"Demien."
He woke with a gasp, and the name hung in the air, and sweat cooled on his neck.
Where am I?
The ceiling was wrong, and it was too low with a crack that ran from corner to corner.
This wasn't his apartment, and this wasn't his bed.
"Demien," a woman called from somewhere beyond the walls, and a pan hissed, and a kettle clicked as it finished.
Who the hell was that?
He sat up, and the mattress dipped under him while the walls pressed close like a box, and the light through the thin curtains looked pale and weak.
A mirror leaned on a scuffed desk by the bed, and a pair of boots waited under the chair, and a folded note sat by the lamp, and none of it belonged to him.
His hands looked wrong when he lifted them, because they were too smooth and too small.
He stood, and the floorboards creaked, and something was off about his balance and about the way his body moved, and he reached the mirror with both hands shaking.
A young face stared back at him, and the eyes were wider than he remembered, and the jaw looked untested.
"What the fuck," he whispered.
He touched his face, and the skin was smooth with no lines around the eyes and no stubble from yesterday, and his shoulders looked narrow in the mirror like a teenager's.
"This isn't me," he said, and his voice cracked high. "This isn't my voice."
He stepped back from the mirror, and his legs felt wrong because they were too light, like someone had deflated him.
"What the hell is happening to me?"
His hands looked like a kid's hands, and his reflection looked like someone else entirely, some teenager he had never seen before.
Pain split behind his eyes, and memories that were not his crashed through his head like a broken dam.
Fiorentina. The academy. Coach Baldini sitting behind his desk like a judge, not even looking up from the papers.
"You're not good enough for Fiorentina. We wish you well in your future endeavours."
The rejection had crushed him, and months of depression followed with drinking while his mum tried to keep hope alive as he rotted in bed, and last night when he could not take it anymore he swallowed a handful of pills with a bottle of wine.
The pain eased, and the light steadied, and Demien blinked until the room sat still again.
He turned to the desk, and he saw the folded paper, and his name was written on top in a neat line.
He opened it, and the writing slanted, and the words dragged like they did not want to be born.
Mum, I am sorry, and life feels unfair, and I cannot carry it, because the club said I am not enough, and I do not know how to look you in the eye, and I do not know what to do now.
He read the last lines twice, and the ache landed because the voice on the page was trying to hold a world.
I wanted to become one of the best, and I wanted to make you proud, and I wanted to be rich so I could take you out of this.
He closed the note, and he pressed his palm on it, and he looked into the mirror until he met the eyes again.
"Demien," he said to the glass, and the name sat heavy, and it sat right because the choice had already formed.
"I will do everything I can," he said, and his voice steadied, and the line held because promises matter when no one hears them.
Footsteps crossed the hall, and a soft knock landed on the door, and his mum spoke through the wood.
"Demien, are you alright," she asked, and the worry sat low in her throat, and the pan sizzled behind her words.
"I am fine," he answered, and he forced calm into his voice, and he touched his ankle to make the lie sound true.
"I hit my foot on the bed, and it startled me, and I am okay," he said, and he breathed out because the door did not open.
"Alright," she said, and the footsteps turned, and cutlery clinked, and the kettle clicked again.
"Breakfast in thirty minutes," she added, and the hallway settled, and the house drew a breath.
A tone rang in the air, and light gathered above the desk, and a screen formed where no screen should be.
[Ding! The Gacha System has activated.]
His breath hitched, and his chest felt light, and his gaze locked on the floating panel.
The letters sat sharp and white, and the glow edged the wood, and another name appeared inside the lines.
「Welcome, David Drinkwater. Your mission is to rise from the bottom and become the greatest footballer in football history.」
「Analysing Current Team: No team.」
「Synchronising completed.」
"What is going on," he asked, and his hands lifted, and the panel did not care about the room.
The handle turned outside, and a second soft knock came, and his mum's voice brushed through again.
"You are sure you are alright," she asked, and the door stayed shut, and breakfast worked in the kitchen.
"Yes, Mum, I am good," he said, and he kept his eyes on the text, and he nodded although she could not see him.
"I am coming," he added, and her steps moved away, and the hall went quiet.
The panel brightened, and a new line typed itself, and a gentle chime landed in his ear.
「Reward granted for successful reincarnation.」
"Ehn," he said, and the sound slipped out before he could stop it, and it felt like it belonged here.
「1,000 TP and 80 SP have been granted.」
"What are you," he asked, and his shoulders rose, and his fingers spread, and the mirror caught the tremor in his hands.
「I am the Gacha System,」 the text wrote, and the letters pulsed once, and the glow steadied.
「Your host identity is Demien Walter, and your retained consciousness is David Drinkwater, and I have granted access to his memories so you can understand this life.」
"So you are inside me," he said, and he felt foolish, and he said it anyway because the words needed air.
「I am bound to your progress and will help you improve through training and matches, and the choices you make are entirely your own,」 the system replied, and the chime softened.
"How do you work," he asked, and he leaned a little closer, and his breath fogged the edge of the mirror.
He reached out to touch the floating screen, and his hand passed through it, and the panel did not waver.
"Are you real, and am I going mental?"
「I am real, though I exist only for you, and no one else can see or hear me, and you are not losing your mind.」
He looked around the room again. "This is insane, and I am talking to a floating screen that only I can see."
"What are TP and SP, because you said you gave me some as rewards?"
「TP means Training Points, and you spend them to open packs that contain random improvements to your abilities,」 the system wrote, and a neat subpanel opened.
「SP means Special Points, and you use them to open premium packs with better rewards, and you earn SP through major achievements like goals, assists, and match performances.」
"Wait, wait," he said as he stepped back from the mirror. "So you are telling me this is some kind of game, like FIFA?"
He laughed, yet it came out shaky. "I have lost my mind, and I am in a coma somewhere, and this is all a dream."
「This is not a dream, David, and you have been given a second chance in Demien's body, and the system will help you improve if you choose to use it.」
"And if I do not?"
「Then you live Demien's life as it was meant to be lived without the system's help.」
He looked at the suicide note on the desk, and he looked back at the floating screen.
"So I can get better if I put the work in, and you will track it, and you will help me spend the points where it matters," he said slowly.
「Correct.」
"Then show me where I am now," he said, and his stomach dipped, and his jaw set because truth works better than hope.
The subpanel widened, and numbers filled the space, and the room seemed to lean toward them.
Name: Demien Walter
Age: 18
Height: 5'9" (175 cm)
Weight: 165 lbs (75 kg)
Nationality: English/Italian (youth)
Preferred Foot: Right
Position: CAM/CM (AM/RW capable)
Club: None (No Team)
STATUS
Overall Rating: 48
Condition: Fit
Form: Neutral
Morale: Anxious
Currency: 1,000 TP, 80 SP
PACE
Acceleration: 58
Sprint Speed: 54
SHOOTING
Positioning: 50
Finishing: 46
Shot Power: 48
Long Shots: 45
Volleys: 44
Penalties: 42
PASSING
Vision: 52
Crossing: 48
Free Kick Acc.: 44
Short Passing: 55
Long Passing: 50
Curve: 47
DRIBBLING
Agility: 54
Balance: 50
Reactions: 52
Ball Control: 55
Dribbling: 49
Composure: 46
DEFENDING
Interceptions: 46
Heading Accuracy: 44
Def. Awareness: 48
Standing Tackle: 45
Sliding Tackle: 42
PHYSICAL
Jumping: 48
Stamina: 52
Strength: 51
Aggression: 46
GOALKEEPING
Goalkeeping: 7
LEGENDARY TECHNIQUES (Unlocked)
None
TECHNIQUES (Unlocked)
None
TRAITS
None
TRAITS (Shards Collected)
None
"Oh my God," he said as his eyes moved down the list, and his face folded, and a short breath left him because the numbers had teeth.
"I am wack," he said, and the word took the sting out by naming it, and his shoulders eased because honesty helps.
「This is a starting point, and it is not a sentence, and progress will come if you act,」 the system wrote, and the panel held still.
"Fine," he said, and he straightened the note on the desk, and he slid it under the mirror so it would not move.
"How do we go about it," he asked, and the boots under the chair caught his eye, and his fingers reached for the laces.
「Say the phrase to open the Packs Menu, and I will show you the available packs and their ranges under the categories you qualify for,」 the system wrote, and a small arrow pulsed where the menu would appear.
"What phrase," he asked, and he checked the door, and the house stayed quiet because breakfast worked without him.
「Just say, 'ug, I am ready,' and the menu will open, and you can review the packs before you choose.」
He looked at the mirror, and he looked at the stats, and he looked at the boots because the choice needed legs.
"Ug, I am—" he began, and his phone buzzed on the desk, and the screen lit with a name that cut across two lives.
Marco Benetti.