That night, after everyone had gone to sleep, Rai slipped silently out of the little room.
The neighborhood was dark, the streets empty, and the air carried that predawn chill that cuts from the inside out. He went to the dirt-field pitch. Alone. Without a ball.
The Gift stayed quiet, uneasy—like an animal that couldn't understand why it had been called somewhere with no prey.
Rai stepped onto the field and started running. Short sprints. Turn around. Breathe. Again. Squats. Jumps. Land. Again. Push-ups with his hands in the dirt. Elbows burning. Again.
He trained like someone running from something. Like someone in pursuit. Like someone trying to tear the excuse for not making it out of his own body.
And as sweat ran down him, as his chest burned, as his leg trembled, he thought of one name. Dudu. His face. His eyes. The certainty of a man who owned everything.
Rai didn't want to be anybody's king. But he wasn't going to kneel, either. Because this time, he'd come back with fire. And fire wasn't born to turn to ash again.
The next day dawned with his body complaining in a new way. It wasn't the poverty pain he'd known in his first life. This was the pain of construction—fibers tearing and growing back thicker, lungs demanding more air than before. But along with the good pain came the other kind.
His shin still burned where Dudu's cleat had struck it. Rai ran a finger over it. It stung. And the Gift flashed behind his eyes without being called. For a second, the room disappeared. The peeling wall disappeared. He saw risk. Not the risk of a game. The risk of people. Invisible lines slicing through the air, pointing toward where he was going to bleed.
Rai blinked. The vision vanished, but the weight remained.
He went to the backyard sink and splashed cold water on his face. In his first life, he'd thought the Gift was a blessing. Now he knew better. No gift came without a price.
In the kitchen, Marta set a plate on the table. Rice. An egg. Stale bread. Coffee as black as debt. Rai tried to hesitate out of pride. But hunger had no dignity. He ate.
Marta stirred the pot. Her eyes passed over the marks on his leg without looking directly at them.
“You're limping.”
“From training.”
“Training is training. That’s something else.”
Rai didn't answer. She was right. And this was only the beginning.
On the way to practice, the Gift flared without warning. Risk. Three short lines struck his chest. Two kids leaning against the wall of the little market. False posture. Eyes on the street. Waiting for him.
Rai didn't run. A sudden change was an invitation. He simply adjusted the backpack on his shoulder and picked up a small stone from the ground.
The first one took a step.
“What's up, Rai? Feeling pretty big, huh? You pissed Dudu off yesterday.”
“Did Dudu tell you to say that?” Rai asked coldly.
The two exchanged a look.
“I'm just warning you: there's a hierarchy around here.”
The kid raised a hand to shove him. Rai threw the stone onto the ground beside them. The sharp crack made both of them look over on instinct. Instinct was an opening. Rai slipped between them. Shoulder to shoulder. One of them tried to grab his backpack. Rai twisted and struck the man's arm with a short blow. It wasn't a fight. It was a warning.
The kid cursed. Rai didn't even look back.
Practice was a scrimmage again. Sergião mixed up the pinnies. And this time, Rai felt the Gift pushing harder to break through—as if the threat in the street had switched on something that wouldn't shut off easily.
But every time the Gift opened, his body demanded payment. An absurd hunger. Sudden. Violent. As if the Gift had sucked the energy from his blood to power the vision.
Rai nearly buckled in the middle of a play. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood. He stayed on his feet.
The Gift demanded payment. And it was going to charge him more.
Practice ended 0–0. No one wanted to make a mistake. Dudu passed Rai on the way out.
“You're gonna get tired.”
“And you're gonna lose.”
Dudu clenched his jaw and turned his back.
At the gate, a man in a baseball cap was talking to Sergião. Cap pulled low, arms crossed, wearing an appraising stance. He wasn't a fan. Sergião pointed toward the field. Toward Rai.
Leo approached, worried.
“You look pale, man.”
“I'm hungry,” Rai said, taking a deep breath.
The hunger devoured him from the inside. And with it came a heavy presence. King Firmino. Not in words, but in consequence.
“Rai!” Sergião called from the gate.
Rai walked over, feeling his stomach gnawing at him.
“There’s a guy who wants to talk to you,” the coach said.
The man in the cap stepped forward. The Gift flared again. Not with passing lines. But with the exact mixture of risk…and opportunity.