Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The first week was a slow, agonizing crawl. The hospital room, which had once felt like a sanctuary, now felt like a cage.

My mom was my rock but even her kindness couldn't fill the void. The TV, once a source of comfort, became a torment. I watched my teammates train, a world away from my sterile bed. I saw their faces, their jokes, their hard work, and the absence of my own reflection in that world was a bitter pill to swallow.

I tried, every day, to make my Vision work. I'd stare at the screen, at the players, and whisper the command in my mind, but it was like shouting into an empty canyon. The silence was absolute.

.....

Three weeks turned into four, and then five. The physical therapy started, a series of painful stretches and light exercises that felt like an insult to my powerful body. I was a professional footballer, used to pushing my body to its limits, and now I was struggling to lift my own leg a few inches.

The frustration was a constant, simmering heat beneath my skin. I still couldn't use my Vision, not even a flicker. My mind, once so focused and sharp, felt foggy and dull.

The one bright spot was my friend Byon. He was tearing it up for Manchester City in the Premier League. We'd video call almost every night, and he'd tell me about the matches, the training, and the funny things Kevin De Bruyne or Erling Haaland would do. It was a strange mix of pride and envy.

I was so happy for him, but a small part of me couldn't help but think about what I was missing.

One night, as we were talking, he got serious. "Hey, Leon. You know, you're not out of this, right? I mean, you're still a part of the team. We're all thinking about you."

"I know," I said, but it felt like a lie. How could I be part of a team from a hospital bed?

"Nah, man. I mean it. I saw your last game. The pass to Julián Álvarez… it was insane. Your Vision, whatever you call it, it's a game-changer. They need you to get back, Leo. For real."

His words, meant to be encouraging, just made the ache in my chest grow. My Vision was gone. It was just a memory. I tried to explain, but he didn't get it.

How could he? He didn't have a magical cheat code that had suddenly abandoned him.

.....

Two months had passed since the accident. I was out of the hospital, but my leg was still in a bulky brace, a constant reminder of my physical and emotional wounds. The Vision was still a no-show. My personal goal was a simple one, and it was to make my Vision come back to me again.

The Champions League was the only thing that could take my mind off the slow grind of recovery. We had reached the Round of 16, a huge achievement for the team.

The first leg against Paris Saint-Germain had been a tough one. We had lost 1-0 away, a late goal from Ousmane Dembélé. Now, it was the second leg, at home in the San Siro. It was all on the line.

The day of the match was electric. Even from my living room, I could feel the energy of the city. I was propped up on the couch, my leg resting on a pillow, my mom in the kitchen making me tea. I had Byon on a video call, his face a mix of nervous energy and excitement.

"This is it, Leo," he said. "The big one. You guys are gonna crush them."

"I hope so," I said, my heart pounding in my chest. "They're a different beast. That PSG front line… Ousmane Dembélé, Doué, Vitinha… it's a nightmare."

The whistle blew, and the match began. The roar of the crowd, even through the TV speakers, was deafening. Inter started strong, pressing high, trying to unsettle PSG's rhythm.

I watched as Lautaro Martínez battled for every ball, his Potential: 94, Current: 89, still burning bright in my memory.

Julián Álvarez was a live wire, his speed and agility causing problems for the PSG defense. Potential: 92, Current: 86. I could almost see their stats, a ghost of an aura shimmering around them as they moved.

The first half was a tense, back-and-forth affair. PSG had their moments, with Vitinha dancing through the defense and forcing a brilliant save from our goalkeeper. I tried to focus my Vision on Vitinha, to see his stats.

For a brief second, I saw a flash of light, a burst of red energy, but no numbers appeared. It was frustrating, like trying to remember a name that's on the tip of your tongue.

Just before halftime, a beautiful moment happened.

Cole Palmer, our playmaker, our "madman" as Marcus Thuram called him, picked up the ball just inside the PSG half.

I remember his calm nod after my winning goal, his knowing look. He was the kind of player who could turn a game on its head with a single touch.

I closed my eyes and focused, pouring all my emotional energy, all my desire to be there, into the screen.

I saw Palmer dribbling, his head up, a hazy, indistinct glow around him.

He feinted left, then right, drawing two defenders to him. The PSG defense, so used to focusing on the star players, was caught out. And then, a flash of red light from the corner of my eye.

I looked at Álvarez, and for the first time in two months, I saw it clearly. A bright, beautiful aura of light surrounding him, and the numbers appeared, crisp and sharp.

Julián Álvarez

Potential: 92, Current: 86

"...!!!"

The numbers were back!!! It was just for a second, a fleeting glimpse, but it was there. My heart leaped. The fire in my chest wasn't anger anymore; it was pure, unadulterated joy.

Palmer, with a brilliant flick of his boot, sent the ball through the gap between the two defenders. Álvarez, with his lightning speed, was already there. He took a touch, then another, and slotted it past the goalkeeper with a clean, confident strike.

The roar of the crowd erupted from the TV, and I screamed along with them, my hands gripping the couch cushions. "YES! ALVAREZ!"

My mom rushed in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, a huge smile on her face. Byon, on the video call, was celebrating too. "I told you! I told you guys would get 'em!"

Halftime came, and the aggregate score was tied, 1-1. The momentum was with Inter now, and I could feel it.

The second half was a nail-biter. Both teams had chances, but our defense, led by the stoic Alessandro Bastoni, held firm. The game was heading for extra time.

I was on the edge of my seat, my leg forgotten. I had been watching the players, and my Vision was coming in and out, like a weak radio signal.

I could see their stats for a few seconds, then they would fade away. It was enough, though. Enough to see the small details, the small advantages.

The last few minutes of the second half were a blur of adrenaline and anxiety. The clock was ticking down.

The referee's whistle was about to blow. And then, a last, desperate attack from Inter.

A long ball was played into the box. It was a hopeful ball, nothing more.

A PSG defender rose to clear it, but he misjudged the header, and the ball fell to Palmer just outside the area. The defender, recovering, lunged at him, and Palmer, with his typical calmness, simply shifted his weight. The defender slid past him, and Palmer was free.

I focused all my energy. I needed to see. The Vision came back, stronger than before, and I saw a new number on Palmer's screen.

Cole Palmer

Current: 88 (+1)

He had leveled up! The sheer pressure of the match had pushed him to a new height.

He was playing with a confidence I had never seen from him before. He took a single touch, looked up, and then did something unexpected.

He didn't shoot. He passed it to the left, into a wide-open space. I saw the Vision. I saw the opening.

The ball rolled into the path of Federico Dimarco, who was making a late run from the back. I saw his numbers, and I saw what he would do.

"..."

He took one touch, and then, with a thunderous strike, he fired the ball into the back of the net.

The stadium erupted, a joyous earthquake that shook the whole city. Inter Milan had won.

The comeback was complete.

I fell back on the couch, laughing and crying all at once.

My mom hugged me tight, and Byon was screaming on the phone. But as the celebration settled, I felt something else.

A quiet, peaceful stillness in my mind. The Vision was back, not just as a fleeting glimpse, but as a part of me again.

It was still weak, still inconsistent, but it was there. I had recovered. It wasn't the goal I had scored, or the match I had won, but it was my own personal victory.

The Vision was back, and with it, my chance to return to the field.