Thiago stood outside the hotel lobby with his kit bag slung over one shoulder, trophy medal still hanging around his neck.
The bus back to São Paulo was loading up. João was halfway inside already, cracking jokes, half-yelling about getting his face in the post-match photos.
But Thiago wasn't going with them.
Coach Paulo stepped out of the building and handed him a folded sheet of paper.
"Driver's waiting," he said.
Thiago glanced at the header on the form—Palmeiras – Official Leave Pass.
"You've got the weekend off," Paulo said, tone clipped like always. "Use it."
Thiago nodded.
"Where to?"
"Home."
The car ride was quiet. The city blurred past in layers: industrial outskirts, narrow favelas, glimmering highways.
As they entered Rio, Thiago leaned against the window and stared out at the skyline he knew by heart.
He hadn't been back in months. Not since before the tournament. Everything he'd done, he'd done from a distance. Every goal, every assist, every match—watched by his family through shaky phone streams or whispered phone calls.
Now he was returning.
Not just as Thiago.
But as the kid who made it.
Rocinha hadn't changed.
Same tilted houses stacked like bricks with no mortar. Same kids with faded jerseys playing barefoot in alleyways. Same grunts of music bouncing off walls. The smell of meat smoke and sewage. The sound of scooters zipping up impossible inclines.
But when Thiago stepped out of the car, the whispers started.
That's him.The one who scored in the final.Palmeiras.Professional now, right?
He didn't smile.
He just walked.
And let them talk.
His sister tackled him at the door.
"Clara," he gasped, stumbling back.
"You won!" she shouted. "I told everyone. I printed your stat sheet!"
His mother stood at the doorway behind her, arms folded. "Look at you. Taller."
"More tired," Thiago said, hugging her. "But yeah."
They went inside. The same two-room apartment. The same narrow hallway. But everything felt smaller now.
Or maybe he'd just grown.
They ate dinner in the same place they always did—knees bumping under a plastic table.
His mother didn't say much.
But after the food was done, she reached into a drawer and pulled out a worn black pouch.
Inside: a thin silver chain.
"Your father wore this," she said.
Thiago blinked. "You never talk about him."
"I'm not talking now either. I'm giving. You're making your own name. Might as well carry the one that made you."
He didn't put it on.
But he didn't let go of it either.
That night, Thiago sat on the roof.
Same roof he'd trained on years ago—juggling a deflated ball under a flickering streetlight, imagining what it would be like to wear a real jersey.
Now that jersey was in his lap.
Number 17. Palmeiras crest. Stitched with his name.
His phone buzzed once.
Camila:"I knew you'd score."
He didn't reply.
He just smiled.
And tucked the phone away.
The next morning, he was gone by six.
No dramatic goodbye. No speech.
Just a backpack, his boots, and the chain now looped tight around his neck.
The sun hadn't even risen as he stood outside Palmeiras' senior training grounds.
Security checked his ID.
The gates opened.
He walked through.
Everything felt… sharper.
The grass was shorter. The pitch lines were crisp like chalk-etched scars. Even the bibs were better—thicker fabric, cleaner numbers.
He stepped into the locker room without a sound.
The players there didn't stop talking. Didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him.
Good.
He didn't want handshakes.
He wanted minutes.
Assistant Coach Eneas waved him over.
"Left side winger today. Keep it tight. Don't try to impress. Just do your job."
Thiago nodded.
He changed in silence. Laced his boots. Slipped the bib over his shoulders.
No one laughed. No one stared.
But a few players glanced, sideways, subtle.
Curious.
He stepped out onto the training ground.
The field glistened in morning dew. The wind was cool, but the sun was already bright over the upper stands.
Thiago took his spot in the formation.
There was no captain's speech.
Just the whistle.
And then the ball.
He didn't dazzle that day.
But he didn't disappear either.
He ran every sprint.
Pressed every ball.
Tucked into formation exactly when the coach barked at someone else to adjust.
Minute 19, he received a pass on the wing, flicked it past a pressing fullback, and delivered a grounded cross that skimmed the six-yard box.
No one got to it.
But the assistant coach marked something down on his clipboard.
That was enough.
Later, in the locker room, Thiago sat alone.
Soaked. Sore.
Satisfied.
He pulled open his System window quietly.
System Notification:Welcome to Senior Tier – Palmeiras 1st TeamTier Up Confirmed: Professional – ReserveStat Growth ExpandedScout Visibility ElevatedNational Youth Pool Watchlist: YESCurrent Level: 12EXP: 41 / 500Skill Points: 8Attributes:Pace – 72Dribbling – 75Shooting – 63Passing – 68Physicality – 65Mentality – 58
No quests.
No prompts.
Just the game.
Thiago smiled faintly.
Then stood up.
Because this was no longer about proving he belonged.
This was about showing them what came next.