Chapter 1 — The Night the Flame Died
(Part 1)
The crowd inside the Maracanã was electric. Red flares burned in the stands, smoke curling upward like ghosts from the sea of Flamengo banners. Seventeen-year-old Julian Mattheus Côrrea Dos Santos stood near midfield, chest heaving, jersey clinging to his sweat-soaked body. The scoreboard above him blinked Flamengo 2 – Palmeiras 1. The final whistle was seconds away.
A lifetime of obsession condensed into this single heartbeat.
The Palmeiras fullback lunged. Julian barely noticed. One flick, one feint, and the boy's balance dissolved. The ball stuck to Julian's feet like it was born there. He charged forward—cut inside, one-two with the striker, then a backheel drag that made the crowd gasp. He didn't even think. It was all instinct, muscle memory, and rhythm.
The keeper rushed out. Julian lifted the ball—a subtle scoop, effortless.
Net.
Goal.
The Maracanã erupted. Fireworks cracked across the night sky. A commentator somewhere screamed his name:
"Julian Côrrea! Flamengo's Neymar! The boy wonder from Rio does it again!"
Julian threw his arms wide and let the noise consume him. For that one second, it felt like the world belonged to him. He could see the flash of phones, the blur of red jerseys, the tears on his teammates' faces. Glory, pure and raw.
But as the others piled onto him, Julian's smile faded. The cheering around him dulled to static. His heart beat too fast—too loud. A dizzy buzz crawled through his skull.
Something felt… off.
The celebration that followed was a blur of music and flashing lights. The locker room reeked of champagne, sweat, and hair gel. A couple of the older players danced shirtless, their voices hoarse from shouting. Someone blasted funk carioca from a speaker.
Julian sat apart, scrolling through his phone.
"Flamengo's future superstar."
"Scouts from Europe taking notice."
"The next big thing out of Rio."
It should've made him happy. It didn't.
His reflection stared back from the dark screen: same brown curls, same dark eyes—but hollow.
He thought of his father, Dr. Vítor Luís Paulo dos Santos, the neurosurgeon with hands steady enough to rebuild a human spine but stern enough to dismantle a son's confidence. Vítor had called that morning:
"Parabéns, filho. Make me proud tonight—but remember: discipline makes greatness, not fame."
Julian had forced a smile. Yes, father.
Now, even with a gold medal around his neck, he didn't feel proud. He felt exhausted.
"Julian!" one of his teammates yelled, waving a beer can. "We're going out, irmão! Beach party, Zona Sul! You in?"
Julian hesitated. "Coach said we're supposed to rest before—"
"Man, forget Coach. You just won the league! You're a legend!"
The locker room roared approval. The chanting began again:
"Julian! Julian! Flamengo's Neymar!"
And that was that.
The mansion sat above the beach, windows glowing with blue light, bass shaking the walls. Music thundered through the halls as bodies moved in waves. Julian walked in wearing his Flamengo jacket, the air thick with perfume, smoke, and salt. Someone handed him a drink before he could refuse.
"Just one," he muttered.
One became two. Two became four.
Hours bled together—laughing, dancing, forgetting. He barely knew the faces anymore. A girl kissed him; another poured liquor over his wrist for luck. He laughed because it was easier than thinking.
In the bathroom mirror, he saw himself again—hair wild, eyes glassy, a stranger in a champion's jacket.
"You're supposed to be happy," he whispered.
His reflection didn't answer.
Instead, the sound of the ocean filled the silence.
Julian closed his eyes, remembering another night—Rio rooftops, age ten, juggling a ball while his mother, Lilliana Oliveira-Côrrea, called from the kitchen:
"Dinner, meu amor! Don't let that ball roll off the roof again!"
She'd believed in him more than anyone. Play free, she always said. Play like the boy who fell in love with the ball, not the man who has to prove he's worth something.
Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten how.
He stared at his trembling hands. They were surgeon's hands, his father used to say—precise, controlled. Yet here they were, spilling alcohol down his wrist.
He laughed, bitter and broken. "Surgeon's hands, huh?"
The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered