The locker room celebration was a blur of adrenaline, champagne that Thiago was too young to drink, and a million frantic handshakes. It took the intervention of a stern-faced security guard to finally extract him from the chaos and lead him to a quiet exit. Exhaustion was no longer a feeling; it was a physical weight pressing him into the pavement, a heavy cloak woven from pure exertion.
He hailed a battered yellow taxi, grateful for the anonymity of the back seat. As he sank into the cracked leather, his body finally gave up the ghost. The adrenaline vanished, replaced by a bone-deep ache that made even blinking feel like a chore.
The driver, a middle-aged man with a faded Atlético sticker on his dashboard, was listening to a late-night sports talk show. The radio commentator was in the middle of an impassioned monologue.
"...and I tell you, I haven't seen a debut like this since Pelé! That chip? That's not football, that's high art! They are calling him 'The Architect,' but I think we need a new word. He is a trump card!"
The driver shook his head in amazement, looking into the rearview mirror. "Can you believe this, kid? This Thiago kid? I've seen Galo play for forty years, and I've never seen nothing like it. If I had to bet my house on it, I'd say this boy is the new king of Brazil."
He waited for a response, expecting a nod of agreement from the exhausted-looking teenager in the back. Silence. The driver looked again and chuckled, seeing Thiago's head lulled to the side, fast asleep, his mouth slightly open. "Fair enough," the driver whispered, turning down the volume. "You clearly need the rest more than I need to talk."
Thirty minutes later, the taxi pulled up to the sleek apartment building Tico had secured.
The driver gently shook Thiago's shoulder.
"Hey, wake up, champion. We're here."
Thiago stirred, muttered a thank you, paid the fare, and stumbled out of the car, looking like a zombie on a mission. The taxi driver watched him go, then finally decided to check the viral clips his own son had been spamming him with all night.
He pulled up the video of the winning goal—the no-look chip. Then, he looked at a photo of the "Architect" holding the Man of the Match award. He looked toward the apartment entrance where the teenager had just disappeared.
His eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped so low it nearly hit his own knees. "No way," he whispered, staring at his phone, then back at the building. "That was... that was him."
While Thiago was experiencing the best sleep of his life, oblivious to having just stunned a taxi driver into a stupor, the world was spinning faster than ever. The Internet was a supernova of memes, analytical breakdowns of the "Rabona Retrieval," and conspiracy theories about where Thiago had been hiding.
But the football world had a short memory, and a new obsession was already taking root. On the morning sports shows, the focus was shifting. The Copa América was on the horizon, just a month away. The pundits were already creating their fantasy lineups, debating whether Brazil should stick to the old guard or inject youth.
On Rede Globo's flagship show, "Bem Amigos," the panel was in heated debate.
"Look," declared Arnaldo, pointing at a whiteboard, "Brazil needs stability. We need Casemiro holding, and Paquetá creating. We cannot rely on form; we need experience!"
"Experience is useless if you're too slow, Arnaldo!" countered another pundit, pushing a different magnet. "We need the blistering pace of Vinícius and Rodrygo on the wings. For me, the tournament will be dominated by nations that can transition fastest. Argentina has the cohesion, but Brazil has the individual raw talent to break anyone down if we play a high-octane 4-2-4."
They spent twenty minutes arguing over who should be the starting striker, with pundits speculating that a veteran might regain his form, while others argued for a younger striker based on a handful of good games in Europe.
The air was thick with confident predictions of who would dominate, who would collapse, and who would be the breakout star of the tournament, with bold analysts even predicting the final score of games still weeks away.
Yet, in all the heated discussions, not a single person mentioned the sixteen-year-old who had just turned the Série A upside down. He was too new, too raw, too... unlikely.
Back in his apartment, Thiago finally stirred, the digital hum of the System gently bringing him back to reality. He had slept for twelve hours straight. He felt brand new, his muscles repaired, his mind sharp. He checked his phone. It was vibrating so hard it was vibrating off the nightstand.
[ RESTORED: PHYSICAL INTEGRITY: 95% ]
[ MISSION ALERT: THE INTERNET DEMANDS A RESPONSE. (OPTIONAL) ]
Thiago smiled, stretching his arms toward the ceiling. The Copa América might be a dream, but he knew the next training session was a reality. He didn't need the tournament yet. He just needed to figure out how to do that Bergkamp flick.