The deafening roar of the Bernabéu faded to a low, nervous murmur as Leon trudged down the tunnel, his head bowed.
He sat on the bench, not looking at anyone, his mind replaying the goal, that split-second hesitation.
He was the one with the 'Vision', the one who was supposed to see everything, but he'd been too slow, too overwhelmed.
Lautaro Martínez, his face a mask of fierce determination, was the first to speak.
"Alright, listen up!" he growled, his voice cutting through the silence.
"First half is over. We're a goal down. So what? This is the Champions League. It's not supposed to be easy."
"We're Inter. We don't just give up. We fight. We fight for every blade of grass, for every ball. We show them what we're made of!"
The words were a jolt, but Leon still felt numb. He had seen the brilliance of Real Madrid, the seamless flow of their play, the blazing 'Current' ratings that shone like a galaxy of unreachable stars.
Suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder.
