Prologue: Echoes of a Broken Dream

Rio de Janeiro, 2027

The air in the favelas of Rocinha was always heavy, humid with the scent of sweat, food, and the faint cast of desperation. It clung to the back of the throat, a constant reminder of life in the slums. Abilo Santos had once thought that air tasted of potential... but now, it was simply suffocating.

The muffled hum of traffic below the hill was distant, drowned out by the sound of pens clicking and keyboards tapping. Abilo sat behind his desk at the bank, a mindless job, his hands going through the motions of paperwork, but his thoughts were far from here. They were always far.

He closed his eyes, retreating into memories of the pitch, the dusty fields of Rocinha, where boys became men chasing an uneven ball through makeshift goals. Abilo wasn't born a prodigy, but he was forged into one. His legs, his heart, his spirit had made him one of the best prospects in all of Rio. Football was his ticket. Every step, every kick, every sprint was a step away from poverty, away from the gangs, away from the future he refused to accept.

But fate had a cruel sense of irony. One night, a case of mistaken identity shattered more than just his leg. A gang war he had nothing to do with swept him into its brutality. A bullet wasn't needed, just a bat, one swift blow, and his left leg twisted under his weight in ways it wasn't supposed to. The snap of bone echoed louder in his mind than any cheering crowd ever had.

Football died for him that night. So did his dreams.

He returned to that moment often, like a moth to a flame, knowing it was agony but unable to resist. He could still hear his father, Marco, sitting silently beside him in the hospital room, the sound of his mother's tears in the hallway. They had never given up on him, even when he had, but it wasn't enough... He could walk, but never run the same. He was ordinary now... less than ordinary really... A cripple with nothing but memories and a shattered future.

Yet today, of all days, the past felt heavier. Abilo's eyes wandered to the clock, 4:55 p.m., the last few minutes of a shift that never really mattered.

Suddenly, a scream broke the monotony.

His head snapped up just as a masked figure burst through the glass doors, gun in hand. Shouts erupted, bodies hitting the floor. A bank robbery. Abilo's heart raced, but his body froze. A flash of instinct, buried deep, flickered in his chest.

"Get down!" someone yelled, but Abilo remained standing, his mind spinning. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't even an athlete anymore. What could he do?

But then he saw it... the eyes of a child, cowering behind her mother, her face pale with terror. Something in Abilo ignited. He wasn't a football star anymore, but he was still alive. He was still here.

The robber moved toward the vault, his focus elsewhere. Abilo didn't think. He moved on instinctly, lunging forward, grabbing a paperweight from the desk. It was reckless. It was suicidal... but for once, Abilo didn't care.

With all the strength he had left, he swung. The paperweight collided with the robber's temple, and the man crumpled to the floor, unconscious. The room was silent for a moment, stunned by the act of bravery from a man they barely knew. But then the pain hit him. A searing, burning pain in his abdomen.

He looked down. Blood. The robber had fired... how many times, he didn't know. Once was enough.

As Abilo fell to the ground, he heard the screams again, people rushing to his side, but their voices were fading. The world was slipping away, replaced by a strange calm. His breath came shallow, and he felt the warmth of blood pooling beneath him. His chest heaved, his body trembling.

Is this it?

His vision blurred, but his mind remained sharp. His thoughts drifted back to those fields in Rocinha, to the sun on his face, the ball at his feet. He smiled, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. He'd never made it to the stadiums. He'd never heard his name chanted by thousands. But for a moment, just a brief moment, he felt alive again.

"I wonder… what could've been…" he whispered.

And then, darkness.

Suddenly, a light... a blinding, piercing light. Abilo felt his soul being lifted, pulled toward something beyond comprehension. His pain was gone. His body felt weightless, as though his burdens had evaporated. The brightness grew, and within it, a voice... deep, ancient and thunderous.

"You have done well, Abilo Santos."

Abilo tried to respond, but words failed him. He could only listen as the voice rumbled like the earth shaking beneath the favelas.

"You lived a life filled with strife and hardship, yet your final act was one of courage, of sacrifice. The world may not have been kind to you, but in your last breath, you defied it. For that, you are granted a choice."

The light around him shifted, forming the outline of a towering figure. It was not the god of his childhood prayers. No, this being was something older, primal perchance... a deity of forgotten worlds. Its form was fluid, ever-changing, but its presence was undeniable.

"I know your heart," the God said, its voice shaking the very air. "You desire another chance, do you not?"

Abilo blinked, confusion and hope warring in his chest. Another chance? What did that even mean?

"I shall grant you one wish," the God continued, its voice now softer, though still resonant with power. "One chance to rewrite your story. And I know what you truly desire. I see it burning in your soul."

Abilo opened his mouth, but the God's laughter echoed before he could speak.

"Do not waste time asking. You wish to live again, to return to the boy who dreamed of greatness."

The God raised a hand, and the light consumed Abilo.

January 3rd, 2015

Abilo woke with a start, the familiar scent of his old room filling his senses. Sunlight streamed through the worn curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. He blinked, heart pounding, and slowly sat up. His eyes caught his reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall.

A gasp escaped him.

He was twelve again. His face, once hardened by years of struggle, was youthful, untouched by the hardships of his past. But his eyes... his eyes were different. They were no longer the deep brown of his youth.

One eye was a brilliant, burning gold. The other, an icy blue.

A tear slipped down his cheek as the sun kissed his face, illuminating the strange, mystical eyes staring back at him.

Abilo Santos had been reborn. And this time, he wouldn't fail.