In the 89th minute, with the score 1-1, a young winger named Arango—face perfectly scanned, boots correct—cut inside from the left. The ball bobbled on the wet turf. Alex pressed shoot with a prayer.
He leapt from his chair. The replay showed the ball skidding off the post, kissing the inside netting. In the corner of the screen, the scoreboard flickered: .
When the installation finished, he launched the game.
And then, the rain fell. Actual volumetric raindrops on the pitch, players’ shirts getting darker with sweat and water. The physics felt heavier. Every tackle crunched.
Alex didn't see polygons or code anymore. He saw the Borussia-Park floodlights reflecting off puddles. He saw the away fans falling silent. He saw his world, finally complete.
The net rippled.
The menu music hit differently. Real Champions League anthem. Real kits—every stitch on Barcelona's home jersey, every sponsor on Bayern Munich’s chest. He scrolled through the teams. Second divisions. There they were: Watford, Palermo, Köln. He clicked on "Exhibition."