The fake crowd roared – a compressed, tinny chant that sounded more like a vacuum cleaner than a stadium. But to Leo, it was the sound of pure joy.

Later that night, after the family was asleep, Leo opened a text file on his desktop. He typed only one line:

He didn’t hesitate. Master League. Default players – Castolo, Minanda, Ximelez – the lovable, hopeless scrubs he’d built dynasties with. The transfer budget was a joke. The morale was rock bottom. It was perfect.

But in this little .rar file, time was a flat circle. Here, Thierry Henry still had his braided hair. Ronaldo (the real one, the Brazilian phenomenon) was still unstoppable on a breakaway. And every Saturday night, you could settle a three-year grudge match with your best friend using only a memory card and a six-pack of cheap beer.

He leaned back, exhaling. His wife called from the kitchen, asking if he wanted tea. His two-year-old was napping upstairs. The real world was full of mortgage payments and performance reviews.