My system allows me to copy talents

The rain had stopped. However, the sky still hadn’t cleared up. Instead, it was shrouded in a gloom that seemed to have swallowed the light above.

The puddles beneath reflected the gloom above. However, the street around Etihad had come alive with movement as a tide of blue and red and white surged through the street.

The atmosphere in itself was electric, pulsing with excitement and anticipation.

Just outside the Etihad stadium, a flock of supporters had gathered for the match.

They arrived in waves, City supporters in sky blue and Atlético supporters in red and white, and they sang and chanted and waved flags and banners that stretched across the pavement.

The smell of burgers and chips and kebabs drifted through the air, the unmistakable scent of a matchday. Vendors shouted over one another, children clung to their parents’ hands, and old men argued loudly about tactics on every corner.

Though rather chaotic, it was still beautiful.

Where there is a crowd, there are reporters. Just as the saying goes, there were reporters moving around the place.

Among them was a young female reporter named Emma Sinclair. She had been a reporter for three years, and she had covered a lot of matches and interviewed a lot of players before.

However, those matches were local matches, and those interviews were with low-league players.

Hence, she had never covered a piece of news as big as this before.

The Champions League quarter-final. Manchester City against Atlético Madrid, two of the biggest clubs in Europe, with two of the biggest stars in the world.

She stood outside the Etihad with a microphone in her hand and her cameraman, a weathered man named Derek, beside her.

”You ready?” he asked.

Emma swallowed. ”Yes.”

”You don’t look ready.”

”I’m ready.”

Derek studied her for a moment, and then a warm smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. ”You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”

”Myself is nervous.”

”Then be nervous. It’s your first big match, so you’re allowed.”

Emma took a breath. ”Okay.”

”Okay.” Derek raised the camera. ”Three, two, one. You’re live.”

Just as she heard him, she drew in a deep breath, almost as if breathing would help her fight this feeling she felt.

It had helped her before. Hence, she hoped it would help her again this time, after all, she needed it the most right now.

Emma turned to the camera, and her heart pounded in her ears.

”Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Emma Sinclair, reporting live from the Etihad Stadium, where in just two hours Manchester City will face Atlético Madrid in the first leg of the Champions League quarter-finals.”

She paused, and her mind went completely blank.

What should I say next?

”The atmosphere here is... is...”

She glanced at Derek, who mouthed a single word over the top of the camera. Electric.

”Electric. Yes. The atmosphere here is electric.”

She turned to a group of City supporters nearby, scarves wrapped around their necks against the damp. ”Excuse me, sir. Can I ask you a few questions?”

The man, a middle-aged supporter with a thick Manchester accent, nodded enthusiastically. ”Course you can, love.”

”How are you feeling about tonight’s match?”

”Nervous, obviously. It’s Atlético. They’ve got Hiro Takahashi, and that lad’s a genius.”

”Do you think City can win?”

”Course we can. We’ve got Haaland, we’ve got Deneuve, we’ve got Donnarumma. We’re not afraid of anyone.”

Emma nodded and turned back to the camera. ”There you have it, confidence from the City faithful. But the question remains: can they stop Hiro Takahashi?”

She paused again. What else?

Derek mouthed two more words. Atlético fans.

”Let’s hear from the Atlético supporters.”

She walked toward a group of fans in red and white whose voices rang out loud and passionate. ”Excuse me, how are you feeling about tonight?”

A young Spanish woman with dark hair and bright eyes answered at once. ”We’re going to win. Hiro is back, and he’s unstoppable.”

”But City is a strong team. They have Haaland, Deneuve, Donnarumma—”

”We have Hiro.” The woman smiled. ”That’s all we need.”

Emma turned back to the camera, and her confidence was beginning to return.

”There you have it, confidence from both sides. But only one team can advance, and only one team can...”

She stopped. For some reason, her mind had gone blank again.

What was I saying?

”Only one team can... can...”

Win, Derek mouthed.

”Win. Yes. Only one team can win.” She laughed nervously. ”I’m sorry, this is my first time covering a match of this magnitude, and I’m a little nervous.”

Derek gave her a thumbs-up over the camera. Keep going.

Emma took a breath. ”But nervousness aside, the atmosphere here is incredible. The fans are passionate and the players are ready, and in just two hours we’ll see who comes out on top.” She smiled. ”This is Emma Sinclair, reporting live from the Etihad Stadium.”

Derek lowered the camera. ”That was good.”

”It was terrible.”

”It was good. You found your rhythm.”

”I fumbled twice.”

”You recovered, and that’s what matters.”

Emma sighed. ”I hope you’re right.”

Then a sudden chorus of cheers startled her.

It was a roar, loud and sudden and overwhelming, rising from the far end of the stadium like a wave that crashed over the crowd. Emma spun around with her heart racing.

”What was that?”

Derek pointed. ”Look.”

A bus was approaching the stadium, sleek and dark, with the Atlético Madrid crest on its side. Police escorts flanked it on both sides, and fans were surging toward it, their voices rising together in a single, deafening chorus that almost sounded like a song she hadn’t heard before.

She could hear a couple of names being called out, too.

Emma stared. ”That’s their bus?”

”That’s their bus.”

She gripped her microphone. ”Derek, get the camera. We need to capture this.”

Derek raised it, and Emma began walking toward the crowd, her nerves forgotten.

”Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing something extraordinary. The Atlético Madrid bus has arrived, and the reception is incredible. Thousands of fans have gathered to welcome their team, and the loudest chant is for one man.”

She paused and let the roar fill the broadcast.

”Hiro Takahashi.”

The bus slowed to a stop, and the doors hissed open.

Diego was the first to step off, calm and composed, his expression unreadable. Then came Julian, followed by Lee Kang-In and Guiliano, and then Romero, the captain, walking with the unhurried stride of a man who had been here many times before.

Then came Hiro Takahashi.

He stepped down from the bus, and the roar intensified until the air itself seemed to tremble. Fans screamed, cameras flashed, and banners rose and fell like waves. At the top of the steps, Hiro paused, and his eyes moved slowly across the crowd.

Then he smiled.

It was a small smile, almost imperceptible, but it was enough. Emma felt a shiver run down her spine.

”There he is,” she said quietly. ”The man everyone came to see.”

She turned back to the camera. ”This is Emma Sinclair, reporting live from the Etihad Stadium. The teams have arrived, the stage is set, and in less than two hours the battle begins.” She hesitated for a moment. ”Stay with us.”