The year was 2104, and football a sport once celebrated for its unpredictability and magic, had become a predictable theatre of dominance. For nine straight years, the world had knelt before one crest: Cheetahs FC. Their black-and-gold emblem had become a symbol of tyranny in footballing culture, a reminder that money, augmented physiology, tactical automation, and generational wealth could turn a club into a near-untouchable empire.
Every season began with hope, and every season ended with the same cold, mechanical precision. Champions League winners: Cheetahs FC.
Club World Cup winners: Cheetahs FC.
Runner-up, almost every season: Pirates FC, forever the bridesmaid, never the bride.
And in the cracks below those glittering stadiums, beneath the layers of holo-billboards and towering mega-arenas, lived the forgotten people of football's past. The ones whose clubs had collapsed under the financial and technological rise of the giants. Among them was a once-proud club that had crumbled into obscurity:
Blacos Madrid FC.
They had been legends, decades before. Echoes of derby nights, titles, and European glory still floated in old videos and the memories of aging supporters. But by 2104, the club was a ghost of itself, relegated to a semi-professional regional league that barely attracted two thousand spectators. Their stadium, once a fortress, now stood like a cracked concrete skeleton, overrun by rust, weeds, and pigeons.
Yet somehow… in the most unlikely corner of Madrid… in a cramped, two-room shack made of rusted zinc metal and patched plastic sheets… a spark of hope was being born.
His name was Mesialdo Romero.
Thirteen years old. Skinny. Dust-skinned from constant street football. Sharp-eyed like a lion stalking destiny. Barefoot most of the time because his only pair of boots had torn soles and mismatched studs. But when he touched a football, any football, even the half-flat ones tied with plastic rope, something happened.
It was like the world paused.
Kids older than him stopped when he dribbled. Adults walking home from night shifts paused at the corners of the alley just to watch. Coaches from small local academies whispered his name like a rumour. Some said his balance was unnatural. Some said he played like a reincarnation of old legends. Others simply said:
"That boy… that's talent you can't teach."
But talent alone didn't change destinies.
Mesialdo lived with both his parents, Rafa and Liana, in a two-room shack at the edge of the Nueva Madrid Sector, an area the government didn't bother updating on maps anymore. Their home was squeezed between a mechanic's yard and a street vendor's stall. When it rained, the ceilings leaked. When it was cold, the wind cut through the holes in the metal walls. But no matter how difficult life became, there was one thing the family held onto:
Hope.
Rafa worked double shifts at a recycling plant, sorting metal scraps from smart-chip debris left behind by robot manufacturing plants. His hands were always scarred, his clothes always smelling of machine oil. Liana washed clothes for wealthier sectors, carrying loads twice her size through long bus routes. Together, they earned barely enough to pay for rent, electricity tokens, and Mesialdo's school meals.
But every month, without fail, they saved a little for one thing:
Mesialdo's dream.
They bought second-hand boots whenever they could. They paid small participation fees for local street tournaments. They let him sleep early before matches. They encouraged him even when exhaustion broke their backs.
Because they believed in him.
Because, in a city drowning in inequality, sometimes a child's dream was the only light a family had.
And Mesialdo? He dreamed big. bigger than the shacks that caged him.
He dreamed of reviving Blacos Madrid FC.
He dreamed of walking into that broken stadium and bringing it back to life.
He dreamed of giving the forgotten fans something to believe in again.
He dreamed of breaking the nine-year rule of Cheetahs FC.
He dreamed of becoming the world's greatest footballer, not for fame, but for purpose.
At night, he would lie on his thin mattress, hearing the wind whistle through the holes in their shack, and whisper to himself:
"One day… they'll know my name."
Sometimes he imagined reporters calling him the miracle of Madrid.
Sometimes he pictured huge crowds chanting his name.
Sometimes he imagined wearing the blue-and-white Blacos jersey as captain, lifting trophies under blinding stadium lights.
But reality never stayed far.
In the mornings, the shouts of street vendors woke him. The smell of diesel and fried dough filled the air. Children ran through puddles. Police drones flew low, scanning the neighbourhood. Poverty wrapped itself around everything like a second skin.
Still, Mesialdo carried a football everywhere he went.
To school.
To the water point.
To the rooftop of their shack, where he practiced juggling until sunset painted the sky orange.
Football was the one thing that made sense in a world that didn't.
And he wasn't just talented, he was special.
His touch.
His vision.
His timing.
The way he played felt like poetry, written on concrete instead of paper.
But even the brightest stars need someone to discover them.
Someone who can see beyond the shacks, beyond the broken boots, beyond the empty pockets.
Someone who will trespass into the alleys of forgotten Madrid and witness greatness rising from dust.
And that someone was about to appear unexpectedly, quietly, and at the perfect moment.
Because destiny always arrives exactly when it chooses.
And for Mesialdo Romero… destiny had just taken its first breath.