half-worn, but perfectly broken in.
"I cleaned them," Caio said. "I figured you'd want something that still smells like back home."
Thiago didn't smile. Not exactly.
But his voice was warmer than usual.
"Thanks. You kept everything?"
"Almost. I ate the protein bars. They expired."
João snorted.
Thiago shook his head and unzipped the side pocket.
Inside was a small note, folded into a square. Just two words written in Caio's tight print:
"Still You."
He folded it once and slid it into his locker.
"You staying for the game?" Thiago asked.
Caio shrugged. "I'll try. It's not like I have season tickets."
João tossed him a spare lanyard.
"Use this. No one checks."
Caio blinked. "Are you—wait, are you finally useful?"
"Don't push your luck."
Two hours before kickoff.
The locker room buzzed with half-masked adrenaline. Not nerves—just energy. Sharp movements, rapid tape work, music humming from someone's portable speaker.
Coach Eneas entered without looking at anyone. Clipboard in hand.
"Same squad as last match. Adjustments come mid-game. Be ready."
He glanced at Thiago.
"You're not new anymore. If you get in, make it stick."
Thiago nodded.
He'd expected that much.
What he didn't expect was Nando pulling up beside him after the coach stepped away.
"You going in again?"
"Maybe."
"You gonna shoot this time?"
"If the net's open."
Nando tilted his head.
"You ever stop sounding like a monk?"
"Only when I score."
For a moment, Nando said nothing.
Then he grinned, almost in spite of himself.
"Let's hope you don't."
The bus ride to the stadium was louder than usual. The older players joked across seats. The assistant coach read texts from the staff group chat. Thiago stared out the window, headphones in, music off.
Caio had found a seat in the back, near the equipment crew. He looked strangely comfortable—like he belonged among gear and schedule binders more than in the stands.
Thiago messaged Camila during the ride.
Thiago:We're on the move.
Camila:Clara's got your name written on her arm in Sharpie. Don't lose.
Thiago:I'll do my best. Can't lose to a girl's handwriting.
Camila:You already did. Her T has better style.
He smiled.
Then tucked the phone away.
The stadium was smaller than most league venues, but the stands were packed tight and loud. The kind of crowd that leaned forward with every touch, every clearance, every whistle.
Warm-ups were sharp. Thiago moved cleanly, footwork tight, body balanced. Eneas watched from behind the cones, arms crossed, unreadable.
The starters looked sharp. But Thiago knew the pattern. Midfield was slow in recovery. Nando was still playing safe.
That meant space.
And maybe, minutes.
He sat on the bench next to Rafael, hands resting on his thighs, body still.
"Don't freeze up," Rafael said quietly. "Bench gets colder the longer you wait."
Thiago didn't look over. "I'm not waiting. I'm calculating."
"You always talk like you've got subtitles."
"I don't need to explain what I already see."
Rafael chuckled.
"You keep playing like that, and I'll be the one on the bench."
Kickoff.
Palmeiras started fast. Too fast.
Four passes, a cross, blocked. Another buildup, wide shot. Aggression with no control.
By minute 22, São Caetano hit back hard—a sharp counter, one-two, low shot.
Goal.
0–1.
The bench tensed. Eneas didn't move.
But Thiago leaned forward.
He could feel it.
Pressure doesn't just happen. It builds. Shifts. Snaps.
And something in that midfield was about to break.
Halftime. The score hadn't changed.
The locker room was a low murmur—too quiet for a team trailing.
Eneas didn't raise his voice. Just pointed at the diagram.
"Midfield drop. Wide compression failed. Adjustments incoming."
Then, to Thiago: "Be ready. You're on at 60."
No celebration. No head turns.
Just another assignment.
Thiago nodded. Quiet fire.
He opened the System with a thought as he sat on the edge of the bench, bib half-off.
SYSTEM STATUS – THIAGO DA SILVALevel: 13EXP: 160 / 500Skill Points: 9Substitution Window: Active – Scheduled Entry: 60th MinuteImpact Projection: ModerateTeam Momentum: Negative (-1.1)Coach Impression: StableRivalry Flag: Nando Vieira
No quests.No boosts.Just the match.
At minute 59, the fourth official raised the board.
17 IN. 11 OUT.
Thiago stepped to the touchline.
Boots tight. Pulse even. Body hot.
He didn't look at the crowd.
He looked at the space.
And stepped into it.