1 — One Last Breath

I freed my head of thoughts and let instincts take over. My lungs constricted. A puff of breath was released into the biting December air. All around me were spectators, chanting, roaring, and waving flags. My cleats stabbed into the grass, the football rolling in front of me.

A French defender launched into a slide, the studs under his boots ready to claim the ball, or break my ankles, whichever allowed his team to win. And while it'd probably cost him only a red card, it would no doubt end my career.

I breathed in, jumped over his feet, bringing the ball with me, and breathed out. The crowd burst into a deafening cheer, like a yellow-blue wave that called out my name, glorifying its eight letters into the high sky.

'Campinho!', 'Campinho!', 'Campinho!'

Behind me, players hastened to catch up, both from my and the opposite team. Except that my speed and momentum had created a chasm between us. The hot rush of adrenaline pumped me with power.

Only two left. Three, including the goalkeeper.

I was confident. I had done this before. Hours upon hours of drills, even late into the night, perfecting my touch, my craft. This was my life. Sweat. Grass. And this ball. It defined my existence, my name.

Knowing that it was a foolish endeavor to steal the ball from me in a 1v1, both defenders came at me like enraged bulls. They pressed me, pushing me to retreat or to pass it to someone else.

But I was alone, and I certainly was not intimidated.

So I did what I did best. I dribbled them.

I feinted to the left, one of the defenders copying me to lock me in place, so I immediately took to the right. It was such a seamless and fast transition that it almost tripped him to the ground.

The last defender couldn't wait anymore and made the mistake of closing in on me, entering my personal space — my domain.

I nutmegged him, brushing past his shoulder to reclaim the ball that had rolled right between his open legs, and sprinted faster. I didn't need to glance at the giant clock of the stadium. I internally knew that there was not much time left.

We were deep into the second half of the game. The score? 2-2.

The French goalkeeper met me halfway in the penalty spot. His gaze was locked on me, like an eagle about to plunge and devour its prey. He was crouched, arms wide open.

He suddenly plunged for the ball, hands stretched out.

I tapped the ball, passing it to my left foot, and left the goalkeeper to taste the grass.

The goalpost was empty. A beautiful sight.

The sight of a goal.

I stomped my left foot forward, and then loaded my right one. There was no need to overdo it. A gentle tap of the boot would see the ball socketed into the net.

Hmm?

I looked down, only to find that I was… still running?

A pain lanced through my heart, and I couldn't catch the gasp that tumbled out of my lips. My knees couldn't hold me up anymore, and, all of a sudden, the perfect control I had over my feet failed me.

It was not unusual to fall down when playing. Between tackles, constant body contact with defenders, and failed plays, done at a high speed, no less — it was hard even for me to stand my ground without tumbling down the ground like an uncoordinated fool.

But this… was different.

The pain sharpened, seemingly cutting at my soul. I heaved, my breath rattling, struggling to swallow the oxygen. The ball was next to my face, and even with the blinding floodlights that bathed the stadium, I could vividly make out every detail of this monochrome leather sphere.

The chanting faded, and chaos seemed to have broken out.

What was going on?

The goalkeeper came running at me. 'Fuck… I have… to… score…'

Brazil was so close to lifting the World Cup trophy for the sixth time.

Contrary to my expectations, the French goalie didn't claim the ball to resume the game. He fell on his knees next to me, mumbling something in a mix of broken English and French. There was concern in his voice, that much I could tell.

I couldn't even see his face, the floodlights behind him eclipsed his visage, like the moon in front of the sun.

The twinges continued unbidden, sending burning, throbbing bullets of pure agony through my heart. I thrashed, curling up, hands clutching at my chest, as if to seize the pain in my palms.

I looked up, sweat pouring down my eyes.

I was surrounded by a wall of yellow and blue. A French striker touched my shoulder, not knowing what to do. He tried to lift me up, while one of my teammates pried my mouth open, reaching for the tongue or any other obstruction that prevented me from breathing correctly.

A vain attempt. The problem lay elsewhere.

A voice spoke over the others, calling for a medical team.

Then the referee got involved, and the noise from the crowd only got louder and louder.

I couldn't see their faces.

I couldn't hear their voices.

With each beat, my heart contracted, the pause between them lengthening.

One beat.

…

Two beats. I was shaken left and right, lifted up, and then carefully placed on a stretcher.

…

…

Three beats.

My arm fell over the edge of the stretcher, fingers grazing the grass as I was carried inside an ambulance van. Darkness crept into the corners of my vision. The gradual loss of it was frightening. It was not a sudden plunge into the darkness, instead, it was as if I was being eased inside it.

The pain faded, ringing in my nerves like a distant echo.

All that was left was an odd sense of fear and comfort, a dichotomy that lulled me into a deep sleep.

My heart struggled to pump one more beat, one more second of being alive.

And then nothing.

"Kids, breakfast is ready! Come down!"

I woke up with a gasp, a lingering ache in my chest, and a hammering pain in my head. The combination made something churn in my stomach. Bile rose up, burning its way through my throat. I doubled over the side of my bed and let it all out.

A fit of coughs came next, the throbbing in my skull abating to tolerable levels.

I stared at my hands, my breathing still labored.

I couldn't understand...

'Did I score? Did we win…?'

I blinked, dazed. I curled my fingers, turning my hands around, probing them. They didn't belong to me. Not the right elasticity. Not the right skin tone. They were smaller, the veins less prominent.

Where was I?

A room, I noticed. Half of it was enshrouded in darkness, the other half bright with sunlight. Problem was, it was not my room. I lived in a penthouse, not thi bedroom. My linen, expensive white sheets were replaced with this green abomination underneath me.

"You better get down here or the food will be gone!"

A loud voice wafted from downstairs, penetrating through thick layers of concrete yet still retaining that womanly husk. That was another problem. Whoever she was, she was speaking Korean. But that was not the point. The point was that I could understand it.

I had played a couple of friendly matches against their national team, and thus picked up a few words here and there. Just enough to impress people, not this baffling degree of proficiency.

Alarm bells rang out in my head.

I immediately shuffled out of bed, bare feet bringing me to the body-sized mirror next to it. I was so… weak. Fear seized my throat, and the moment I was within the reflection of the glass, my eyes tore wide open.

Who was that?

Certainly not me.

I brought a hand up, and watched as my reflection did the same. I touched my face. It was delicate and smooth. The face of a boy, not a man. A mop of messy dark hair nearly fell over my eyes.

I couldn't understand at all.

What the fuck was going on?!

And then a sharp pain went off, the veins on my temple bulging and throbbing under the hot waves. Memories that weren't mine flooded my head. The greyed-out recollection of past events flashed before my eyes in a broken sequence.

I was somewhere, crying, people clothed in black all around me, offering their heartfelt prayers to the departed. My parents.

Smoke wafted from the candles.

I cried harder.

They were dead…

…

Another memory jumped up. 'Come!' A hand was on my shoulder, squeezing it encouragingly. 'Say hi to everyone!' Three women, of perfect proportions — each of them the epitome of Asian beauty — stood in front of my younger, bedazzled self.

A mature woman, donning a burgundy dress that hugged her voluptuous body came forward, hands clasped together.

There was a beautiful smile on her face.

…

I fell on my knees, hands on the cold floor. 'Who is Oh Dae Ho?' Then, a voice buried deep within the reaches of my consciousness replied. 'It's me. I'm Dae Ho.'

'But I'm also Jair Campinho…'

'Not anymore.'

I could vaguely recall Dae Ho's 20 years' worth of memories. From infancy to maturity. The emotions associated with those memories were diluted.

My parents were dead. A car crash had done them in. Orphaned at 13, I had the fortune of being taken in by my father's friend. It was a tragic circumstance that Dae Ho lived with. And behind that cheerful smile, a shadow of sadness haunted him.

"Dae Ho…" I whispered. "You're not me, but I'm you."

I died. That's what happened. Now, I understood. It was discomforting to think about, even more so when I was still alive.

The fresh breeze of the pitch. The roar of the spectators. The adrenaline of scoring a goal. The exhilaration of hearing your name sung by thousands of viewers.

And right at the most important moment, in the most important tournament, in the last minutes of the final match, I died. A sprint that started in the middle of the field, dribbling my way through a wall of defenders, goalkeeper included, ended with my collapse in front of the empty goalpost.

I chuckled. What a joke.

The memory was so vivid… the phantom pains even followed me in this new life.

I was an invader in this world, in this body.

Dae Ho… what happened to him?

Did he die because of me?

Such an innocent young boy, burdened with tragedy, couldn't even find a sliver of happiness.

Slowly, I clambered back to my feet. With Dae Ho's knowledge of the house, I was quick to find everything that I needed. The bathroom to wash up and a change of clothes; I was only wearing a set of embarrassing, tight underwear.

This kid had no style. Then again, he was not rich like I used to be.

As I was contemplating my future in this country, I stumbled upon someone in the hallway. "Hm?"

"?"

I remembered her. In my memories, she had black hair. Now she was sporting a diluted blonde dye. She was not beautiful. She was breathtaking. I had met my fair share of gorgeous babes in the past, but it was as if this young woman here was drawn by the hand of a God.

She was tall, but not too much. It was the perfect standard. She had an hourglass figure that was most likely the by-product of genes, a diet, and rigorous exercise. The clothes she wore were tight, revealing a strip of the fair-skinned flesh of her belly. The fabric was particularly strained on her chest and hips.

She stared at me, toothbrush in her mouth.

A name popped up in my mouth. Cha Mia, the eldest daughter of the family that adopted me. I greeted her with a nod. "Good morning… Mia Noona."

She quirked one eyebrow up and pulled the toothbrush out. "Good morning." Her luscious, glossy lips curved into a beautiful arch.

I didn't know how to act around her. Dae Ho's personality didn't affect mine, and I had no intention of charading myself as a dumb, inexperienced boy.

Cha Mia didn't take her eyes off me as I made my way downstairs.