My Ultimate Gacha System

Saturday, August 24th, 2022 - 6:00 PM

San Siro Stadium, Milan 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

The system notification appeared as the team bus turned onto Via Piccolomini, the stadium’s twin towers rising through the windshield like monuments to Italian football history.

「NEW MATCH MISSION」

「OBJECTIVE: Match Rating 7.8+ AND 1 Assist」

「REWARD: 200 TP + 30 MP」

「MISSION ACTIVE」

The panel faded as the bus slowed to a crawl, security personnel forming a corridor through the gathering crowd outside San Siro’s away entrance, and Demien’s chest tightened because missions meant pressure and pressure meant he needed to perform regardless of opposition quality.

The bus stopped completely, the engine cutting to silence that lasted exactly two seconds before the roar from inside the stadium filtered through concrete and steel—seventy thousand voices creating a sound that felt physical, that pressed against the windows and made the air inside the bus feel heavier.

"Andiamo," Gasperini said from the front, and players began filing off in practiced order, veterans first while younger players followed with bags slung over shoulders and headphones still pumping music that couldn’t quite drown out the noise.

Demien stepped onto the pavement between Tolói and Koopmeiners, and the August evening air felt warm against his skin despite the sun beginning its descent behind Milan’s skyline, and somewhere inside that massive structure Sophia was already seated and his mother was watching from Florence and Marco was probably pacing his office waiting for kickoff.

No pressure, he thought, and the irony sat bitter on his tongue.

The corridor through security moved them past stadium staff and police officers and photographers capturing arrival footage for social media, and nobody spoke because words felt small against what waited ahead, and Demien’s hands shook slightly when he adjusted the strap on his bag—a detail Malinovskyi noticed and responded to with a firm squeeze on his shoulder that said we’re together in this without requiring language.

******

The tunnel system was a maze.

Three separate corridors before reaching the actual player tunnel, each turn bringing the crowd noise louder and more visceral as they moved deeper into San Siro’s concrete heart, and Demien counted his breaths—four counts in, hold for two, six counts out—trying to keep his heart rate controlled because panic was a choice and he refused to make it.

The away locker room appeared after the third turn, and when they entered the space felt both professional and sterile—hooks with jersey numbers already assigned, tactical boards mounted on walls, massage tables folded in the corner, everything functional rather than beautiful.

Demien found his spot between Lookman and Koopmeiners, number 28 hanging above his designated hook, and he set his bag down carefully before beginning the familiar ritual of preparation that grounded him in routine when everything else felt overwhelming.

Boots first. He unlaced them slowly, checking the studs one more time even though he’d checked them twice at the hotel, and the leather felt soft in his hands from months of training and his first match against Sampdoria where everything had gone right and now needed to go right again but under conditions ten times more hostile.

The room filled with sounds—music from portable speakers, conversations in Italian and Spanish and Dutch, the distinctive sound of athletic tape being torn from rolls, boots being laced with practiced efficiency—and Gasperini stood at the front near the tactical board with his arms crossed, waiting for everyone to settle before beginning his final instructions.

When the last player had found his spot and the music volume lowered, the manager stepped forward.

"Seventy thousand people out there," Gasperini began, his voice carrying easily across the room despite being barely above conversational volume. "Most of them want to see us destroyed. Most of them think this will be comfortable for Milan. Most of them have already written the three points into Milan’s column."

He paused, and his eyes moved across every face in the room.

"Good. Let them think that. Let Milan think they’ve already won. Let the media talk about how we’re just making up the numbers."

His voice hardened.

"Then we go out there and compete with everything we have. We defend with intelligence, we attack with purpose, and we show them exactly who Atalanta is."

He turned to the tactical board where Milan’s expected 4-2-3-1 was drawn in red marker with Atalanta’s shape in blue overlaid on top.

"We sit in a compact 4-2-3-1 defensively. Let them have the ball in areas that don’t hurt us. When we win possession, we spring forward quickly through Demien’s passing. The key battle is in midfield—Tonali will try to mark Demien out of the match, Bennacer will cover the space in front of their defense. Demien, you must receive between the lines, turn quickly, and release before their press arrives."

Demien nodded, committing every word to memory.

"De Roon, Koopmeiners—you protect the backline and give Demien freedom to create. Lookman, Malinovskyi—make runs in behind to stretch their defense. Højlund—hold the ball up when needed, but also attack the space between Tomori and Kjær."

More tactical details followed—pressing triggers, set piece assignments, defensive responsibilities—until Gasperini finally stepped back from the board.

"Questions?"

Silence.

"Then let’s go warm up."

******

7:45 PM - Pre-Match Warm-Up

The tunnel gates opened and Atalanta filed out onto the San Siro pitch, and the noise hit like a physical force—seventy thousand voices creating a wall of sound that made Demien’s chest vibrate as he jogged onto the grass.

The stadium was already three-quarters full despite kickoff being an hour away, red and black dominating every section while a small pocket of blue and black in the Curva Sud’s away section waved Atalanta flags with desperate enthusiasm—maybe two thousand traveling fans surrounded by sixty-eight thousand hostile Milanisti who’d come to watch their Scudetto winners dismantle a mid-table opponent.

Demien scanned the crowd during his first lap around the pitch, looking for—

There.

Second tier, center section, premium seating. Sophia sat with perfect posture in a navy blazer over his Atalanta number 28 jersey, her blonde hair catching the stadium lights, and she wasn’t looking at her phone or talking to anyone around her—she was watching him, and when their eyes met across fifty yards of distance she smiled and raised one hand in a small wave that sent warmth through his chest despite the nerves.

She really came, he thought, and the gesture felt significant in ways he couldn’t quite articulate because Sophia Bianchi had fashion shoots and modeling contracts and a life that didn’t require spending Saturday night in Milan watching an 18-year-old play his second professional match, but here she was anyway.

He waved back quickly before focusing on the warm-up routine, and his legs felt tight as he moved through dynamic stretches—high knees, butt kicks, lateral shuffles that made his groin pull slightly until the muscle loosened with movement and blood flow.

Passing drills came next, players arranging themselves in a circle while the ball moved quickly between them, and Demien’s first touch felt sharp but his accuracy on longer passes was slightly off—nerves manifesting as technical imperfection that he needed to shake before kickoff.

Breathe, he reminded himself. It’s just another match. Same ball, same grass, same game.

But it wasn’t the same, and lying to himself wouldn’t make it so.

Milan emerged from the opposite tunnel at 7:50 PM, and the stadium erupted with a roar that made Atalanta’s reception feel like polite applause—this was home, this was family, these were the defending champions being welcomed back to their fortress.

Leão moved with predatory grace during his warm-up, his acceleration frightening even in casual jogs, and Theo Hernández bombed up and down the left flank with the kind of engine that could destroy tired defenses in the final thirty minutes, and Giroud went through his striking drills with the calm professionalism of someone who’d played in World Cup finals and won everything there was to win.

We can compete with them, Demien thought, trying to convince himself. The stats say I’m good enough. The system says I’m good enough. I just have to prove it.

The warm-up concluded and both teams retreated to their locker rooms for final preparations, and Demien’s heart rate refused to settle as they walked back through the tunnel where the noise followed them like a living thing.