The commentary—that strange, looped, English-accented cry—exploded: “GOOOOLAZO! UNBELIEVABLE!”
Leo’s heart, the one real muscle he still trusted, pounded against his ribs.
The floodlights of the Estadio Santiago Bernabéu hummed, not with the roar of 80,000 souls, but with the electric silence of a world waiting. On the screen, frozen in digital amber, he stood—number 7, white jersey untucked, one hand on his hip, the other raised in quiet defiance. The crowd was a blur of phantom pixels; the ball, a pearl at his feet.