Inside the Barcelona locker room at halftime, the air was thick with the scent of wintergreen and sweat. Tata Martino didn't waste time on platitudes. He gathered his defensive line - Piqué, Puyol, Alba, and Alves around a small whiteboard.
"Be flexible! Don't blindly push out of the box to chase the BBC," Martino instructed, his eyes shifting to Puyol. "Carles, how long can you give me in the second half?"
Puyol, whose knee had been a source of constant pain since his last surgery, didn't hesitate. "Seventy minutes. Maybe eighty. I'll hold the line until my legs give out."
Martino nodded solemnly. He knew Puyol was the soul of the team, but at thirty-five, his recovery speed against the likes of Bale and Ronaldo was a liability they had to manage. "Around the seventy-minute mark, I'll have Mascherano ready. Until then, stay tight."
In the corner, Lorenzo checked his boots. Messi leaned over, his voice low. "Ancelotti is going to change things. Watch for Khedira. He's a 'Face Brother', he'll be everywhere. He and Alonso will try to build a cage around you."
Lorenzo smirked, adjusting his shin guards. "Let them build it. I'll just break the locks."
Across the hall, the atmosphere in the Real Madrid room was one of cold calculation. Carlo Ancelotti slapped a black magnet onto the board.
"This is Lorenzo. The number nine," Ancelotti said, circling the center of the pitch. "He is the tactical bridge. Sami, you're in for Di María. I want a double pivot. Your only job is to protect Xabi Alonso's weak side and cover that boy. If he moves, you move."
Khedira, the German "engine," nodded. He had neutralized the likes of Ibrahimović in the past; he wasn't afraid of a teenager.
"Sergio! Watch your cards!" Ancelotti barked at Ramos. "You are our guarantee at the back. We cannot afford to finish this match with ten men. This is the Bernabéu, we take all three points today. Don't let them leave with their pride intact."
Fweet!
The whistle blew, and the second half ignited. The atmosphere at the Bernabéu was a wall of noise, a toxic mix of hope and hatred that surged every time a Barcelona player touched the ball.
With Khedira on the pitch, Madrid's shape became a fortress. They abandoned the high press of the first half, sitting deeper and waiting for the moment to spring the trap.
In the 55th minute, Andrés Iniesta tried to orchestrate a breakout. He used his signature "La Croqueta" to dance past Modric, his movements as fluid as water. He looked for Neymar on the left, but as the ball left his foot, a shadow intervened.
Sami Khedira launched a perfectly timed sliding tackle, sweeping the ball away and immediately feeding it to Xabi Alonso.
"The transition is instant!" Inés Valdes shouted into the ESPN Sur microphone. "Madrid has turned defense into a counter-attack in three seconds!"
Alonso looked up, his vision spanning the width of the pitch. He saw Cristiano Ronaldo already mid-sprint. With a strike of his instep, he launched a fifty-yard "guided missile" that bypassed the entire Barcelona midfield.
"Ronaldo is goal-side of Puyol!"
It was a terrifying display of pace. Ronaldo entered the box, his step-overs a blur of white. Puyol, his knee stiffening, tried to hold his ground. Ronaldo feinted left and exploded right, finding a yard of space for a shot.
"CRISTIANO-!"
But Gerard Piqué had seen the move coming. As a man who had faced Ronaldo since their days together in Manchester, he knew the rhythm. Piqué launched a desperate, full-length sliding block just as the shot was unleashed.
CRACK!
The ball struck Piqué's shin and deflected away. A chorus of anguished cries echoed from the Madrid stands.
"Piqué has saved them!" Santiago roared. "He saw through the feint! Pique stood his ground!"
The momentum swung back like a pendulum. Busquets collected the loose ball and fired it to Xavi. The tempo of the match had reached a point of absolute madness.
Barcelona pushed forward, the LMN trio converging. Xavi threaded a low ball to Lorenzo, who was being physically mauled by Ramos and Khedira. Lorenzo used his frame to shield the ball, drawing the defenders in before flicking it to Neymar. Neymar crossed for Messi, whose curling shot was only denied by a spectacular, flying save from Iker Casillas.
The ball went out for a corner.
Xavi walked to the corner flag, but he was looking at the box. He saw the height advantage of Madrid - Ramos, Pepe, Khedira, Ronaldo, and Benzema. A wall of giants.
"We aren't winning a header in there," Xavi muttered as Lorenzo walked past him.
"Give it to the 'D'," Lorenzo whispered, pointing to the empty space about twenty-five yards out.
Xavi's eyes sharpened. It was a high-risk gamble. He took a deep breath, ran up, and instead of lofting the ball into the crowd, he struck a flat, spinning pass toward the edge of the area.
"Xavi has miskicked it!" the Madrid commentator shouted. "It's a terrible corner!"
But it wasn't a mistake.
The entire Madrid defense had crashed toward the goal line to contest the header. Only Lorenzo had moved in the opposite direction. He arrived at the ball's landing spot as the Madrid players realized the trap a second too late.
"CLOSE HIM DOWN!" Ramos screamed, sprinting out of the box.
Lorenzo didn't settle the ball. He let it bounce once, adjusting his stride. He remembered the Batistuta template, the "God of War" focus. He locked his ankle, his thigh muscles bulging under the tension.
He swung his right leg with a ferocity that seemed to split the air.
THWACK!
A dull, heavy thud echoed through the silent Bernabéu. It wasn't the sound of a foot hitting a ball; it was the sound of a hammer hitting an anvil.
The ball didn't arc. It didn't curve. It traveled in a perfectly straight line, a white blur of pure, kinetic energy. It whistled past the heads of players, bypassed the lunging Ramos, and screamed toward the top corner.
Casillas didn't even move. He was a spectator in his own goal.
The net didn't just ripple; it strained against its moorings as the ball came to a dead stop with a violent snap.
1-2.
The Bernabéu was plunged into a state of total, absolute paralysis. For the second time in one night, the seventeen-year-old had silenced the fortress.
Lorenzo didn't celebrate. He simply walked to the edge of the penalty area, staring directly at Sergio Ramos. He raised a finger to his lips, a silent command to eighty thousand people.
[Status: Leading (1-2). 65th Minute.]
[System Note: Side Mission Progress - Lorenzo: 2 Goals. Objective 1 Complete!]
[Reward: Gold Treasure Chest!]
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