Chapter 4: I'm Guilherme
Ken didn't return to his old home.
Instead, he chose to stay at the club.
It wasn't because he was afraid of the past.
It was because of reality.
São Paulo was the heart of Brazilian football—and also a city that never slept. Ken had grown up here. He knew exactly what kind of place it was.
After spending two years away, he had learned what true safety felt like.
Here, it didn't matter whether it was dawn or midnight. Walking alone meant staying alert. One wrong turn, one moment of distraction, and trouble could appear without warning.
Football in Brazil was pure.
So was everything else.
If Ken wanted to focus entirely on football, the club was the safest and most practical option.
And more importantly—
If he wanted to use São Paulo as a springboard to Europe, he needed to be as close to the pitch as possible.
---
Vizzoli drove them into the Morumbi District, where São Paulo FC's training complex was located.
From the outside, it didn't look like a football base at all.
It looked like a quiet resort.
Once inside, the illusion only grew stronger—wide paths, green lawns, modern facilities hidden behind trees. It was peaceful, almost deceptively so.
"This place hasn't changed much," Vizzoli said with a nostalgic smile.
Founded in 1930, São Paulo FC was one of the most successful clubs in South America. Continental titles, domestic dominance, and a reputation for producing elite players—it was a club with real weight.
Cafu. Denílson. Kaká.
Names that had once walked these same grounds.
"Ken," Vizzoli said as they parked, "if you hadn't left two years ago, I truly believe you wouldn't be any worse than Neymar. Even being younger, you'd already be knocking on Europe's door."
Ken didn't answer.
He didn't argue. He didn't agree.
The past no longer mattered.
"I'm assisting with the U20s now," Vizzoli continued. "When your name showed up on that youth roster abroad, a friend forwarded it to me immediately."
He glanced at Ken.
"And since your registration elsewhere is completely closed, we'll handle your status here properly. You'll train first. Everything else comes later."
That was as clear as it needed to be.
---
They stopped in front of a residential building inside the base.
"Come on," Vizzoli said. "I picked this place for you."
Ken carried his luggage inside and paused.
This wasn't a youth dorm.
It was the first-team residence.
Most senior players lived off-site, so the building was quiet. Each room was private. Clean. Minimal.
"Uncle Vizzoli," Ken said carefully, "isn't this a bit much?"
He didn't want special treatment.
Special treatment created resentment.
Vizzoli laughed and patted his shoulder.
"This isn't special treatment. It's logistics."
Ken looked up.
"You'll be training with the first team."
The words landed with weight.
"Two years ago," Vizzoli continued, "that was already the plan. I spoke to the head coach. I gave my word."
Ken straightened unconsciously.
Trust like that couldn't be wasted.
"The state competition has already started," Vizzoli said. "You missed it. But the national league hasn't begun yet."
He looked Ken in the eye.
"You have one month. That's all."
One month to prove he belonged.
---
The next morning, Ken reported for assessments.
Medical screening. Body composition. Sprint tests. Endurance runs. Ball control under fatigue.
Everything was measured.
As he moved through the facilities, Ken noticed something immediately—
Most of the familiar faces from two years ago were gone.
This was normal.
In Brazil, youth football was a narrow bridge. The truly exceptional were taken early—Europe didn't wait. Others were released quietly, swallowed by the city.
Very few survived long enough to reach the U20 level.
That was why Brazilian first teams often leaned older. Players either returned from Europe late in their careers or fought desperately to stay relevant.
It wasn't romantic.
It was ruthless.
---
As Ken followed a staff member past one of the pitches, a voice sounded nearby.
"Who's that kid?"
The speaker was tall, broad-shouldered, with the relaxed posture of someone who had played at the very top.
The man beside him narrowed his eyes.
"…That's Ken. He's back?"
"Oh?" The first man smiled faintly. "The one they used to compare to Neymar?"
"That's him," the other replied. "I saw him years ago. He was special."
Another player joined them, glancing in Ken's direction.
"Still is," he said quietly.
The tall defender flicked a ball into the air and struck it cleanly.
The ball flew fast.
Ken didn't turn around.
He simply lifted his foot and killed the ball mid-step.
With a casual flick of the outside of his boot, he sent it back—flat, controlled, precise.
The defender clapped once.
By the time he looked again, Ken was already walking away with the staff, hands still in his pockets.
"Heh," the man chuckled. "Interesting kid."
The others didn't disagree.
Ken had returned.
And São Paulo had noticed.