CHAPTER 56: CHAPTER 56 – SIGNALS IN THE SILENCE

Thiago’s Saturday morning began not with drills or data, but with the faint scent of laundry and home-cooked feijoada drifting through the open window of his childhood home. His mother had insisted he visit, and for once, he hadn’t argued. The familiar creak of the floorboards beneath his feet, the distant chatter of neighbors in the courtyard, the way sunlight filtered through the thin curtains—it all wrapped around him like a well-worn jersey.

He had the day off. A rarity, gifted after consistent performances and Palmeiras’ solid standings in the table. Eneas had dismissed most of the squad after light regeneration work and a brief tactical review, instructing them to recover before the next big clash.

But Thiago didn’t know how to switch off entirely.

Still, he found himself downtown that afternoon, hoodie up, sunglasses tucked low, following Camila through the open-air stalls of a street market near Praça da República. She tugged him between booths with a smile that never seemed to fade, her fingers occasionally brushing against his wrist as she pointed out trinkets or fabrics. The market was alive with color and noise—vendors shouting prices, the sizzle of pastéis frying in oil, the rhythmic clatter of handmade jewelry swaying in the breeze.

"You know you can’t wear this kind of disguise forever," she said, laughing as she adjusted his hood. "The more goals you score, the more faces will recognize you."

"I’m not famous," Thiago muttered, voice low.

Camila raised an eyebrow, pointing at a teenage boy nearby who had just done a double-take, his eyes widening as he nudged his friend.

Thiago sighed, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shrink into himself.

She bought them cups of caldo de cana, the sweet sugarcane juice cooling against their palms, and they sat on a bench beneath the jacaranda trees. Purple petals floated down like slow snowflakes, resting in Thiago’s curls and across her shoulders. The air smelled of ripe fruit and diesel, a uniquely São Paulo blend.

"You doing okay?" she asked, sipping from her straw.

He shrugged. "Yeah. I think so."

"You think so?"

Thiago leaned back, stretching his legs. The bench groaned slightly under his weight. "There’s a lot I haven’t figured out yet. The games, the training—that part makes sense. But the rest of it... the noise around it... I don’t know how to navigate that."

Camila didn’t press. Instead, she leaned her head against his shoulder, her warmth seeping through the fabric of his hoodie. "You don’t have to figure it all out right now. Just don’t lose yourself in the middle of everything."

He was quiet for a long moment, watching a street performer balance on a unicycle while juggling flaming torches. The crowd oohed and aahed, but Thiago barely registered the spectacle. Finally, he nodded. "Trying not to."

They stayed that way until the late sun dipped past the buildings, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink.

Back at the dorms later that night, Thiago found a message from Caio waiting for him.

"Got someone I want you to meet. Young agent. Hungry. Not from the big firms, but she’s smart. Knows the scene. She’s in São Paulo next week—let’s grab coffee."

Thiago stared at the message a while before replying. His thumb hovered over the screen. An agent? That felt like a step into territory he wasn’t sure he was ready for. But Caio had been there since the beginning—since the dusty pitches of the favela, since the days when a pair of decent boots felt like a luxury.

"Alright. I’m open."

He didn’t know what an agent would even do for him at this stage—he wasn’t a starter every match yet, didn’t have offers flying in. But Caio wouldn’t bring it up unless it mattered. And after everything they’d been through, Thiago trusted him more than most.

Sunday morning came with a routine training session—light touches, quick rondos, and short-possession drills. Eneas rotated players constantly, probing, evaluating. But Thiago noticed something else: he was being placed with more senior players now. More often than not, he trained alongside those expected to start.

Afterward, Rafael clapped him on the back in the tunnel, his palm rough against Thiago’s damp shirt.

"You’ve been steady," he said. "Eneas is starting to build with you, not just around you."

Thiago absorbed the compliment. Not because it inflated him—but because it confirmed the path he was on. The work was paying off. Slowly, silently, but undeniably.

That afternoon, he stopped by the Palmeiras youth grounds—quiet, mostly empty, but familiar. João had told him he’d be there early, working out with some of the U-17 holdovers before their next friendly. Thiago found him juggling a ball near the benches, his movements loose and effortless.

"You look like a ghost," João said, grinning. "A legend returning from war."

Thiago smirked. "I come bearing wisdom."

They played keepy-uppy for a while, laughing like old times. Thiago didn’t talk about the pressure. He didn’t talk about Neymar. Or the System. Or the clawing self-doubt that sometimes gripped him in the quiet hours.

He just played.

João missed a header and sprawled on the ground, groaning dramatically. "You should’ve passed that to me."

"I did. Spiritually."

"Spiritually my ass."

They laughed until Thiago’s sides hurt, the sound echoing across the empty pitch.

Before he left, João tossed him a jersey—his old U-17 kit, faded at the sleeves, the number 10 slightly peeling at the edges.

"Keep it. Just so you don’t forget where the climb started."

Thiago folded it carefully, the fabric soft beneath his fingers.

Later that week, Caio met Thiago in a quiet café tucked in the corner of Vila Madalena. The place was all exposed brick and mismatched chairs, the scent of roasted coffee beans thick in the air.

The agent was already there—mid-twenties, sharp blazer, smart eyes that missed nothing. She introduced herself as Marina Vale.

"Not here to sell you anything," she said with a small smile. "Just want to talk. Caio says you’re serious."

"I am."

"Good. Because I don’t work with tourists. Only climbers."

They talked for nearly an hour—about Thiago’s path, his goals, what kind of player he saw himself becoming. Marina listened more than she spoke, her fingers steepled under her chin.

"I’m not chasing the spotlight," Thiago said. "I just want to become someone who can’t be ignored."

Marina nodded, as if that was the exact answer she’d hoped for.

When they stood to leave, she handed him a small card. Her number. Nothing flashy.

"Think about it," she said. "No pressure."

Caio gave him a look afterward. "She’s legit. Not just flashy. Knows contracts, training rights, third-party stuff. Trustworthy."

Thiago tucked the card into his pocket, the edges pressing against his thigh like a quiet reminder. He didn’t know yet what he’d decide—but the meeting had opened a door. And now he knew it was there.

Back in his room that night, he pulled up the System.

SYSTEM STATUS

Level: 15

EXP: 59 / 600

Attributes:

Pace – 70

Dribbling – 71

Shooting – 67

Passing – 69

Physicality – 66

Mentality – 64

Sub-Attributes:

Ball Control – 71

Trick Execution – 63

Stamina – 64

Skill Points Available: 10

Active Quest:Chain Reaction – 1 / 6 Goal Contributions

Thiago dismissed the System. The next match loomed. Soon, they’d face Ponte Preta—an aggressive side, dangerous on the counter. Another opportunity. Another brick in the wall he was building.

But tonight wasn’t about drills or tactics or numbers.

Tonight was about the small things that built the big things.

Friends. Conversations. The weight of his old jersey folded in a drawer.

The fire was still there.

But for now, it burned steady. Controlled.

Waiting for the next match to reignite the spark.