The night air in Lisbon clung heavy with drizzle. Streetlamps flickered, casting halos of pale light over the cracked pavement as Adrian walked, boots dangling from his bag, laces swaying with each step.
He didn't head for the bus like the others. Instead, he cut through narrow alleys, where laundry lines sagged above him and the scent of frying sardines and damp stone walls mingled in the air. His cleats scraped softly against the ground.
The apartment block loomed ahead—gray, weathered, the kind that had seen better days decades ago. Paint peeled from the shutters, and the stairwell smelled faintly of mildew. Still, it was home.
Adrian pushed open the rusty gate, careful not to wake the neighbors' barking mutt, and climbed the narrow steps two at a time.
Inside, the apartment was dim. A small lamp in the corner lit the cramped living room, where mismatched furniture crowded against the walls. His younger sister, Isabella, sat curled on the couch, sketching in her worn notebook.
"Adri!" Her eyes lit up as soon as she saw him. "You were on TV! They showed your goal!"
Adrian froze, then laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Already?"
She nodded furiously, her dark hair bouncing. "Mamá cried when she saw it. She said Dad would've been proud."
At that, his chest tightened. He turned toward the kitchen, where his mother stood by the counter, folding laundry in silence. The lines on her face seemed deeper tonight, exhaustion etched into every crease. Yet when she met his gaze, her eyes softened.
"You played well, mijo," she said quietly.
"The whole building heard us cheering."
Adrian smiled faintly, but he caught the weariness in her shoulders, the way she pressed a hand to her back. She had been working double shifts at the textile factory again.
He set his bag down and stepped forward, taking the laundry from her hands. "I'll do it, Mamá. You should rest."
For a moment, she resisted, then relented, brushing his cheek with her fingers before heading toward her room. "Don't forget, Adrian," she murmured. "No matter how high you go, your family is your anchor."
The words lingered long after she closed the door.
Later that night, Adrian lay on the small bed he shared with his brother when he was home from military service. The ceiling was cracked, paint peeling in spots, but he didn't see it.
His eyes burned as he replayed the moment: the roar of the stadium, the ball flying into the net, the commentators shouting his name. For once, he hadn't been invisible.
This is just the start, he thought, fists clenching against the sheets. For Mamá. For Isabella. For the father who never got to see me play. I'll rise from nothing. I'll face the legends. And I'll prove I belong.
As if answering, the System's faint hum stirred once more.
[New Quest Unlocked: "Prove Your Worth"]
Objective: Secure a starting position in official training.
Reward: +5 Attribute Points, Skill Unlock.
Penalty: System Deactivation (temporary).
Adrian exhaled, determination sharpening in his eyes. Failure was no longer an option.
Beyond the cracked walls and peeling paint, the city of Lisbon stretched wide and indifferent. Somewhere out there, Messi and Ronaldo were already immortalizing themselves.
Adrian Silva, in his tiny room, whispered into the dark."I'll catch up. Just wait."
---
Morning broke gray over Lisbon, the sound of gulls circling above the harbor carrying through the cracked window. Adrian was already awake. His alarm hadn't rung—he couldn't risk waking Isabella but his body had learned the rhythm of survival: rise before dawn, move before the city swallowed him.
The small kitchen smelled faintly of stale coffee. His mother sat at the table, hair tied back, uniform pressed, lunch pail beside her. She gave him a tired smile.
"You'll head to training today?"
"Yes, Mamá," he said, tying his worn boots.
"I'll be back before evening."
She touched his hand. Calloused, warm. "Don't worry about us. Just… chase it, Adri."
He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.
Outside, Lisbon stirred awake. Vendors rolled carts of bread to cafés, old men gathered at corner bars muttering about Benfica's latest match, and kids kicked battered footballs down the cobblestones, laughing. Adrian weaved through them, bag slung across his shoulder.
The walk to the stadium was long, and the bus ticket money wasn't always there. His shoes scuffed against uneven stones, his breath fogged in the cold air. Yet every step was part of the ritual.
By the time he reached the club's training grounds, sweat had already dampened his shirt.
The facility wasn't glamorous—cracked concrete walls, a thin patch of grass where dreams either died or bloomed. Older players were already stretching, voices carrying sharp with banter and arrogance.
Adrian slipped in quietly, as he always did. The forgotten one.
But before training began, he had work.
"Oi, Silva!" A groundskeeper waved him over, tossing him a bundle of cones. "Line the drills before the veterans arrive!"
Adrian caught them without complaint. He set the cones in precise rows, his hands steady despite the stares of teammates lounging on benches.
"Still the errand boy," one of them muttered with a smirk.
Adrian ignored it. His mind wasn't on them—it was on the System's new quest.
Secure a starting position… or lose everything.
His heart raced at the thought.
Later that evening, when training was done and laughter echoed in the locker room without him, Adrian returned home. Isabella was asleep on the couch, pencil still clutched in her hand, her sketch of him mid-kick half-finished. His mother's light was still on in her room.
He pulled a thin blanket over Isabella, crouched to study the drawing. It wasn't perfect—proportions uneven, shading rough—but the passion was there. Just like him.
Adrian sat back, exhausted. His muscles screamed from drills, his feet burned, but his resolve only hardened.
Two worlds pulled at him: the weight of poverty and responsibility, and the glittering, unreachable world of football glory.
And he had to bridge them both.
He whispered into the quiet room, words meant for no one but himself.
"Tomorrow, I'll prove I belong."
Outside, rain tapped gently against the window. Somewhere in Spain, Messi had likely scored another masterpiece.
Somewhere in Madrid, Ronaldo was chasing perfection in the gym.
And here, in a dim Lisbon apartment, Adrian Silva clenched his fists and vowed to stand among them.