Chapter 3: Return to São Paulo
The voice on the other end of the line fell silent.
Three seconds passed before it returned—tight, unsteady.
"Ken… what happened?"
Marcos Vizzoli's voice trembled. "Are you injured? Tell me honestly. Modern medicine is very advanced. Even serious injuries can be treated. I have contacts in Europe—I'll arrange the best doctors for you. Ken, speak to me."
Ken inhaled sharply and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Uncle Vizzoli," he said softly, "I'm not injured."
He briefly explained everything—his return from Brazil, the national youth squad, the corruption, and finally the incident where he had lost control and struck the team manager.
Clang!
On the other end of the phone, something was violently knocked over.
"Ridiculous!" Vizzoli roared. "Absolutely ridiculous! How can football still be run by people this blind and short-sighted?!"
He took a breath, forcing his voice to steady.
"Ken, listen to me. Come back. Come back to Brazil. This is where you belong. I'll book your ticket immediately—no, I'll do it right now."
Ken's throat tightened.
"…Thank you, Uncle."
---
Online, the backlash continued to spread.
[As expected of someone raised abroad—no discipline, no respect. Just got selected and already assaults staff.]
[They called him one of the 'São Paulo Twin Stars'? He can't even survive in a domestic league and he's compared to Neymar?]
[Look at Neymar—focused, humble, transferred for a record fee. Ken can't even stay on a team. The difference is obvious.]
[No wonder our football keeps failing. It's people like this ruining it.]
At the airport departure lounge, Ken scrolled through the headlines in silence.
"Brother…"
Leo sat beside him, hesitating. "Let's stop reading this stuff. I'm so angry I can't even eat."
Ken put away his phone.
"It's fine," he said calmly. "I've already seen worse."
Yet deep in his eyes, a quiet fire burned.
"One day," he said firmly, "they'll regret every word they typed today."
He put an arm around Leo's shoulder and smiled.
"Believe me or not, in less than two years, you'll see me on TV. By then, your brother will already be playing in Europe."
"I believe you!" Leo nodded without hesitation.
---
Voices approached from a distance.
"I told you we needed another suitcase."
"And I told you it was fine! He's going abroad—of course we need more luggage!"
Ken and Leo exchanged helpless looks.
Uncle Smith and his wife arrived, both slightly out of breath, still arguing.
"All checked in," Uncle Smith said proudly. "Your favorite snacks are packed too. Give them to Coach Vizzoli—he's taking care of you now."
"Uncle, it's Vizzoli," Ken corrected gently.
"Yes, yes, Vizzoli," Uncle Smith waved it off. "You'll be staying with the club again, right? Listen to him properly."
Ken nodded.
His aunt's eyes reddened.
"Are you really going alone? It's so far…"
"I grew up there," Ken said reassuringly. "I'll be fine."
Uncle Smith took out a bank card and handed it to him.
"This is what your parents left for you. I never touched it. Take it with you."
Ken froze.
He knew how much money had been spent trying to keep his career alive. His uncle's family lived modestly, running a small neighborhood store—yet his inheritance remained untouched.
Ken accepted the card with trembling hands.
"I'll make it," he said quietly. "I promise."
Uncle Smith patted his shoulder.
"I'll be waiting."
---
Ken left—departing the land his father had always missed.
Back home, Leo followed Ken's instructions.
That same night, an anonymous audio recording was uploaded to several major football forums and social platforms.
Within hours, it exploded.
The recording revealed everything—money, favoritism, threats.
Fans were furious.
It hadn't even been three years since the last major corruption scandal. No one expected such rot to still exist.
Public opinion flipped overnight.
Petitions surfaced. Journalists demanded investigations. The federation was forced into damage control.
But Ken never responded.
By the time reporters found Uncle Smith, Ken was already gone.
A new anti-corruption wave swept through domestic football—but it no longer mattered to him.
---
April 16, 2013.
A long-haul flight touched down at São Paulo–Guarulhos International Airport.
Vizzoli was waiting.
He embraced Ken tightly, then helped him load two oversized suitcases into the car.
São Paulo—the city of twelve million, the heart of South American football.
Though his family home still stood untouched, Ken followed Vizzoli back to the club.
Once again, he would live in the academy dormitory.
This time, however—
He wasn't returning as a fallen youth player.
He was returning to rebuild everything.