***New schedule starts from this week. 3 chapters weekly, more if I see better results here. So it's upto you folks now. Over 7500 words, I'm trying keep it short, but still here we are lol
Join my Patreon for Advance Chapters , I have about 7-8 chapters ahead there with the new style. Link is Below. Remove space after http.
https:// www.patreon.com/c/Virtuosso777?redirect=true
***
Adriano pulled into the driveway just after midnight, the low hum of his engine the only sound on the quiet street—until he killed it. The match was over, the lights of the stadium long dimmed, but his body still carried every echo of the night. His calves ached, his back had that deep, satisfying burn of pure exhaustion, and his wrists felt raw from all the celebrations, hugs, and handshakes. But the tiredness didn't matter. His mind was still stuck on the pitch—on the roar of the crowd, the feeling of the ball at his feet, the way everything had clicked.
When he looked up, he blinked. His driveway was a mess—cars parked at odd angles, some straddling the curb like they'd been abandoned mid-haste. A black Escalade nearly blocked his neighbor's mailbox. Music thumped faintly from inside the house, and warm light spilled through the blinds, cutting golden lines across the dark lawn.
He sighed and smiled. So they really did it.
Dragging his duffel bag across the seat, he hoisted it over one shoulder and climbed the front steps, already hearing voices ripple inside—laughing, shouting, someone mock-singing terribly off-key. He hadn't even touched the door when it burst open.
"HE'S HEEEEEERE!" Chris Hemsworth's voice thundered from somewhere back near the kitchen, followed by a round of whoops and cheering.
Adriano blinked at the sudden brightness. The music jumped in volume, and half a dozen voices started calling his name in overlapping waves. Before he could step inside, a familiar blur of blond hair and denim flew into his arms.
"Whoa babe!" he laughed, catching her just in time as she launched herself at him.
Kate wrapped herself around him like he was a lifeline, her arms tight around his neck, face buried against his chest. The duffel bag thudded forgotten to the porch.
"You unbelievable maniac," she murmured, her voice muffled by his hoodie. "You score five goals and just casually walk in like it's nothing?"
He tightened his arms around her, grinning into her hair. "Couldn't miss my own party."
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling with that mix of pride and disbelief. "I swear, if we weren't already together, I would've broken into your house tonight and proposed. Ring or not."
Adriano chuckled, forehead pressing against hers. "You would've had to bribe my security. They're big fans now."
"Ugh, shut up," she said, giving his chest a playful shove. "You're insufferable."
Just then, Scarlett Johansson popped into view, holding a half-eaten brownie in one hand and wearing an oversized City jersey that was clearly not hers.
"Move over, let me hug the goal goblin," she said, nudging Kate aside and pulling Adriano into a quick squeeze.
Adriano laughed, patting her back. "Nice shirt."
"Oh this?" Scarlett glanced down at the jersey like she'd forgotten she was wearing it. "Found it in your laundry room. Smells like victory."
She pulled away and gave his arm a mock punch. "Five goals? Really? Couldn't let anyone else have a moment tonight?"
"I told you," Adriano said, smirking. "I blacked out after the second. Everything after that was muscle memory."
"Yeah, okay," Scarlett muttered, rolling her eyes, "show-off."
Chris Evans strolled over next, already holding a cold beer, condensation trailing down the side. He grinned, eyes crinkling.
"To the King!" he said, raising the bottle high.
Adriano raised an eyebrow. "I thought that was LeBron."
"Different kingdom," Chris replied with a wink. "You rule the green one."
"Green?" Adriano frowned.
"You know—pitch, grass—whatever, don't overthink it."
From deeper inside the house, Hemsworth's booming voice called out again, clearly pretending to be outraged. "Oi! I'm the actual king, thank you very much. Asgard doesn't just disappear because you scored a few goals."
"Few?" Kate called back. "He basically rewrote the Champions League rulebook tonight!"
They all laughed, the kind of laughter that came easily, freely, filling the space like warm air. Adriano stepped inside at last, the scent of pizza, cologne, and someone's burning microwave popcorn mixing in the air. The music wasn't too loud, just enough to keep the energy up. People were scattered on couches and leaning on counters, some still in their post-match clothes, others in pajama bottoms, clearly planning to spend the night.
"Hope you're hungry," Scarlett said, tossing him a slice of pizza from a paper plate. "We saved you exactly one piece. Chris Hemsworth ate the rest."
"Lies!" Hemsworth shouted from the kitchen. "I shared some of the crust!"
Adriano took a bite, chewed, and let out a satisfied sigh. "Honestly? Best meal I've had all week."
Kate was still by his side, watching him like she was trying to memorize every little twitch of his face. "You okay?" she asked softly, her voice dipping below the background noise. "You looked... somewhere else when you walked in."
He looked at her, eyes tired but warm. "Just… still coming down from it. Felt like a dream, you know?"
Kate nodded, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Well, welcome back to reality. Where your friends raid your fridge and steal your jerseys."
"And throw you a party without asking," Chris Evans added, sliding an arm around Adriano's shoulder like an overenthusiastic older brother. "You love us."
Adriano shook his head slowly, still trying to wrap his mind around it all. His muscles ached with that satisfying post-match heaviness, but inside, he felt light — almost floaty. Like he was watching someone else's life from the outside.
"You guys really didn't have to do all this," he said, his voice quiet but sincere, taking the beer Chris Evans handed him. He raised it slightly in a half-toast, more grateful than celebratory.
Chris Hemsworth strode over, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and clapped a hand on Adriano's shoulder with the force of a friendly bear. "Mate," he said, voice rumbling, "you embarrassed Bayern Munich. You embarrassed Guardiola. And you won us some good money on the bets. We absolutely had to."
Adriano chuckled and looked down, a little bashful beneath all the noise and energy. "Still… thanks. I mean it."
The living room was a cheerful disaster. Streamers dangled half-heartedly from the ceiling, some already drooping from the tape peeling off. A lopsided cake sat on the dining table with the words "5 GOALS" scrawled across it in blue icing — the "5" already smudged, likely by someone sneaking a finger of frosting. Pizza boxes were scattered across counters and armrests, and someone's chaotic playlist jumped from Oasis to Drake to Queen, then somehow back to Oasis again.
Kate reappeared by his side, gently taking his beer from his hand just long enough to pull him by the wrist toward the couch. "Come on. Sit. Eat. Breathe," she said, sitting beside him and nestling.
Adriano dropped onto the couch like his legs had finally given out. "Oh my God," he murmured as he sank back into the cushions. Kate settled in beside him, legs folded, her shoulder pressing into his. She tugged a blanket from the back of the couch and tossed it over both of them without a word.
For a moment, he didn't speak. Just breathed. The kind of deep breath that pulls through your lungs and into your bones. His eyes fluttered closed.
"I don't think it's even hit me yet," he admitted quietly, barely above the hum of conversation and music.
Chris Evans slid in on the other end of the couch, already laughing to himself. "It's hit the internet," he said. He flipped his phone around and showed Adriano the screen. A meme: Adriano photoshopped onto a golden throne, his face slightly too big, crown askew, a Manchester City scarf draped around his neck like royal regalia.
Adriano blinked. "Where do they even find time to make this stuff?"
"You're basically running for Prime Minister now," Evans grinned. "Or like... King of Manchester."
Scarlett leaned over the back of the couch, phone in hand. "Twitter's a mess. I just saw someone ask if the Queen's going to knight you tomorrow or if she needs to wait until morning."
Kate burst out laughing beside him. "Honestly, I'd vote for you."
Adriano shook his head, laughing softly, his head resting against the back of the couch. "This is insane."
But the kind of insane that felt right.
The next hour slipped by in that magical blur — the kind that didn't need photos to be remembered. Everyone had a drink in hand, someone was always laughing, and at one point, Hemsworth stood up on the coffee table, holding a glass of something brown and declaring he was about to deliver "the world's first Australian freestyle football rap."
"Yo," he began, pointing at Adriano. "He scores, he roars, he kicks down doors—wait, hold on—uh, wars? Floors?"
Scarlett doubled over laughing as Hemsworth's train of thought completely derailed. Kate was crying into a pillow by the third line.
"Bars, mate," Chris Evans called out helpfully, raising his beer. "It rhymes with bars!"
"That's what I said!" Hemsworth shouted back, waving his glass dramatically. "War bars! You lot don't appreciate art."
The room howled.
Then Evans tried to juggle an orange from the fruit bowl, claiming he'd trained with Cirque du Soleil for a film role. He got three tosses in before launching the orange directly into a floor lamp, which toppled over and snapped clean at the base. There was a split second of horrified silence as he stood frozen, orange in one hand, shattered lamp in the other.
"I can fix it," he said quickly, eyes wide.
"No you can't," Scarlett said, wheezing. "You can't even juggle."
Kate was halfway to the floor, laughing so hard she had to sit down on the kitchen tiles, wiping tears from her eyes. "I swear—if one more thing gets broken—"
Scarlett grinned and leaned against the counter. "Want me to tell you about the time my bra unhooked mid-fight scene?"
"NO," Kate squealed, now curled up like a cat, "don't—don't tell that story again, I'll actually pass out—"
Adriano sat through all of it with a quiet smile, letting it wash over him. The laughter. The teasing. The ridiculousness. He didn't speak much — didn't need to. Every so often, someone would glance his way, not to say anything, just to share a knowing look.
They knew.
They had seen him during the hard days. The ice packs. The weeks in the weight room while everyone else trained on the field. The moments of silence when the goals weren't coming and the media started whispering about hype. They'd seen him doubt. Saw how he stayed late. How he kept showing up.
And now he was here. Five goals in a Champions League knockout game. His name being chanted around the world.
But tonight wasn't about trophies or stats. It was about this.
About the messy, perfect chaos of it all. About the friends who showed up with bad cake and worse rapping, who toasted him like he was royalty but hugged him like family.
He looked around the room, at all of them — Hemsworth now arguing with Evans about lamp repair, Scarlett holding a slice of pizza with a fork like a psychopath, Kate quietly laughing into her cup, eyes on him like he was the only thing in the room — and he felt it in his chest.
He'd made it.
***
By the time the clock blinked past two a.m., the buzz of the night had softened into something slower, sleepier. The playlist, once an erratic storm of anthems and throwbacks, had mellowed into a quiet hum — soft guitar strings, slow piano chords, songs people recognized but couldn't name. The kind that made everything feel like the final scene of a movie.
The living room had transformed into a makeshift crash zone. Chris Evans was half-asleep with a cushion over his face, muttering occasionally like he was still in a dream. Hemsworth had kicked off his shoes and was snoring on the recliner, one sock missing. Scarlett was curled sideways on the couch with a blanket over her and a slice of uneaten cake balanced precariously on a paper plate near her hip. Someone had dimmed the lights. No one had the energy to move.
"We've got guest rooms," Kate offered softly, standing in the hallway with Adriano. "There's at least three beds open. I'll find sheets."
Scarlett, barely lifting her head, muttered into the pillow, "You'd need a crane to move me. Let me turn into a fossil here."
Kate laughed quietly and gave up the argument, reaching down to pull the throw blanket a little higher over her friend's shoulder. "Fine. But if you wake up with a stiff neck, I'm not taking responsibility."
She turned to Adriano with a tired smile and nodded toward the hallway. They slipped away together, past the glowing cake, the stacked pizza boxes, and the remnants of celebration now resting in peaceful silence.
Inside the bedroom, the world seemed to shrink. The door closed with a soft click, muffling the last whispers of conversation behind them. Adriano pulled off his hoodie and dropped it onto the nearby chair, then slowly sat on the edge of the bed. His shoulders sagged as if the weight he'd been carrying all day was finally set down. Kate joined him, quietly, sitting close, their legs brushing.
For a moment, they didn't speak. The silence wasn't awkward. It was full — with all the things that didn't need saying.
Kate leaned her head gently against his shoulder, her hair brushing his neck. She let out a quiet sigh, not tired exactly, just... full.
"You okay?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Adriano nodded. "Yeah. Just... finally still."
They sat like that, breathing in sync, the soft hum of the house around them. Somewhere outside, a car passed, headlights flashing briefly against the curtains, then gone. The world was quiet again.
Then Kate spoke, barely audible, almost like she was speaking it into the universe rather than to him.
"You're going to change the world. I hope you know that."
The words hung in the air, delicate and unforced. Not said for his ego, or for the story — just truth. Simple and honest.
Adriano didn't respond. He didn't need to. He just turned, kissed the top of her head — slow, gentle — then pulled her closer. Kate shifted into his side without hesitation, fitting into the curve of his arms like a piece meant to be there all along. Her hand found his, and she laced their fingers together with a soft squeeze.
She smiled, eyes closed now. "I mean it," she added sleepily. "Whether it's football, or... something bigger. People will follow you."
Adriano rested his head back against the wall and let his eyes close too. His body, finally given permission, released. Every sore muscle, every bruise, every bit of fatigue — all still there, but distant now. Background noise to something warmer.
He didn't speak.
His silence said everything.
And here, in the quiet, wrapped in warmth and the fading smell of cake and sweat and fabric softener, surrounded by the people who knew him best — here, he allowed himself to just be.
No spotlight. No pressure.
Just Adriano.
***
The next morning, Manchester woke to sunlight breaking gently through a pale spring sky, the kind that promised warmth but didn't overpromise. Birds chirped lazily on rooftops. Delivery vans made their usual rounds. But something in the air felt different — lighter, brighter, electric. As if the whole city had woken up still humming with last night's adrenaline.
At the corner café near Deansgate, the morning rush started early. Flat whites and bacon rolls were flying off the counter. But it wasn't just caffeine people were here for — it was him. Adriano. Everyone was talking about him. Over tiny café tables, commuters leaned in with wide eyes and exaggerated hand gestures, reliving each goal like it had just happened again.
One man shook his head, holding up his phone with a frozen replay of goal number four. "He chipped Neuer. From there. That's not just confidence — that's witchcraft."
At a newspaper stand on Market Street, it was chaos in the most British way possible. A polite chaos — full of murmured apologies and quiet elbows.
"Oi, mind your sleeve, mate."
"Sorry, just want the MEN — that photo's brilliant."
Bundles of newspapers were vanishing faster than the vendor could cut them open. People weren't just buying one — they were grabbing two, three, sometimes four copies. One to read. One to save. One to show their mates. One just to have.
The front pages were unanimous.The Manchester Evening News led the charge with a shot of Adriano mid-roar, veins bulging, arms stretched toward the heavens. The headline screamed:"The King shines again at the Etihad: Adriano's Five Goals Shake Europe."
The Times took a more regal tone:"Adriano's Champions League Coronation: Bayern Torn Apart by City's New Superstar."
The Daily Mail, ever unsubtle, offered:"Five-Star Adriano Leaves Guardiola Shell-Shocked."
Across the Channel, L'Équipe kept it simple:"Un Phénomène Est Né."A phenomenon is born.
And in Germany, where the mood was decidedly darker, Bild pulled no punches:"Albtraum in Manchester: Bayern zerstört von Adriano."Nightmare in Manchester: Bayern destroyed by Adriano.
The inside pages told the same story in a thousand different fonts. Photos, stills, goal diagrams, player ratings — all orbiting around one man. Adriano, in full flight. Adriano, after scoring. Adriano, pulling his shirt over his head. Adriano, arms raised to the crowd. Adriano, eyes skyward.
At one table, an older man with a City scarf wrapped tightly around his neck dabbed at his eyes with a napkin. "Thirty years," he muttered to no one in particular. "Been waiting thirty years to see a player like this wear our shirt."
Meanwhile, online, the world was on fire.
By sunrise, social media had gone from a storm to a full-blown hurricane. Overnight, millions had watched, rewatched, dissected, celebrated, and meme'd every second of Adriano's historic five-goal display. And it wasn't slowing down — if anything, it was accelerating.
Clips of his goals were everywhere, stitched together in dozens of formats. Each one had its own flavor. From the official UEFA Champions League account's slick highlight reel to TikToks with shaky phone footage from the Etihad stands, fans couldn't get enough.
There was one free-kick angle, shot from behind the goal, that went viral in particular — you could see the way the ball kissed the air, curling over the wall like it had been programmed to find the net. Another edit slowed the moment Adriano took his penalty, pausing just before the strike, emphasizing the sheer calm as he sent Neuer flying the wrong way with a casual roll into the opposite corner.
But the real goldmine was a slow-motion supercut of every goal, side-by-side, focused solely on Manuel Neuer's reactions. It was art in itself. His face told a different story each time — not rage, not frustration… just stunned disbelief. The kind of disbelief that even the best feel when greatness walks into the room.
The caption underneath that clip, posted by a popular football page with three million followers, simply read:"When a man goes from prospect to prophecy fulfilled."
Underneath, the comments scrolled endlessly:"Bro cooked Neuer like he wasn't the best in the world.""This guy's not human.""I'd let him ruin my club too, respectfully."
Edits flooded in by the minute. Some were slick highlight montages with booming trap music. Others were absurd memes showing Adriano Photoshopped onto royal portraits, wearing a golden cape, crown slightly askew, seated atop a throne built from footballs and shattered goalposts. A few users even edited him into historical battle scenes — swords replaced with a ball at his feet, Bayern defenders cowering like extras in a war film.
A reel on Youtube that had already amassed 11 million views featured a kid running into his living room yelling, "MUM! ADRIANO JUST SCORED AGAIN!" before slipping on the tile and crashing into a laundry basket — the caption read:"Me every five minutes last night."
Football YouTubers scrambled to upload reaction videos. Livestreams, watchalongs, goal breakdowns — all titled in bold fonts like:"ADRIANO JUST BROKE FOOTBALL.""IS THIS THE NEXT RONALDO?""NEUER HAD NO CHANCE."
Even players got involved. David Silva reposted one of Adriano's goals on Instagram with fire emojis and the caption: "Unreal baller."
Kevin De Bruyne simply tweeted: "My striker and brother." with a heart emoji.
Then came the clubs.
Barcelona's official X account posted a clean, dark-blue graphic with gold text:
"A stunning performance by a future legend. Respect, Adriano."The tweet racked up a million likes in two hours.
Real Madrid, ever the calculated kings of elegance and scouting, took a more cryptic route:
"Excellence witnessed. Congratulations, Adriano."No hashtags. No emojis. Just enough to raise eyebrows and spark theories.
Even Bayern Munich, licking their wounds, took the high road. Their post read:
"A difficult night for us, but full credit to a brilliant display by Adriano and Manchester City. A night to remember."The replies weren't kind, but the tone was dignified.
Some fan pages joked:"Bayern Munich just tweeted through the trauma."
Agents, pundits, and legends all chimed in. Gary Lineker tweeted:
"We may have just witnessed a new chapter in football history. Magnificent from Adriano."Cesc Fàbregas replied with a one-word quote tweet:"Special."
And perhaps the most telling sign of all:Nike's official account broke its usual silence with a teaser image of black and gold boots resting on a velvet pedestal. No text. No branding. Just the unmistakable outline of Adriano's custom AR10s.
The caption?"You know who."
In every language, in every time zone, people were saying the same thing — this kid had arrived.
No longer just a wonderkid. No longer a promise. He was something else now — something tangible. Something terrifying, if you were on the opposing team.
He wasn't the future anymore.He was the now.
***
Meanwhile, back in the quiet of Adriano's house, the scene was far less dramatic — but no less meaningful.
The smell of fresh coffee drifted through the air. Someone had found a French press and remembered how to use it. Toast popped up in the kitchen, and someone else — probably Scarlett — had cracked into the leftover cake for breakfast without shame.
The house was a soft mess. Blankets over chairs, half-finished drinks on counters, confetti in the oddest corners. Chris Evans was still snoring under a duvet on the floor. Hemsworth was sitting up, bleary-eyed and sipping from a mug with a picture of Pikachu on it.
Kate was in the kitchen barefoot, hair pulled up in a lazy bun, flipping eggs in a pan with the quiet skill of someone who knew where everything was without needing to look. She turned just as Adriano wandered in, shirtless and half-asleep, scratching his shoulder.
"You look like you fought a bear," she said, handing him a cup of coffee without asking. "And lost."
Adriano took a sip and smiled faintly. "I did fight a bear. Its name was Bayern Munich."
Kate rolled her eyes and leaned against the counter. "They're calling it the greatest Champions League performance of the decade."
He shrugged, modestly. "Could've scored six."
"You're impossible."
"I know."
She reached over and gently poked the bruise forming on his arm. "You're also going to need an ice bath."
"I was hoping for pancakes first."
Kate grinned. "That too."
Scarlett shuffled into the kitchen wrapped in a blanket like a burrito. "Is it too early to talk about the knighthood? Sir Adriano sounds sexy as hell."
"Still American," he muttered.
"Doesn't matter. The Queen'll make an exception."
Chris Hemsworth groaned from the couch. "You're all too loud. And too beautiful. It's unfair."
Adriano laughed, setting his coffee down and stretching with a wince. His muscles ached, his ribs were sore, and his legs felt like they were made of cement — but it didn't matter. This — the mess, the laughter, the smell of eggs and burnt toast — this was the part he wouldn't trade.
He wandered over to the kitchen window. The sky was bright now, the city stretching its arms, wide awake and talking. Somewhere out there, people were still grabbing newspapers with his name on them. Still pointing at a TV screen in a pub and saying, "Did you see that?"
Kate came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her chin between his shoulder blades.
"You okay?" she asked.
He nodded, slowly. "Yeah. I think I finally believe it now."
"Believe what?"
"That it's real."
She squeezed him gently. "It is. And it's only just starting."
He turned and kissed her forehead. "Then let's go write the next chapter."
***
Outside the Etihad, the sun rose over a crowd that hadn't really left. It wasn't a matchday, but that didn't matter. By 7 a.m., fans were already gathering at the gates, many still wearing the same scarves, shirts, and dazed smiles from the night before. Some had clearly come straight from the pubs. Others looked like they'd taken a two-hour nap in the back of their cars and decided that was good enough.
The air smelled like coffee, bacon rolls, and leftover adrenaline.
A group of City fans had taken things to another level. Near the main entrance, seven lads stood side by side, each wearing a homemade tinfoil crown, one of them carrying a football painted gold. One of them had drawn "AR10" in blue marker across his forehead. They posed for photos in front of the stadium sign, arms out like Adriano's goal celebration, chanting loudly between takes.
"Ohhhh, Adriano, he's our King — our only King!"
The chant was infectious, floating between groups like a football hymn. People hummed it over sips of tea, mumbled it into phone calls, belted it out with arms raised. One family had brought a camping stove and were handing out warm croissants to whoever wandered close enough. No one wanted to be anywhere else.
By mid-morning, reporters had shown up, most of them not even dressed for the cold. A Sky Sports van parked just off the pavement, and soon a live broadcast had begun right in the middle of the crowd.
One older fan in a battered City windbreaker was pulled aside for an interview. He adjusted his scarf, stepped in front of the mic, and took a deep breath like he'd been waiting years to say this.
"I've supported this club through all of it," he said, voice cracking. "Through the Third Division. Through the Maine Road years. Through being the punchline on Match of the Day." He paused, blinking back something. "This kid — Adriano — he makes it feel like none of that suffering was wasted."
The camera panned away just in time to catch another scene nearby. A teenager in a puffer jacket held up a massive bedsheet banner, spray-painted with uneven letters:"KING ADRIANO."
When a reporter leaned in to ask him a question, the kid didn't wait."Ballon d'Or. Right now. Just send it to his house. Don't even bother with the ceremony."
People clapped and laughed. A woman in a wool beanie holding a paper cup of tea added more thoughtfully, "He doesn't just score. He lifts the team. You watch the others around him — they're better when he's out there. That's the real magic."
Clips of the interviews were online within minutes. On X, the fan with the Ballon d'Or quote was already a meme. One reply joked, "He's not wrong. What's Messi done this week? Hosted a barbecue?"
And then came the rivals.
A well-known Manchester United fan account posted a screenshot of Adriano's fifth goal with the caption:"This hurts. But respect where it's due. Kid's unreal."It got 50,000 likes in an hour. City fans responded with a mix of confusion and smugness, like a sworn enemy had just offered to buy them a pint.
Another post, from a popular Liverpool fan page, read simply:"Adriano is a menace. That's it. That's the post."
Even neutral fans — those who normally claimed to be "just here for the good football" — admitted they'd never seen a five-goal Champions League performance that felt this effortless. This... casual.
Outside the Etihad, new groups kept showing up. Dads pointed to banners and explained the night to wide-eyed kids. Elderly supporters stood near the statues and whispered stories about the '90s, about how they used to sneak into games when the team was mid-table in the Championship. They shook their heads, half in disbelief, half in pride.
One older man stood by himself near the gates, hands in his coat pockets, a scarf faded from decades of use wrapped tightly around his neck. He wasn't singing or cheering. He just looked up at the massive banner the club had quietly hung overnight across the front of the store: Adriano mid-celebration, golden boots visible, the words "Our King" in bold beneath him.
The man nodded once, like something inside him had finally settled."We've waited a long time," he said softly to no one in particular. "And he's only just begun."
Inside the megastore, staff had opened early. It was chaos in the most polite British way possible. Shirts with ADRIANO 10 on the back flew off the racks. Staff kept radioing for more stock from the back. By 11 a.m., they were out of mediums. By 11:30, smalls and larges were gone too. One dad was heard asking the clerk, "If I get the XXL, do you reckon it'll shrink?"
Club staff looked on from the windows upstairs, smiling. No marketing campaign could've created this. No corporate push. This was pure. Organic. Real.
Adriano had done more than score five goals. He'd handed the fans a memory — one they wouldn't just talk about but carry. Into pubs. Into WhatsApp groups. Into father-son conversations and long train rides.
The match was over. But the moment? That was just getting started.
***
Adriano's performance had rippled through the professional world too. Some of the biggest stars, still at the top of their game in 2014, posted about him.
Cristiano Ronaldo, preparing for another matchday with Real Madrid, tweeted:"Magic last night from Adriano. Talent and hard work. Congratulations!"
Lionel Messi, never one for too many words, posted an Instagram story:A picture of Adriano's free kick with three clapping hands emojis.
Zlatan Ibrahimović — true to form — said during an interview, "If I were younger, I'd want to play with him. He's got what few players have—he decides the game alone."
Sergio Ramos added a quick comment:"Defense or no defense, sometimes you just face genius. Last night, Bayern did."
Even retired legends were chiming in.
Thierry Henry, working as a host, said on a Sky Sports panel:"What separates good players from great ones is moments like this. Anyone can score a goal. But dominating a Champions League night against Bayern? That's greatness knocking on the door."
***
The morning shows couldn't keep up. Every football panel, highlight reel, and talking-head segment opened with the same image — Adriano, arms raised under the Etihad lights, five fingers outstretched.
On Sky Sports' Monday Night Football, the usual back-and-forth between Carragher and Neville was replaced by something closer to admiration — and maybe just a touch of envy.
Carragher leaned over the screen, remote in hand, drawing lines over Bayern's defensive shape with a smirk. "Watch this bit here — he's not even sprinting. He's just... drifting. Ghosting into that half-space. Lahm's caught in two minds, doesn't know whether to close or cover. Hummels? Ball-watching. And this lad — Adriano — he already knows what he's going to do before the ball comes."
Neville nodded, tapping the monitor. "It's his decision-making that gets me. It's not just technical. It's when he chooses to dribble, when to pass, when to hit it first time. It's instinct — but refined instinct. Everything's right. No wasted touches."
The two shared a look — the kind ex-pros give when they've seen something that doesn't come around often.
Over on BT Sport, the tone was slightly different, more analytical but just as effusive.
Owen Hargreaves leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Guardiola sides don't get exposed like that. That's not a tactical failure — that's a player forcing mistakes. He manipulated their structure."
Rio Ferdinand, shaking his head, added: "And the arrogance. The football arrogance. Not showboating — the good kind. That Cruyff turn against Lahm? The little wink up at the director's box after the third? That's not a lad trying to prove he belongs. That's a player who already knows he does."
Clips of the analysis bounced between platforms. Fans posted their own breakdowns, some from living rooms, others from bedrooms with scarves pinned behind them, pausing the match footage and doing their best Carragher impressions.
Late that morning, Manchester City's official account dropped the hammer — a sleek photo montage posted without fanfare. Just images: the first goal, the fourth, the look on Neuer's face, the tossed crown. At the bottom, in clean white lettering:
"Witness the Beginning. #KingAdriano"
The internet cracked.
In the replies, the first comment read:"I've seen Aguero's 93:20 couple seasons back. I've seen Kompany lift the title. Now I've seen this. I'm good for life."
Another just said:"History."
One post from a fan in São Paulo showed a child reenacting the free-kick goal in their backyard, wearing a knockoff City shirt with "AR10" drawn in permanent marker. The caption read, "My son knows who he wants to be now."
Another came from a Korean fan group:"He made world-class defenders look like NPCs. Unreal."
Even non-football accounts got involved. A chess page posted a screencap of the fifth goal with the caption, "Checkmate." A graphic design blog called the montage "the best sports branding post of the year."
There was no denying it. Overnight, Adriano had gone from prodigy to icon — not in theory, not in some distant projection, but right now. The analysts could break down the movement. The fans could scream and chant and post memes. But underneath all of it was a shared feeling: this wasn't a highlight reel. This was the start of something they'd be talking about for a long, long time.
***
City's phones rang off the hook. Journalists from Italy, Spain, France, and even Brazil requested interviews. PSG sent scouts to watch City's next match. Real Madrid executives reportedly held an emergency meeting. Barcelona's director of football was seen pacing around the training grounds on the phone.
Clubs weren't just impressed. They were concerned.
This wasn't just a promising talent anymore. This was a player who could tilt the balance of European football for the next decade.
An ESPN report stated:"Several top clubs believe Adriano is already among the top three players in the world. There is a growing consensus that Manchester City will receive offers exceeding €150 million in the summer if the player continues on this trajectory."
Overnight, Adriano had gone from a future star to the star.
Transfer rumor headlines flooded in:
"Real Madrid Eyes Shock Bid of 250 million euros for City's Adriano" (Marca)
"Clubs ready to Break Bank and sell half of squad for City's Prodigy" (Sport)
"PSG Prepare World Record Offer for Manchester City's King, roumoured around 300 million euros" (L'Équipe)
City, meanwhile, remained quiet publicly. Internally, Txiki Begiristain, City's director of football, was already drawing up a plan to offer Adriano a massive new Contract before the next year summer window even opened.
***
By noon the next day, the air at Manchester City's training ground still crackled with leftover energy. It wasn't like the usual post-match recovery day. The players trickled in, but there was a looseness in their steps, a quiet buzz running through the group that hadn't faded overnight.
They came in clumps, some carpooling, others walking across the gravel lot with headphones around their necks and coffee in hand. The moment they stepped inside, the jokes started flying.
"Seen yourself yet?" James Milner asked Joe Hart, grinning as he held up a phone screen. "You flinched before the ball even hit the net."
"Shut up," Hart muttered, smiling anyway.
Others crowded around phones, watching fan-made compilations of Adriano's goals. There was one clip from behind the net where the ball curled so perfectly around the Bayern wall that someone had set it to opera music. The players burst out laughing.
Hazard scrolled through Twitter with his boots still in hand, shaking his head. "They put a halo on him in this one. A literal crown of light."
Yaya Touré chuckled, pushing open the door to the gym. "Deserved."
But for all the energy, the mood was strangely calm — a kind of shared satisfaction among professionals who knew they had seen something rare, and been part of it. No one tried to one-up it. There was nothing to compete with. The feeling was: we were there.
Outside the entrance to the main building, Manuel Pellegrini stood with his hands behind his back, as still and composed as always. He gave each arriving player a short nod. A quiet presence, as usual, letting the dressing room manage itself — and knowing it usually did.
When Adriano arrived — late, but not disrespectfully so — the conversation around the entrance dipped slightly. Not silence, but an instinctive pause, like a respectful intake of breath.
He walked in wearing a hoodie and joggers, a sports bag slung casually over one shoulder. There was a smile on his face, not smug, just quiet — the look of someone who hadn't quite processed everything yet. A few players clapped lightly as he passed, others gave him pats on the back.
Pellegrini caught his eye, gave the faintest smile, and said simply, "Well done, my boy."
That was it. No speech. No pulling him aside. Just a short phrase, the kind the Chilean gave to any player who had done his job — because Adriano, as far as Pellegrini was concerned, had done his job. Exceptionally. But it was still only a job.
The session itself was light — recovery protocols, short passing drills, foam rolling, a bit of stretching. Some small-sided games followed, more for movement than intensity. Nobody pushed hard. There was still laughter, especially when Adriano touched the ball.
"Oi, five more today, yeah?" Zabaleta called out, tossing him a short pass with an exaggerated grin.
Even Silva, always the quiet one, leaned over during water break and said in mock frustration, "I might just stop shooting. I don't need goals anymore. I'll just pass it to you and stretch."
Adriano chuckled, tapping Silva's shoulder with the side of his water bottle. "Deal."
But he stayed focused. He laughed, sure, but his touches were still clean. He jogged with intent, ran every drill with the same smooth concentration as before. He didn't look like someone basking in glory — more like someone who had tasted it once and wasn't satisfied yet.
Later, as the players sat on yoga mats for cooldown stretches, Fernandinho glanced over at him.
"You sleep at all?"
"Maybe three hours," Adriano admitted. "Not even tired though."
Fernandinho smiled. "That's when you know it's real."
In the background, one of the training staff checked inventory. Another rolled a fresh rack of clean bibs into the hallway. Outside, a few fans had gathered near the gates again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the squad leaving.
Back in the physio room, Pellegrini stood watching through the glass, arms still folded. Someone asked him quietly if he thought last night had been Adriano's best performance.
He didn't answer directly. He just gave the same quiet smile and said, "Let's see how he trains tomorrow."
Because everyone — coaches, players, even the fans outside the gates — understood the same thing:
This wasn't the end of something. It was the start of something that could be much bigger.
And if Adriano knew that too, he didn't show it off.
He just picked up a fresh pair of boots, laced them without a word, and joined the next drill.
***
Later that afternoon, Adriano sat quietly in a modest room inside the City media building. The walls were plain, painted a neutral grey, with two chairs placed across from each other and a simple wooden table between them. No stage, no big banners, no lights blinding him.
Across from him sat Geoff Shreeves, one of the most respected and familiar faces in English football journalism. The cameras were small, barely noticeable, set up at the corners to capture everything without making the space feel artificial.
Both had mugs of coffee resting on the table. Shreeves smiled warmly as he leaned forward slightly.
The cameras started rolling.
"First things first," Shreeves began, his voice easy. "How does it feel?"
Adriano let out a breath and smiled, a little shy but honest. "It feels... unreal. Growing up, you dream about nights like that. You dream about scoring, hearing the crowd, feeling that rush. But dreaming it and living it... they're two completely different things. It's almost hard to believe it happened."
Shreeves nodded. "You made Bayern Munich—one of the biggest and strongest teams in Europe—look almost ordinary last night. Did it feel different out there?"
Adriano took a moment before answering, really thinking it through. "It did. Everything just slowed down. I felt like I could see the spaces before they even opened. I wasn't thinking too much. I wasn't rushing. It felt like... I was just playing. Just being free. Every touch, every pass, every shot — it all felt natural."
Shreeves smiled slightly. "There was one moment everyone noticed — after you scored your third goal, you looked up, gave a little wink, and pointed toward the VIP box. Who was that for?"
Adriano chuckled quietly and looked down at his coffee. "That was for someone special. She knows who she is."
Shreeves didn't push. He just gave a knowing smile and moved on.
"Pellegrini said after the match that you 'played the game on your terms.' What does that mean to you?"
Adriano shifted a little in his seat. "It means trust. It means my manager trusts me enough to let me be myself out there. I know the structure of the team, I know my role, but within that, he gives me freedom. He doesn't try to control every move. He lets me express myself, and that means a lot."
Shreeves leaned forward a bit. "The chemistry you have with this team — it looks real. How important has the group been for you?"
Adriano smiled wider now. "Very important. From day one, the players welcomed me. Guys like Kompany, Silva, Aguero — they made it easy. It's a team where everyone fights for each other. It's not about who scores, it's about winning together. That makes it easier for a player like me to perform."
There was a short pause before Shreeves continued. "There's a lot of talk now — big clubs circling. Real Madrid. PSG. Barcelona even. Have you thought about your future?"
Adriano didn't blink. He looked straight into the camera, his voice steady.
"My future is Manchester City," he said. "This club believed in me when others didn't. They gave me a platform, they gave me respect, and they gave me a family. I'm not going anywhere. I'm just getting started."
There was a small silence, but it wasn't awkward. It was the weight of his words settling.
Shreeves smiled, tapping his pen on the notepad in front of him. "City fans will love hearing that."
Adriano leaned back a little, relaxed. "They deserve it. They've been through a lot over the years. They deserve more nights like yesterday. And we're going to give it to them."
Shreeves glanced at his notes and asked carefully, "What about you personally? Outside of football. How do you stay grounded?"
Adriano thought about it for a second. "I keep it simple. I spend time with people who knew me before any of this started. Family, close friends. I try to live a normal life when I can. Movies, dinners, walks. Just... normal stuff."
He smiled a little.
"At the end of the day, football is my job and my passion. But it's not everything. You have to remember who you are outside of the pitch too."
The final question came naturally.
"You've been part of a City team that many say is changing football. Do you feel that inside the dressing room?"
Adriano nodded seriously. "We do. We talk about it. We want to be part of something bigger than just winning trophies. We want to create a style, a way of playing that people remember. It's not just about lifting cups. It's about how we get there. We want to leave a mark."
Shreeves smiled warmly and closed his notebook.
"Well," he said, standing up and offering his hand, "you've already started."
Adriano stood too, shaking his hand firmly.
As he pulled on his jacket to leave, Shreeves said one last thing, almost offhand but meaningful.
"You know you've changed the game already, right? Europe's watching now."
Adriano paused at the door, turned back with a quiet half-smile.
"Maybe. But I've only played one Champions League match," he said. "Wait till you see more."
And with that, he pushed open the door and stepped back into a world that was now waiting, watching, and expecting even greater things from him