Date: February 26, 2025 — Two Days After the Carabao Cup Final
Anfield was quiet now. The confetti had been swept away, the champagne stains mopped up from the dressing room floor. The adrenaline of lifting silverware still echoed faintly in Diogo Jota's veins, but the intensity was starting to ebb.
He wasn't at Melwood. He wasn't at AXA.
He was at home.
Arne Slot had granted the squad two days off to recover physically and emotionally from the grueling cup final against Chelsea. For Jota, this was both a blessing and a test. Free time was rare—and it could be dangerous when you were living on borrowed time.
But he needed it. The grind of rewiring fate was exhausting.
Morning – Rewind and Reflect
Jota sat on the edge of his living room couch, still wearing his training shorts and a hoodie. The TV wasn't on. Instead, the holographic interface of the System was projected quietly in the center of the room like a silent guardian.
SYSTEM STATUS – Feb 26, 2025
Main Timeline Alignment: 62%
Fate Interference Level: Moderate
Fatal Thread Risk: Temporarily Dormant
Next Match: Nottingham Forest – March 2, 2025
He exhaled slowly.
New Optional Quest:
"Live Like You'll Survive"
Objective: Spend a day detached from football, fate, and fear.
Reward: +3 Emotional Resilience, +1 Charisma, +Fate Buffer (Temporary)
Jota chuckled. "A quest to take a day off? You really are watching everything, huh?"
System Response: Always.
He turned the projection off.
Today, he wouldn't think like a striker.
He'd live like Diogo.
Afternoon – City Wandering
By midday, Jota and Isabela were strolling through the Liverpool city center, scarves around their necks, sunglasses barely concealing their identities. A few fans recognized him but gave him respectful distance—a result of their recent trophy and the city's pride in its football heroes.
They ducked into Bold Street Coffee. The place was cozy, understated. Just locals and laughter. Jota ordered a cortado. Isabela went for chai.
"Do you ever feel like you're not really here?" he asked suddenly, fingers tapping the ceramic cup.
Isabela tilted her head. "You mean like… lost in your own head?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
"I think," she said softly, "you've had to be too much for too many lately. Everyone's relying on you. Even you're relying on you."
He stared at her, eyes tightening. How was it that she always saw the version of him behind the mask?
She smiled. "Today, you're just Diogo. Not a striker. Not a system."
He smiled back. "Okay."
And for a while, he was.
They wandered the streets without a destination. Just walking. Window shopping. People watching. They stopped by a small vinyl shop, flipping through records, laughing at some of the ancient covers from the 1980s. Isabela found one from Portugal—fado music.
"Do you remember when we danced to this in Porto?"
Jota blinked. A memory hit him like warm sun on cold skin: them dancing barefoot in her parents' backyard, midsummer.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I remember."
They bought the record.
Late Afternoon – Family & Football (But Just Watching)
Back home, Jota placed the vinyl on the record player in their cozy living room. The soft Portuguese melodies filled the air.
Isabela curled up on the couch next to him as he initiated a holo-call to his parents in Porto.
His mother cried when she saw the Carabao Cup medal. "Meu menino, tão orgulhosa de ti."
His father smiled, less openly emotional but beaming with pride. Jota's siblings popped into view behind them, shouting congratulations and asking questions.
He spent nearly an hour talking with them—talking about anything but football tactics. They asked how he was eating, if he had seen the latest episodes of a Portuguese crime drama, and if he was still terrible at cooking eggs (he was).
Afterward, he turned on Benfica's match—just to watch. No analysis. No pressure. Just a boy watching his childhood club.
System Status: Passive Observation Mode Enabled.
Even the System seemed to be honoring the quest.
He noticed things, of course—spacing, body shape, miscommunications—but he didn't feel compelled to correct them in his mind. He was just watching. Just breathing.
That feeling… that peace… was rare.
Evening – Domestic Life
After dinner—Isabela made caldo verde, and Jota helped chop the garlic without cutting himself for once—they sat on the balcony, legs curled beneath them under a shared blanket. Liverpool's skyline blinked quietly beneath a low cloud.
"I think," Jota said, "I'm scared of winning too much."
Isabela looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"
"If I fix everything… change everything... what if I lose the things that made me, me?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then: "Then don't lose them. Anchor to what matters. Let that guide you. The trophies can be the result—not the purpose."
He nodded, silently absorbing her words.
And then the quiet was broken again.
PASSIVE TRAIT EVOLVED:
"Soul Anchor" – Emotional Grounding under Pressure (Lv.2)
+2 Mental, +Minor Resilience Boost in High-Stress Scenarios
He smiled.
Night – A Return to Football (Sort Of)
Around 10:30 PM, after Isabela had gone to bed, Jota found himself back on the couch with his FC25 console in hand.
He told himself it was just for fun. Just a little bit.
But of course, once he started a Career Mode campaign with Liverpool, it turned into full-blown analysis.
He set himself as a player-coach. Adjusted tactics. Experimented with hybrid formations. He tested a false nine with Salah wide and himself in a floating striker role behind Núñez.
He simulated matches. Watched replays. Paused on movements. Took notes.
System Integration Detected: Remote Tactical Absorption
+0.5 Tactical Awareness
+1 Managerial Vision (Hidden Stat)
Trait Progress: Future Leader (12%)
At midnight, he was still playing.
By 1:00 AM, he had reconstructed Liverpool's next match tactics from three different perspectives.
Finally, he leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"I can't turn it off," he whispered to himself.
System Response: Because greatness doesn't sleep.
He laughed.
"Yeah, well… I'll try. Just for tonight."
He turned the console off. Stared out the window. The city lights flickered like distant stars.
Tomorrow would bring him back to the pitch.
But tonight, he had remembered how to live.
And that might be just as important as any goal he'd score.