---
The alarm went off at 5:30 AM.
Anthony's arm shot out from under the covers, slapped the snooze button, and missed. Slapped again. Missed again. The phone kept screaming somewhere on the floor, probably under the pile of clothes he'd kicked off last night.
"Anthony!"
His mother's voice. From the kitchen. How did she even know he was awake?
"Anthony, your phone! Answer!"
He rolled out of bed. Landed on the floor. Crawled toward the noise. Found the phone under yesterday's jeans and something that might have been a sock from three days ago.
5:31 AM.
First team training. 8 AM. He had time.
He lay on the floor, face against the cold wood, and considered never moving again.
The door opened.
His brother stood there, already dressed, already bouncing. "You're on the floor."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Comfortable."
"You're going to be late for first team training."
"I have two and a half hours."
"You have to eat. And shower. And look like you belong with Steven Gerrard, not like you just crawled out of a dumpster."
Anthony opened one eye. "Is that what I look like?"
"Yes. Now get up."
"Make me."
His brother grinned. And jumped.
Anthony caught him mid-air—vision 99 meant he saw it coming from the doorway—and they crashed onto the floor together, wrestling, grunting, the kind of brother fight that wasn't really a fight but also wasn't really play.
"Get off me."
"Say please."
"Please get off me before I break your arm."
"You can't break my arm. You're weak. You have strength 62."
Anthony froze.
His brother froze.
"What did you say?"
His brother's face went from triumphant to confused. "I said... you're weak? Because you are? What's wrong with—"
Right. Normal people didn't see stats. Normal people didn't know numbers. His brother was just being a brother.
Anthony shoved him off. "Nothing. Get out. I need to shower."
"You're weird."
"Out."
His brother left, still grinning.
Anthony sat on the floor, heart pounding for no reason. He'd have to be careful. Stats in his head. Numbers everywhere. Normal people couldn't see them.
The system didn't comment.
Probably for the best.
---
Breakfast was chaos squared.
His mother had made enough food for twenty people. His father was reading the newspaper like nothing special was happening—his son's first day training with Liverpool's first team, no big deal, just another Tuesday. His sister was on her phone, filming everything, narrating like she was a documentary director.
"And here we see Anthony Silva White, about to eat his third pão de queijo, completely unaware that this is the most important day of his life."
"Gabriela, put the phone down."
"Never. This is content. When you're famous, this video is worth millions."
"When I'm famous, I'll buy you a phone that works."
"This one works fine."
"It cracked yesterday when you dropped it in the toilet."
"That was artistic choice."
Anthony's brother laughed so hard milk came out his nose. Their mother yelled. Their father turned a page. Normal.
Anthony ate his third pão de queijo.
---
The bus to Melwood took forty minutes.
He sat in the back, headphones on, music low. Not because he was cool. Because he didn't want to talk to anyone. The other passengers were normal people going to normal jobs. Construction workers. Office people. A woman with a screaming baby.
Anthony watched them all.
Vision 99 meant he saw details. The way the construction worker's boots were worn on the left side. The way the office woman kept checking her watch. The way the baby's face went red before screaming—three seconds of warning every time.
He wondered if Messi saw the world like this. If every detail screamed for attention. If he had to filter constantly just to function.
Probably. Probably not.
Messi was different. Special. The kind of special that came once in a generation.
Anthony was just a guy with a system and three templates and zero hunger.
The bus stopped.
Melwood.
---
The first-team building was different from the youth side.
Bigger. Cleaner. More serious. The kind of place where careers happened or died. Anthony walked through the doors at 7:45, fifteen minutes early, and immediately felt like he didn't belong.
The receptionist looked up. "Anthony White?"
"Yes."
"First-team training?"
"Yes."
She smiled. Friendly. "Go through the doors, turn left, changing rooms are at the end. Someone will meet you there."
Anthony nodded. Walked.
The corridors were lined with photos. Liverpool legends. Trophy lifts. Moments frozen in time. He passed Kenny Dalglish. Ian Rush. Steven Gerrard lifting the Champions League in 2005—except that hadn't happened yet. 2004. Istanbul was next year.
Anthony knew the future.
He knew Gerrard would lift that trophy. He knew Liverpool would come back from 3-0 down against Milan. He knew the exact expression on Gerrard's face when the final whistle blew.
He'd watched it on television. From his couch. In his first life.
Now he was walking toward the changing room where that legend got dressed every morning.
Weird.
---
The changing room was half-empty when he arrived.
A few players he recognized from television. Names he'd scouted in his first life. Faces younger than he remembered. One of them looked up as Anthony entered.
"You're the kid. The Wizard."
Anthony blinked. "How do you—"
"Everyone's talking about you. Youth team kid with insane passing. They said you'd be coming up." The player stood. Offered a hand. "Jamie Carragher."
Anthony shook it. "Anthony White."
"I know." Carragher grinned. "Relax, kid. First day's always weird. Just do what you do and ignore everyone else."
More players filtered in. Names Anthony knew. Faces he recognized. Then the door opened and he walked in.
Steven Gerrard.
Twenty-four years old. Already captain. Already a legend. Already the kind of player who carried teams on his back and made the impossible look routine.
Gerrard looked at Anthony. Nodded once. "You're the passer."
"Yes."
"Good. We need more of those."
That was it. No speech. No welcome. Just a nod and a statement and then he was pulling on his boots like Anthony wasn't there.
Carragher leaned over. "That's him being friendly. You should see him when he doesn't like someone."
Anthony filed that away.
---
Training was... overwhelming.
The pace was faster. The physicality was brutal. Men twice his size knocked him off the ball like he was a child. His strength 62 meant nothing against Premier League professionals. His stamina 77 meant he was gasping after twenty minutes.
But his passing.
Every time he got the ball, something happened.
A through ball to Gerrard that split two defenders. Gerrard looked back with something like surprise.
A switch pass to the opposite wing, perfectly weighted, landing exactly where the winger could run onto it first time.
A one-touch layoff to Carragher that bypassed a pressing forward and started a counter-attack.
The coaches watched. The players noticed. By the end of the session, the whispers had changed.
Kid can pass.
Can't do much else yet, but that passing...
Give him time.
After training, Gerrard approached him. Water bottle in hand. Face unreadable.
"That ball you played to me. The through ball. How did you see that?"
"I just... saw it."
"No one just sees that. How?"
Anthony hesitated. How did he explain vision 99? How did he explain Özil's knowledge living in his skull?
"I watch a lot of football."
Gerrard studied him. Long look. The kind that evaluated and judged.
"Keep watching. Keep passing. The rest will come." He turned to leave, then paused. "And eat more. You're too light. Premier League defenders will eat you alive."
He walked away.
Anthony stood there, legs burning, lungs burning, everything burning.
And something flickered.
Not hunger. Not yet.
But... respect? From Steven Gerrard?
Maybe this means something.
---
That night, his brother ambushed him the second he walked through the door.
"TELL ME EVERYTHING."
"It was training."
"DETAILS, ANTHONY. I NEED DETAILS."
Anthony pushed past him toward the kitchen. His mother was already cooking—of course she was—and his father was at the table with the newspaper—of course he was—and his sister was filming—of course she was.
"Gabriela, put that down."
"Never. The people need content."
"What people? You have forty followers."
"Forty-seven. And they're hungry."
Anthony sat. His mother put food in front of him. His brother sat across, vibrating with impatience.
"Did you meet Gerrard?"
"Yes."
"DID YOU TALK TO HIM?"
"He told me to eat more."
His brother's jaw dropped. "Steven Gerrard gave you dietary advice? That's—that's like—that's like God telling you to pray more."
"That's weird."
"Football God, Anthony. Football God." His brother leaned forward. "What else? What did Carragher say? Did you do anything amazing? Did anyone compliment you?"
Anthony thought about it. The through ball to Gerrard. The switch pass. The looks of surprise.
"They said I can pass."
"THEY SAID YOU CAN PASS? THAT'S—THAT'S—"
His brother exploded into incoherent noises. His sister kept filming. His mother smiled. His father turned a page.
Normal.
Anthony ate his food.
---
Later that night, the system updated.
[TRAINING PERFORMANCE RECORDED]
[FIRST TEAM SESSION: COMPLETED]
[NOTABLE MOMENTS: 3]
[MAN OF THE MATCH: N/A (TRAINING)]
[REWARD CALCULATING...]
[MINOR STAT INCREASE: VISION 99 → 99 (MAX)]
[MINOR STAT INCREASE: PASSING 86 → 87]
[MINOR STAT INCREASE: COMPOSURE 58 → 62]
Anthony read the numbers.
Composure 62 now. Still youth level. Still shaky under pressure. But growing.
Every session mattered. Every moment counted. Exponential growth meant even training gave returns.
He lay back. The ceiling crack watched.
Six weeks of trial. Then maybe a contract. Then maybe more.
His brother's voice from the doorway: "You asleep?"
"No."
His brother climbed onto the bed. Sat at the end. Kicked his feet.
"I'm going to make it too, you know."
"I know."
"Not just because of you. Because I'm good. But... you help. Watching you. Seeing what's possible."
Anthony looked at him.
Fourteen years old. Still had baby fat in his cheeks. Still believed the world would give him what he deserved.
Anthony had been that boy once. A lifetime ago. Before the knee. Before the scout reports. Before the couch.
"You will," Anthony said. "But it won't feel like you expect."
His brother frowned. "What's that mean?"
"Nothing. Go to sleep."
"You're weird."
"I know."
His brother left. The door closed.
Anthony looked at the ceiling crack.
Gerrard's voice echoed: Eat more. Premier League defenders will eat you alive.
Carragher's grin: Relax, kid.
His brother's faith: I'm going to make it too.
For the first time since waking up in this body...
Something stirred. Small. Distant. Like an ember buried under ash.
Not hunger.
But maybe... curiosity about what hunger might feel like again.
The ceiling crack didn't answer.
It never did.
---
END OF CHAPTER 3
---