As menus flickered and the players’ animated sprites warmed up, the save file started to feel less like static data and more like a portal. Keiji’s apartment grew small, the hum of his modern life fading. He could almost smell the distant echo of the gym: the squeal of shoes, the chalky tang of breath, the frantic exhortations of a coach who believed too much in impossible comebacks. He clicked ‘Exhibition Match’ and picked the formation. The lines of code obeyed his choices like old friends — Haru’s corner curve, Shinji’s flank dash, Yuto’s improbable dive.