The corner bar was shaking. People stood with beers in hand, national jerseys clinging to sweaty backs. Shouts, curses, superstition. It was the World Cup semifinals. Brazil was on the pitch again. Hope — though bruised — still breathed.
Gabriel Angelo, 33 years old, sat quietly at the far end of the counter. His glass was already empty, eyes glued to the flickering TV above the beer fridge. His faded yellow jersey clung to his chest, and his face was tight with something deeper than tension.
"It's now or never, Galvão. Brazil has to show they still know what football is!""But Japan didn't come to mess around, folks. They've grown too much. Watch out for them."
The bar exploded in cheers as the game kicked off. Gabriel didn't join in. The sting in his eyes wasn't fatigue — it was regret.
He was a small-town boy from the hills of Minas Gerais. Until he was fifteen, he woke up before dawn to help his father milk cows, and spent afternoons in his mother's butcher shop. His older sister, five years ahead of him, had already left home by the time Gabriel discovered—far too late—that football wasn't just something he liked.
It was something he needed.
"GOOOOOAL from Japan!""WHAT IS THIS, BRAZIL?! WHAT IS THIS?!"
— Calm down, it's just the beginning… — a nearby fan muttered, trying to laugh.
"SECOND GOAL! Another lightning attack from Japan! Brazil looks completely lost out there!"
The bar rumbled. Fists hit tables, glasses rattled.
"THIRD! Galvão, is this real? Am I seeing this right?!"
Gabriel lowered his head. Sweat dripped from his neck. The voices on the TV blurred into the laughter of childhood, the memories of dusty dirt fields and plastic bottles kicked like footballs.
"FOURTH GOAL! Japan is steamrolling! I'm in shock, Galvão!"
"Japan has become a powerhouse… and us? We've become a joke."
The bar fell silent. Brazil's goalkeeper dropped to his knees. Defenders stood frozen, hands on their heads.
"FIFTH! It's the fifth from Japan! FIVE TO ZERO!"
Gabriel stood slowly. He pulled off his cap, dropped a few bills on the counter, and left without saying a word. No one stopped him. No one had the strength for small talk.
Outside, the city was hushed. Wet streets reflected the yellow glow of the lampposts like an empty pitch. The air was humid, but something inside him felt cold.
He walked with a stumble. Yes, he'd been drinking — but it wasn't the alcohol that made him falter. It was the weight of everything.
'I studied the human body like a madman… every muscle fiber, every neural spark. I did it out of love. But I never even stepped on a real pitch.'
'I understood the game… too late.'
He crossed the street without looking.
Headlights.
A horn.
Screeching tires.
Impact.
His body flew, then hit the ground. The world blurred.
He lay on his back, eyes open to the overcast sky above Belo Horizonte. Iron filled his mouth. The sound of the game still echoed in his ears, distant and broken.
'If I could go back in time… change things… see my family whole again… and try playing football from the very beginning…'
Darkness.
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[Ego System Initializing...]
[Detected Prerequisites: Persistent Consciousness / Absolute Desire / Obsession with Greatness.]
[Syncing: Angelo, Gabriel – Level 0]
[Preparing Temporal Reconnection...]
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[Welcome back.]
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Author's Note: I'm new to writing, but I always have new ideas and never quite know how to put them into words. That's why I asked ChatGPT for help. As I improve my writing skills, I plan to rely less on it. I hope you enjoy the story.