Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The dressing room at the Stadio Olimpico was a glorious, soaking wet, champagne-fueled paradise.

The Coppa Italia trophy sat in the center of the room like a king on its throne, and the players, his loyal, half-drunk jesters, took turns paying their respects.

The music was so loud that the walls were vibrating, a chaotic mix of Latin pop and Italian club anthems, courtesy of DJ Dimarco.

Players were dancing on the benches, singing off-key, and taking an endless stream of blurry, grinning selfies.

"I'm telling you, it's a happy bucket!" Julián Álvarez yelled over the music to a laughing Cole Palmer. Julián had the gleaming trophy in his hands and was peering into its reflective surface. "Look! I see my reflection, and it's smiling! Therefore, the cup is happy that we won it! The science is undeniable!"

Palmer just shook his head, a wide grin on his face. "Right. A happy, shiny bucket. Can't argue with that logic."

Alessandro Bastoni took his turn with the trophy, but his moment was different. He didn't dance with it or try to wear it as a hat.

He just sat quietly in a corner, running his fingers over the engraved names of past winners, a single, happy tear tracing a path through the grime on his cheek.

His journey from villain to hero was complete, and the quiet weight of the silver cup in his hands was his reward.

Coach Chivu, who had long since given up trying to maintain any semblance of order, was being interviewed by the club's media team, still dripping wet from his earlier champagne shower.

"...and I just have to say, the heart, the character of this group..." he was saying, trying to be professional, before he was cut off by Lautaro and Barella sneaking up behind him and placing the trophy on his head like a crown.

Chivu just closed his eyes, a long-suffering but deeply proud smile on his face, and surrendered to the beautiful chaos.

It was finally Leon's turn.

The trophy was passed to him, and he was surprised by its weight. It felt solid, real, the physical manifestation of all their hard work.

He held it aloft, a huge, triumphant grin on his face, as a dozen phones flashed around him.

"For your Facelook, Leo!" Julián shouted, acting as his personal photographer. "Smile like you just won a trophy and not like you're trying to figure out if it has feelings!"

Leon laughed, holding the pose. He thought about the notification he'd seen a few weeks ago, about his social media presence.

He checked it later that night, and the number was staggering.

Six million followers.

It was a number so large it didn't feel real. Six million people had watched his journey, had seen his goals, had chanted his name.

e was no longer just a talented kid with a secret. He was a global phenomenon.

He pulled out his own phone and snapped a quick picture, the gleaming silver of the cup reflecting the delirious, happy faces of his teammates in the background.

As he smiled for the camera, the system alert from the night of the final win flashed in his mind's eye, a ghostly, unwelcome guest at the party.

[System Alert: Anomaly detected... 'Personal Feelings' are beginning to conflict with 'Optimal Tactical Decisions'.]

He pushed the thought away. Not now. Now was for celebrating. Now was for family.

An hour later, showered and dressed, the team was a boisterous, happy mob, still buzzing with energy.

The trophy was carefully packed away, but the medals hung proudly around their necks.

"Okay, listen up!" Coach Chivu yelled, his voice cutting through the chatter. The room fell into a respectful silence. "You fought like lions. You celebrated like madmen. And now," he said, a wide, proud grin spreading across his face, "you will eat like kings. I have booked the entire top floor of 'Da Carlo'. The pizza is on me. Let's go!"

A roar went through the room that was louder than any goal celebration.

The promise of unlimited, guilt-free pizza was, for a group of elite athletes who lived on a strict diet, the greatest prize of all.

They piled onto the team bus, a rowdy, singing, medal-clinking mob. The journey through Rome was surreal.

The streets were quiet now, but the bus was a rolling party, the Coppa Italia trophy sitting safely on the front seat like an honored guest.

The restaurant was a haven of warmth and delicious smells. They ate and drank, recounting every insane moment of the final. They re-watched Bastoni's header, Dybala's magic, Lautaro's wonder-goal, and Julián's ridiculous, scuffed Panenka, roaring with laughter and awe at every clip.

It was perfect. It was a night of pure, unadulterated triumph.

As Leon sat there, surrounded by his laughing, happy teammates, a medal around his neck and a slice of pepperoni pizza in his hand, he felt a profound sense of peace. He had done it.

He thought of Sofia's text. He thought of his mom's proud face. He thought of his team, his brothers. The system alert felt like a distant, irrelevant piece of code from another world.

What conflict? His life was perfect.

He took a bite of pizza, a contented smile on his face.

As he did, he decided to open his 'Manager Mode' one last time, just to see if the strange alert had disappeared. He pulled up his own profile, expecting to see his stats, his morale, his skills.

But the screen was different. It was stark white, and in the center were two simple, branching paths, like a choice in a video game. Above the choice was a single, chilling question.

[System Recalibration Required: Please select your primary operational priority.]

Below it were the two options, pulsing with a faint, expectant light.

[Path A: Maximize Tactical Efficiency & Career Progression.]

[Path B: Prioritize Personal Relationships & Emotional Well-being.]

"...."

The pizza party at 'Da Carlo' was a scene of beautiful, glorious chaos.

The top floor of the restaurant had been transformed into Inter's personal kingdom, and the players were making the most of it.

The Coppa Italia trophy sat proudly on the head table, occasionally being used as a very fancy breadstick holder, much to the horror of the restaurant owner.