As the game entered its final minutes, the tension was almost unbearable. Dortmund needed one more goal. One more goal to complete the greatest comeback in Champions League history. And in the 92nd minute, they had their chance.

Mateo, who had run himself into the ground, who had given every last ounce of his energy, his talent, his heart, picked up the ball on the halfway line. He had one last run in him, one last desperate, defiant surge towards the Madrid goal.

He beat one player, then another, his legs screaming in protest, his lungs burning. He was in the Madrid half, the goal in his sights, the miracle within his grasp. And then, a cynical, desperate, brutal tackle from behind from Sergio Ramos. A sickening crunch, a flash of white-hot pain, and Mateo was on the ground, his dream, and his ankle, shattered.

The final whistle blew, and the Westfalenstadion fell silent. The dream was over. The miracle had not happened. The players, who had given so much, who had come so close, collapsed to the ground, their bodies and their hearts broken. Mateo, his face a mask of agony and despair, was stretchered off the pitch, the applause of the home fans a hollow, meaningless echo in his ears.

In the dressing room, there were no words. Just the sound of grown men weeping. Klopp, his own eyes red with tears, gathered his players in a circle. "I have no words," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"I am so, so proud of you. You gave everything. You left your hearts, your souls, your bodies on that pitch. And sometimes, in football, in life, that is not enough. But you did not fail. You did not lose. You just ran out of time."

Mateo, his ankle now a swollen, throbbing mass of pain, sat in the corner of the dressing room, the tears streaming down his face. He had never felt so empty, so broken, so alone. He had scored two goals against Real Madrid. He had been the hero. And it had meant nothing. Football, the game he loved, the game that had given him everything, had never felt so cruel.

The medical staff worked on his ankle in silence, their faces grim, their movements efficient and professional. The pain was excruciating, a white-hot fire that radiated from his ankle up through his entire leg. But it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. He had been so close. So impossibly, tantalizingly close. One more goal. One more moment of magic. And the miracle would have been complete.

He thought of the Bernabéu, of the goal he had scored, of the defiance he had shown. He thought of the journey he had been on, from the streets of Málaga to the pinnacle of European football.

He thought of Isabella, of her unwavering belief in him, of her unconditional love. He thought of Don Carlos, of the old man's wisdom and guidance. He thought of his teammates, of the way they had fought, the way they had believed, the way they had given everything for the dream.

And he thought of the away goals rule. That cruel, arbitrary, heartless rule that had robbed them of their miracle. They had won 2-0. They had dominated Real Madrid, the kings of Europe, in their own backyard. And it had not been enough. Because of one goal, one moment of brilliance from Ángel Di María in the Bernabéu, the dream was over.

The injustice of it all was overwhelming. He wanted to scream, to rage, to smash something. But he couldn't. He was mute. His voice was trapped inside him, a prisoner of his own body. And so the tears came, hot and bitter, streaming down his face in a torrent of grief and frustration.

Marco Reus sat down beside him, his own face streaked with tears. He didn't say anything. He just put his arm around Mateo's shoulder, a silent gesture of solidarity and support. They sat there together, two warriors who had given everything and had come up just short, united in their grief.

Lewandowski joined them, then Hummels, then Weidenfeller. One by one, the players gathered around their fallen comrade, their youngest member, their brightest star. They formed a circle of protection, a wall of love and support. They had lost together. And they would grieve together.

Klopp, who had been standing by the door, his face a mask of controlled emotion, finally spoke. "Mateo," he said, his voice breaking. "What you did tonight... I have no words. You were magnificent. You were a warrior. You were a champion. And I am so, so sorry that it was not enough."

Mateo looked up at his coach, at the man who had believed in him when no one else would, and he saw the tears in Klopp's eyes. The great Jürgen Klopp, the master tactician, the inspirational leader, was crying. For him. For the team. For the dream that had died.

The journey to the hospital was a blur. The pain in his ankle had become a dull, throbbing ache, numbed by the painkillers the medical staff had administered. But the pain in his heart was as sharp and as raw as ever. He stared out the window of the ambulance, watching the lights of Dortmund blur past, and he felt a profound sense of emptiness.

At the hospital, the doctors confirmed what he already knew. A severe ankle sprain. No broken bones, no torn ligaments. He had been lucky. But it didn't feel like luck. It felt like a curse. He would be out for at least two weeks, maybe more. The Bundesliga title race was entering its final, crucial stages. And he would be a spectator.

As he lay in the hospital bed, alone in the sterile, soulless room, he replayed the final moments of the match in his mind. The run, the tackle, the pain. If only he had been a little bit faster. If only he had seen Ramos coming. If only he had passed the ball instead of trying to go it alone. If only, if only, if only.

The System, which had been silent since the injury, suddenly flickered to life.

Critical Error. Stamina Depletion: 98%.

Injury Sustained: Severe Ankle Sprain (Grade 2).

Recovery Time: 14-21 days. Performance Analysis: Match Rating 9.8/10.

Two goals scored. Heroic performance.

Outcome: Eliminated.

Emotional Impact: Severe. Recommendation: Immediate psychological support required.

He dismissed the interface with a thought, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. Psychological support. As if a computer program could understand the depth of his despair, the magnitude of his loss. The System could analyze his performance, it could calculate his recovery time, it could provide tactical insights. But it couldn't heal a broken heart.

He closed his eyes, the exhaustion finally overwhelming him. As he drifted off into a fitful, dreamless sleep, one thought echoed in his mind: So close. We were so close. The miracle had not happened.

But the memory of the attempt, of the heroic, defiant, beautiful attempt, would stay with him forever. And it would fuel him, drive him, inspire him to reach even greater heights. Because that was what champions did. They didn't give up. They got back up. And they fought again.

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