As he walked back out into the roar, Mateo felt a shift inside him. The fear was still there, but now it was mixed with a cold, hard anger. He was tired of being the "reject," the "wunderkind." He was a footballer. And he was here to fight.

The second half began, and Dortmund was a different team. They were more direct, more aggressive. Mateo was a phantom, his movement now a constant, nagging question that Madrid's midfield couldn't answer. He was no longer trying to beat them with skill, but with intelligence. He drew fouls. He created small pockets of space. He was the grit in the gears of the pristine white machine.

But Madrid's quality was relentless. In the 57th minute, a corner. The ball was whipped in, and in the crowded box, Pepe, a man who seemed to be carved from granite and fury, rose highest. His header was a battering ram, flying into the net. 2-0. The beast roared again, louder this time, tasting blood.

Ten minutes later, it was Ronaldo. A blistering counter-attack, a simple pass from Benzema, and the Portuguese superstar was one-on-one with Weidenfeller. There was never any doubt. A clinical, ruthless finish. 3-0. The game was over. The tie was over. The dream was over.

Mateo stood in the center of the pitch, hands on his hips, and watched the Madrid players celebrate. The noise was deafening, a party to which he was the unwanted, humiliated guest. Despair washed over him, cold and absolute. The System's probability of winning now read *1.2%*. It was a joke. A cruel, statistical joke.

And then, something inside him snapped.

It was not a conscious decision. It was a primal scream of defiance from the very core of his being. The despair curdled into pure, unadulterated rage. A rage at the sneering press, at the patronizing opponents, at the crushing weight of expectation. A rage at the numbers, at the probability, at the System itself.

He looked at the clock. 78 minutes. He looked at the scoreboard. 3-0. He looked at the faces of his teammates, etched with exhaustion and defeat. And he decided he didn't care.

He demanded the ball from Hummels on the edge of his own box, his eyes burning with an intensity that startled the veteran defender. He was a man possessed. He activated the System, not with a request, but with a command. *Override. Maximum output. Adrenaline surge.*

The world seemed to slow down, the colors sharpening, the noise of the crowd fading to a dull hum. He saw the pathways, not as suggestions, but as lines of fire he would burn across the pitch.

He pushed the ball past Khedira, who lunged in, but Mateo was already gone. He accelerated, his legs pumping, eating up the green expanse of the Bernabéu.

Alonso, the master of position, tried to angle him off, but Mateo dipped his shoulder, a feint he had practiced a thousand times, and cut inside. He was in their half now. Pepe came charging out, a bull seeing red, but Mateo, with a touch as soft as a whisper, nudged the ball to his left, evading the thunderous challenge by a millimeter.

He was at the edge of the box. Ramos was in front of him, the last bastion. The stadium, which had been a cacophony of celebration, was now a murmur of disbelief. The boy was still running.

Mateo looked up. He saw Casillas, a giant in the goal. He saw the sliver of space to the keeper's left.

He didn't think. He just did. He drew his right foot back and struck the ball with every ounce of frustration, anger, and hope he possessed. It was not a finesse shot. It was a thunderbolt.

The ball flew, a white blur against the dark night, swerving, dipping, a missile of pure intent. Casillas dived, his body stretched to its absolute limit, his fingertips brushing the leather. But it was not enough.

The ball crashed into the back of the net with a sound that was, to Mateo, the most beautiful symphony he had ever heard. The net bulged. The beast was silenced.

3-1.

He didn't celebrate. He simply ran into the goal, grabbed the ball, and sprinted back to the center circle.

He slammed the ball down on the center spot and stared, not at his teammates, but directly at the Real Madrid players, his expression a mask of cold fury. The message was clear, sent without a single sound: *This is not over.* His teammates, seeing the fire in his eyes, felt a jolt of adrenaline, a flicker of belief returning.

They didn't score again. The final whistle blew on a 3-1 defeat. But it was not a defeat. It was a declaration.

As the Madrid players celebrated a victory that now felt strangely hollow, Mateo Alvarez stood alone in the center of the pitch, breathing heavily, his body aching, his heart pounding. He had been beaten, but he had not been broken. He had been to hell and back, and he had returned with a piece of fire, a crucial away goal, a lifeline.

As he walked off the pitch, a hand clapped him on the back. It was Iker Casillas. The legendary keeper looked at him, not with pity, but with a grudging respect. "That was some goal, kid," he said in Spanish. "You have a lion's heart." Mateo met his gaze and simply nodded, the gesture conveying more than words ever could.

In the dressing room, the silence was different now. It was not the silence of despair, but of grim determination. Klopp's face was a mixture of pride and fury.

"One goal," he said, his voice a low growl. "They think they are in the final. But we have one goal. At the Westfalenstadion, with our fans, one goal can become a storm. One goal can become a miracle."

Mateo sat, exhausted, the System's alerts now a quiet, steady pulse. *Probability of Advancing: 15.4%*. The number was still small. But it was not zero. He had been baptized in the fires of the Bernabéu. And he had emerged, not as a boy wonder, but as a warrior, ready for the war to come.

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