Football : The New El fenomeno

The sky above Madrid stretched vast and endless, painted in hues of gold and crimson as the sun dipped below the horizon. Wisps of lavender clouds drifted lazily, illuminated by the dying light, while the first stars flickered into existence, shy but inevitable. The city pulsed beneath this celestial canvas, alive with the hum of a thousand stories unfolding at once.

From the rooftops, the world seemed to slow, caught in a fleeting moment between day and night. The distant chime of cathedral bells echoed through the winding streets, mingling with the distant laughter from a plaza where lovers whispered secrets and musicians played their final notes. The scent of freshly baked bread and aged wine drifted through the air, a reminder that Madrid never truly slept—she only dreamed in different rhythms.

A warm breeze swept across the city, rustling the leaves of ancient trees and carrying with it the quiet murmur of life. Beneath the spires and terraces, hidden within shadowed alleyways and grand avenues, fate prepared to weave its intricate patterns. Tonight, the city held its breath, waiting for the first step of a story yet to be told.

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The streets of Madrid unfolded before him, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. He walked with an easy rhythm, his steps measured, his gaze distant. Though the city was as familiar to him as the lines on his palms, there was always something new to see—new faces, new whispers of stories carried on the breeze.

He had once ruled the football world, a magician with the ball at his feet, a graduate of La Masia, a Ballon d'Or winner at 24. But that world had ended in a moment—a screech of tires, a crash, and darkness. He had woken up to silence where there was once a roar, to emptiness where there was once a dream.

Yet, he had built himself anew. Football was gone, but his mind was sharp, his ambition undimmed. He had ventured into the digital world, crafting apps that became the backbone of industries. Now, as the CEO of YouTube, his influence spanned continents, though few would recognize him in the quiet anonymity of the Madrid streets.

He paused at a familiar plaza, watching children chase after a worn-out football, their laughter echoing against the old stone walls. A ghost of a smile touched his lips—memories of a past life, one that still lived within him.

Here's a more detailed and emotional version of the scene:

Madrid was alive in its usual rhythm. The city never truly slept, only quieted, allowing the hum of life to settle into a softer melody. He walked through its familiar streets, his steps slow, unhurried. This place held memories—of victories, of losses, of dreams once shattered and rebuilt.

The night air carried the scent of freshly baked bread and the distant melody of a street musician strumming a gentle tune on his guitar. Neon lights flickered against the cobblestone roads, and laughter spilled from cafés where people gathered over tapas and wine.

It was just another night. Until it wasn't.

A sudden shout broke through the peaceful lull of the evening. His head snapped toward the noise, eyes narrowing as he spotted the source of the commotion.

Down the street, a car was barrelling forward at an alarming speed, its tires screeching against the asphalt. The driver had lost control—whether due to recklessness, alcohol, or something else, he couldn't tell. But none of that mattered.

Because in the direct path of that speeding car stood a child.

A boy, no older than ten, frozen in fear. His small body locked in place, his legs refusing to move as the deadly machine roared toward him. His wide, terrified eyes reflected the blinding headlights, his fate seemingly sealed in an instant.

Time slowed.

There was no hesitation. No second-guessing.

His body moved on instinct—just as it had in the thousands of games he played, when the world around him blurred and only the goal remained in sight. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he surged forward, muscles screaming in protest, but he didn't stop.

In one swift motion, he reached the boy, arms wrapping around the child's small frame. With all the strength he could muster, he shoved him away—out of the car's deadly path. The child tumbled onto the sidewalk, rolling to safety.

But he had no time to save himself.

The impact was immediate. A sickening thud as steel met flesh and bone. A blinding pain shot through his body, and the world spun violently. He felt himself lifted off the ground, his body weightless for a fraction of a second before it crashed back onto the cold pavement.

Voices.

Distant, panicked voices.

The night sky above him blurred, the Madrid skyline shimmering like a distant dream. Faces hovered over him—some familiar, some strangers. A hand pressed against his chest, someone yelling for an ambulance.

Pain pulsed through him in waves, but it was fading, ebbing like the tide pulling away from shore.

He was dying.

The realization settled into him like a quiet whisper, not shocking, not terrifying. Just… a truth.

His mind drifted to the past.

The roar of the stadium. The weight of the Ballon d'Or in his hands. The pride in his heart when he had conquered the world of football. The devastation of losing it all. The sleepless nights spent rebuilding his life, the rise of his tech empire, the moment he had become the CEO of YouTube.

He had lived a life of greatness, of victories and defeats, of love and loss. And now, it was ending—not in a stadium, not in the glow of flashing cameras, but here, on a quiet Madrid street, in the act of saving a child's life.

His lips curved into the faintest smile.

Then—darkness.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Darkness consumed him. It was vast, endless—a void that held no sound, no pain, no weight. Just an expanse of nothingness. 

Yet, he was aware. 

He could still feel something, a strange sensation unlike anything he had known before. A pull, gentle yet firm, as though his very existence was being guided by unseen hands. He had no body, no form, yet he could sense movement—drifting, flowing, as if he were being carried by an invisible current. 

Then, suddenly—light. 

It wasn't blinding, nor harsh. It was warm, soft, welcoming. A strange, soothing energy surrounded him, wrapping around him like a cocoon. His soul trembled, uncertain, as if teetering on the edge of something unknown. 

And then, it happened. 

A sudden force yanked him forward, dragging him from the void into something tangible, something real. Sensations crashed into him all at once—warmth, pressure, sound. He felt… small. Smaller than he had ever been. 

A sharp cry filled the air. It took him a moment to realize—it was his own. 

His lungs burned, his tiny body wriggled, and a profound weakness filled his limbs. Panic surged through him, but it was drowned out by an overwhelming truth. 

He was alive. 

No—he had been reborn. 

His mind struggled to comprehend the impossible reality. Just moments ago, he had been a man—a footballer, a businessman, a person who had lived a life full of triumphs and tragedies. He had died. He knew he had died. 

But now… he was here. 

The blurry outlines of figures surrounded him, their voices muffled yet filled with emotion. A woman sobbed softly, her warmth close to him. A man's voice rumbled gently, though he couldn't yet understand the words. 

He was in the arms of a mother. His new mother. 

His heart pounded—tiny, fragile, yet undeniably alive. 

What had happened? 

Why was he given another chance? 

And more importantly… 

Who had he become?

Before he could even begin to make sense of what had happened—before he could question the impossible, the miraculous, the terrifying—an overwhelming drowsiness overtook him. 

His tiny body was exhausted, weak in a way he had never experienced before. His eyelids, impossibly heavy, fluttered shut despite his desperate attempts to stay awake. The warmth surrounding him, the rhythmic beat of a heart close to his tiny ear, lulled him into submission. 

His last conscious thought was that he would find his answers soon. 

And then, he drifted into the first sleep of his new life.

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As he lay in his mother's arms, drifting between consciousness and exhaustion, a movement in the corner of his blurry vision caught his attention. Slowly, his eyes shifted, struggling to adjust to the world around him.

A man stood beside her.

Even through his newborn haze, he could see that this man—his father—was unlike anyone he had ever known.

Fernando Sky Iglesias.

His warm brown eyes carried a depth that seemed endless, as if each glance held unspoken stories. They were intense yet calm, radiating quiet strength and unwavering curiosity. When he looked down at him, there was something powerful in his gaze—an unspoken promise, a silent bond between father and son.

His features were sharp and well-defined, his strong jawline and high cheekbones giving him a refined yet effortlessly approachable look. There was something regal about his presence, a kind of natural confidence that came not from arrogance, but from an inner strength.

His jet-black hair, thick and slightly wavy, fell in tousled layers around his face. It wasn't styled with deliberate precision, yet it looked perfect, moving effortlessly with him. The way the light reflected off it, adding a subtle shine, made it seem almost unreal—like the kind of beauty that belonged to movie stars or mythological figures.

His skin was smooth, almost luminous under the dim lighting, glowing faintly in contrast to his dark hair and deep brown eyes. He had an almost ethereal quality, as if he were carved from something beyond mere human flesh.

And yet, for all his striking beauty, the most defining thing about Fernando was not his appearance—but the way he looked at him.

He hadn't spoken a word, yet everything was conveyed through his presence alone.

Strength. Protection. Love.

He could see it in the way his father's hand gently rested on his mother's shoulder, in the way his eyes softened as they took him in, in the way he held himself—proud, unwavering, but undeniably warm.

Then, for the first time, his father spoke.

"Nuestro pequeño milagro," he murmured in Spanish, his voice deep and rich, carrying an emotion that made his newborn body shiver. Our little miracle.

The words echoed in his mind as his eyelids grew heavy once more.

A mother with eyes like emeralds.

A father with warmth like the sun.

For the first time in two lives, he wasn't alone.

And this time… he wouldn't lose it.

As his consciousness slowly returned, his tiny body stirred, his eyelids fluttering open. The world around him was blurred, colors and shapes blending together in a soft haze. His vision was weak—expected for a newborn—but there was one thing he could see with absolute clarity. 

A woman. 

She held him close, cradling him in her arms with a tenderness he had never known. Even in his fragile state, he could feel it—the warmth, the love, the unspoken connection that told him exactly who she was. 

His mother. 

Alina Ivanov. 

Her emerald green eyes shimmered like the purest gemstones, reflecting the dim light of the room with an almost ethereal glow. They were deep, full of emotion—joy, exhaustion, an overwhelming love that needed no words. He found himself captivated by them, drawn into their mysterious beauty. 

Her features were soft yet striking, high cheekbones giving her a natural elegance, her delicate lips curving into a small, tired smile. She was breathtaking, a woman whose presence exuded both grace and quiet strength. 

Her warm brown hair cascaded down her shoulders in soft, glossy waves, catching the light as she moved. Each strand gleamed with a rich, golden undertone, framing her face in a way that only enhanced her beauty. The gentle sway of her hair as she shifted slightly made her seem almost unreal, like a vision crafted by the gods themselves. 

And yet, despite the perfection of her appearance, the thing that struck him most was the way she held him. 

With infinite care. 

With a love so raw and pure that it sent a strange warmth through his tiny body. 

He tried to speak, to reach out, to do anything to express the overwhelming storm of emotions inside him, but his newborn form betrayed him. His tiny limbs barely twitched, his mouth could do nothing but let out a soft, helpless sound. 

Alina let out a quiet laugh, a musical sound filled with warmth, brushing a gentle finger against his cheek. 

"My little angel," she whispered in Russian, her voice delicate yet strong, as if she had waited her entire life to say those words. 

A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over him once more, his tiny body too weak to fight it. His eyes drooped, his mind hazy. But as he drifted off, one thought remained crystal clear. 

He was loved. 

For the first time in both of his lives… he truly felt it.

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