The whiteness had no edges. Che stood—or was suspended, he couldn't tell which—in a space that was empty and full at the same time. His body felt strange, like it didn't quite belong to him yet, like he was wearing it wrong. There was no pain. There was no sound except for a low hum that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
Then the figures appeared.
They materialized from the whiteness gradually, becoming solid, becoming real. Seven of them, arranged in a semicircle around Che. They were tall—impossibly tall—and their forms seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them. One had the build of a striker, broad-shouldered and powerful. Another was lean and quick, the frame of a winger. A third moved with the precision of a midfielder. But they weren't quite human. Their edges seemed to glow slightly, like they existed just beyond what the eye could properly focus on.
Che's first instinct was fear. He thought of his mother kneeling beside her bed in the mornings, making the sign of the cross, whispering prayers to saints he couldn't name. He'd never understood it, had never felt it himself. She'd told him once, when he was younger, "Pray, mijo. The gods listen." He'd nodded and forgotten to do it. And now, standing in this impossible place, he understood that he'd made a mistake.
He was being judged. This was judgment. He was going to pay for not praying, not listening, not being the kind of son who—
"Peace," one of the figures said. His voice was layered, like multiple people speaking at once, but it was somehow perfectly clear. "You are not in judgment. You are here by choice—our choice, and now, yours."
"I don't understand," Che said. His voice sounded small even to himself.
"We are the Football Gods," another figure said. This one had the presence of a goalkeeper, still and alert. "Not gods in the way your mother conceives of gods. We are the keepers of the gift. The ones who guide the game, who select those who will carry the talent forward."
"You've been summoned," the striker-shaped one added. "Your spirit called out through the only language it knows: the language of ambition. Of wanting more than your circumstances allow. The collision you experienced—that was not an accident."
Che looked down at himself. There was no blood. No mark from where the car should have hit him. But he could feel the imprint of it somehow, the phantom of impact lingering in his chest.
"What do you mean?" Che asked. "The car—"
"The car is stopping in your timeline," the midfielder said. His form was cleaner than the others, more defined. "You have experienced what we call the Threshold. The moment when possibility opens. When a soul can be offered the choice."
"What choice?" Che asked.
The seven figures shifted slightly, and Che felt their attention focus on him like pressure. He thought they might explain, but instead, they asked questions.
"Why do you want to play football?" the winger-shaped one asked.
Che opened his mouth. The honest answer was: Because I dream about it. Because when I have the ball at my feet, everything else disappears. Because in the stadium of my mind, my name is worth something.
"Because it's the only thing that makes sense to me," Che said.
"You're small," the goalkeeper said. It wasn't cruel, just a statement. "Your body is fragile. Your family has no money for training. Your cousins need you in the mornings. Your mother needs you to become a doctor. Why would you choose this path?"
"Because," Che said, and his voice steadied slightly, "I don't want to become anything else. I don't want to be smart in the way my mother wants me to be smart. I want to be smart with the ball. I want to understand space and time and angles the way players like Ghiggia understand them. I want—"
He stopped. He could feel his hands trembling.
"I want to get out," he finished. "Not out of my family. Not away from them. I want to get out of Barrio Pérez. I want my mother to stop working so hard. I want Diego and Sofia to have choices. And the only thing I'm good enough at—the only thing I have—is football."
The figures were silent for a moment. Then the striker spoke again.
"Your reasons are pure," it said. "Not ambitious in the way of ego. Ambitious in the way of necessity. This matters."
"We can offer you something," the midfielder said. "A system. A guide. It will show you your progress. It will help you understand what you must develop, where your weaknesses are, what your potential can become. But understand: it will only work if you work. It is not a gift that carries you. It is a tool that measures and tracks and helps you carry yourself."
"Why?" Che asked. "Why would you give this to me?"
"Because," the goalkeeper said, "talent without framework is just chaos. And because you asked for it without knowing you were asking. Every time you closed your eyes and saw that stadium. Every time you ran past your mother's worry. Every time you chose the ball over sleep. You were asking."
The seven figures stepped forward. Che should have been afraid—they were towering over him, their forms more solid now and somehow more inhuman than before. But instead, he felt calm. This was right. In some deep part of himself that he didn't have language for, he knew this was right.
"Accept?" the striker asked.
Che nodded. "Yes. I accept."
The world went white again. But this time, there was a sensation of something transferring, something settling into him like a second skeleton, a second consciousness. He felt it arrange itself in his mind, in his body, becoming part of him so completely that he couldn't separate where he ended and it began.
His eyes opened to the sky above him. It was the real sky of Barrio Pérez, harsh and bright, the afternoon sun cutting down between the buildings. His body was pressed against hot asphalt. And standing over him, face pale with shock and concern, was a man.
The man was maybe forty, with the weathered face of someone who'd spent years outside. His hands were shaking as they hovered over Che's shoulders, not quite touching.
"Are you alive?" the man said. "Christ, are you alive?"
Che tried to speak, but his throat was dry. He managed a small nod.
"I thought you were dead," the man said. His accent was Montevideano, but there was something else in it too, something from farther away. "I saw you step into the street and I couldn't stop fast enough. I braked and you just—you collapsed. You didn't even try to jump. Just went limp. And I thought—"
He ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard, trying to collect himself.
"I'm sorry," Che said. His voice was hoarse but working. "I wasn't looking."
"No," the man said. "No, you weren't. You were somewhere else entirely." He squatted down beside Che. "Can you sit up? Do you hurt anywhere?"
Che took inventory of his body. There was a general soreness, like he'd fallen hard, but nothing sharp. Nothing broken. He pushed himself up slowly, and the man helped, placing a supporting hand under his shoulder.
"I'm Luis," the man said. "And I almost killed you."
"I'm Che," Che said. "And I'm sorry."
Luis looked at him for a long moment. "You apologize to the man who almost ran you over?"
"You stopped," Che said. It was simple logic, but it felt important. "You could have kept going. But you stopped."
Luis shook his head like he didn't understand, but there was something in his expression that shifted. He stood up and offered his hand to help Che to his feet. Che took it and stood, slightly unsteady, testing his legs.
"I was supposed to pick up my cousins," Che said suddenly. "At the preschool. I'm late."
"How late?" Luis asked.
Che looked around for the clock tower that was visible from that part of the street. It read 4:15. The preschool closed at 4:30. They were three blocks away. He should run.
"Very late," Che said.
"Come on," Luis said. "My car is right there. I'll take you."
"I don't need—" Che started, but Luis was already walking toward the vehicle, a faded blue sedan that had seen better years. He opened the passenger door and gestured for Che to get in.
"I'm not debating this," Luis said. "You almost became a corpse in front of me. The least I can do is help you pick up your cousins before someone calls the authorities."
The car smelled like old upholstery and something Luis had been eating—maybe an orange, or some kind of citrus. The seats were worn but clean. Luis pulled back into the street carefully, and they moved through the afternoon traffic toward the preschool. The radio was on, playing a conversation show about football—someone calling in about Nacional's recent performance, the host arguing back.
"You follow football?" Luis asked.
"I play it," Che said.
"Good," Luis said. "Better than me. I used to play, back when I was your age. Well, no—you're what, twelve?"
"Yes."
"I'm forty-two now," Luis said. "And I haven't touched a ball in fifteen years. That was my mistake."
They turned onto the street where the preschool was. Students and parents were already gathered outside, the gate open, some children being collected, others waiting. Luis pulled up to the curb and waited while Che scrambled out and ran to find Sofia and Diego.
They were standing with one of the teachers, Sofia looking anxious, Diego picking at the hem of his uniform. When Sofia saw Che, she ran toward him, nearly tripping.
"You were late!" she said. "Señora Rosa said maybe you forgot."
"I'm here now," Che said. He guided both of them back to the car, where Luis had gotten out and was leaning against the hood.
"These yours?" Luis asked.
"My cousins," Che said. "Sofia and Diego."
"Nice to meet you both," Luis said to them, and they climbed into the car with the unselfconscious trust of children. The adults gave directions and Luis drove carefully back to the apartment building. The whole time, Luis talked—not at Che, but to him, the way adults who'd learned something spoke to children they wanted to listen.
"I had a chance to go to a better academy," Luis said. "When I was about your age. The coach at my local club said I had potential. My mother didn't want me to go. She wanted me to study. Find a stable job. So I listened to her, which was the right thing to do, probably. But I also stopped playing, really playing. And now I'm forty-two, driving a taxi in Montevideo, and I think about that choice every time I watch a match."
Che listened. The car moved through the familiar streets.
"The thing is," Luis continued, "your mother probably has reasons for wanting you to study. Good reasons. Financial reasons, probably. But that doesn't mean your dreams are wrong. It means you have to find a way to do both. You understand?"
"I think so," Che said.
"You're lucky," Luis said. "You almost died today. Most people don't get a moment like that. Most people don't get to understand how fragile everything is." He turned onto Che's street. "Most people don't get a chance to choose again."
They pulled up in front of the apartment building. Luis turned off the engine and turned to look at Che directly.
"What's your dream?" he asked. "Real dream. Not the one you tell teachers."
Che thought about the stadium. The roar. His name echoing.
"To play professionally," Che said. "For Uruguay, maybe."
Luis nodded slowly. "Then you need to go," he said. "Not run away. Go forward. Every day. Even on days when it seems impossible." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. "This is my number. If you ever need a ride to somewhere important, you call me. Understand?"
Che took the card. It was worn at the edges, printed with Luis's name and a taxi company logo.
"Thank you," Che said.
"Don't thank me yet," Luis said. "Just don't waste the chance you got today."
Che helped Sofia and Diego out of the car and guided them up the stairs to the apartment. When he looked back down, Luis was still standing there, watching, making sure they got inside safely. Then he got back into the taxi and drove away.
The apartment smelled like his grandmother's medication and the afternoon warmth that had accumulated inside. His mother wouldn't be home for another two hours. His uncle wasn't there. His cousins collapsed onto the floor to play with a toy they'd left from the morning.
Che went to the small corner table and sat down. In his mind, clear and organized like nothing he'd ever experienced, the system began to present itself. Not with words, exactly, but with understanding. Like it had always been there and he was just becoming conscious of it.
He could see his own profile:
CHE HERNANDEZ | LEVEL 1 | Age: 12
And below it, attributes that meant nothing and everything at once:
First Touch: D+ | Vision: C | Press Resistance: D | Stamina: C+ | Finishing: D | Defensive Work Rate: C-
Overall Grade: D+ (51%) – XP: 0/500 to Level 2
Special Event: Threshold Crossing - System Initialized
Che stared at the invisible information, understanding it completely, the way you understand your own name. This was real. This was his. And somehow, he knew exactly what he needed to do with it.
The afternoon light moved across the apartment floor. His cousins played. His grandmother slept in the corner. And Che sat perfectly still, feeling the system settle into him like a second heartbeat, waiting.