Saturday afternoon.
Heat rising from the pavement.
And the pulse of samba funk in the distance.
Lucas was back in Vila Aurora, his old neighborhood. The academy had given him polished boots and structured drills—but the street had given him his soul.
Today was the Zico Cup, the neighborhood's most legendary street football tournament. No coaches. No referees. Just skill, pride, and a five-a-side cage with chain-link fences and chalk lines.
And today, Lucas was home.
He laced up his worn-out Mercurials, spray-painted gold by his little brother, Davi.
"Para sorte," Davi whispered—For luck.
Lucas smiled.
"I'll make magic."
The game started with fire.
Lucas danced past defenders like shadows. His feet moved faster than thought—he pulled nutmegs, no-looks, rainbow flicks.
The crowd roared every time his boots kissed the ball. Kids climbed fences just to watch. Aunties leaned out their windows with pots banging like drums.
He was alive. No tactics. No systems.
Just feel.
But midway through the second half, a familiar face showed up.
Caio Martins.
Sunglasses. Designer hoodie. No smile.
"What are you doing here?" Lucas asked, sweat dripping down his brow.
"Scouting," Caio said flatly. "Or maybe reminding you where you belong."
Lucas didn't answer.
He let his game speak.
Last play. 4–4. Golden goal.
Lucas received the ball near the cage wall. Defender rushing. No space. No time.
He flicked the ball over the defender's head, spun, caught it on the volley—
Boom.
Back of the net. Game over.
The cage exploded.
People chanted his name. Davi ran to him, jumping into his arms. The streets were his kingdom, and today, he wore the crown.
From the corner of his eye, Lucas saw Caio slip away.
But not before locking eyes.
And in that second, Lucas knew:
The streets had just sent a message to the academy.