28th Minute

Atalanta pushed hard down the left flank, the ball moving quickly through the sequence as Koopmeiners found Maehle wide, and the Danish full-back drove forward with intent while Ruggeri doubled up on the overlap, both of them flooding into the final third with pace.

The cross came whipped and dangerous, Maehle's right foot catching it clean as four black-and-blue shirts converged on the six-yard box, Højlund attacking the near post, Lookman peeling to the far stick, Malinovskyi hovering at the penalty spot, all of them anticipating the delivery.

The ball sailed over everyone.

Too high, too deep, skimming past Højlund's outstretched head and evading Lookman's leap at the back post before bouncing loose in the space between Lecce's right-back and center-back, and for one second the danger seemed cleared.

Then Strefezza was already gone.

The Brazilian winger had stayed high during the defensive phase, gambling on the transition, and the moment the cross missed its targets he exploded into the space with frightening acceleration, his first touch taking the ball past Scalvini who had pushed up too far, his second touch burning Maehle who was sprinting back desperately but couldn't match the pace.

Strefezza cut inside from the right touchline, his body angled toward goal, and Tolói rushed across to close the angle while Demiral covered behind, but the winger's third touch came low and vicious, a driven cross whipped across the six-yard box that skimmed the turf with perfect weight.

Colombo had timed his run perfectly, ghosting in front of Tolói at the far post, and the simple left-foot finish came first time, just a redirection that sent the ball past Musso's diving fingertips and into the side netting.

0-1.

The ball hit the net and bulged, and Demien watched it happen from thirty yards away on the center circle, his legs still recovering from the sprint forward for Atalanta's attack, and the roar that had been building in nineteen thousand throats died in an instant, sudden and brutal silence that felt like the oxygen had been sucked from the stadium.

Colombo wheeled away toward the corner where four hundred Lecce fans erupted like they'd won the Scudetto, yellow shirts jumping and screaming, and Demien stood rooted with his hands on his hips, staring at the grass while the mission HUD pulsed red in the corner of his eye because the numbers hadn't changed and now they were losing.

"Strefezza explodes away!" Caressa's voice rose with shock and excitement. "Colombo at the far post… first time… and Lecce have stunned the Gewiss! One chance, one goal; classic counter-punch from the promoted side!"

"Perfetto!" the co-commentator added, almost admiring. "Clinical finishing, brutal efficiency!"

Dead quiet held for three full seconds before the away corner's celebration grew louder, four hundred voices drowning out twenty-three thousand, and then scattered groans rippled through the Curva Nord, frustration mixing with disbelief because Atalanta had dominated possession for half an hour and Lecce had scored from their first real chance.

Demien's jaw set as he walked back to position, his mind already shifting because one goal down at home meant everything had to change, and the mission HUD in his peripheral vision showed the numbers that hadn't moved: still 0/2 involvements, still 0/6 duels, still seventy percent pass accuracy that meant nothing without goals.

Sixty-two minutes left. Time to wake up.

30th–40th Minute

Demien jogged back to the center circle for the restart, and his mind was already working through the problem because thirty minutes of playing between the lines had gotten him nowhere except kicked, and Lecce's three-man marking system meant every time he received the ball facing forward there were already two bodies on him with a third arriving before he could turn.

So he stopped trying to receive between the lines.

The next time Atalanta built from the back, Demien dropped five yards deeper than before, sitting almost in line with De Roon and Koopmeiners rather than floating ahead of them, and the adjustment was subtle enough that Lecce's defensive structure didn't immediately recognize the change, their midfielders still holding their positions between the lines where Demien had been operating all half.

From this new position everything opened up differently.

Demien could see the full width of the pitch, both touchlines in his peripheral vision, and more importantly he could see Lecce's defensive block before he received the ball rather than after, his eyes scanning the gaps between their yellow shirts, the distances between their lines, the moments when one defender pushed too high or another dropped too deep, and those gaps lit up in his mind like vision lines across the grass, laser grids showing him exactly where space would appear half a second before it actually did.

Hjulmand and Baschirotto followed him deeper instinctively, but now they were fifteen yards further from their defensive line, stretched thin, and Blin couldn't cover both the space Demien had vacated and the passing lanes he was opening from deeper, the Lecce midfielder caught between two jobs and doing neither properly.

Demien's first touch from this position went sideways to Koopmeiners, simple and safe, nothing ambitious, just testing the new geometry, and Lecce's block held because the pass went nowhere dangerous.

His second touch came thirty seconds later, another drop to receive from Tolói, and this time when Hjulmand pressed him Demien didn't try to turn, he just laid it back to De Roon and moved again, dragging Baschirotto with him and opening a channel that hadn't existed before.

The third touch was when Lecce's midfield realized the problem.

He was done waiting for them to make mistakes.

Now he'd force them.

34th Minute – The Back-Heel

Tolói collected the ball deep in his own half under immediate pressure from Lecce's forward press, and rather than go long he played it short to Demien who had dropped all the way to the edge of his own box to receive, and two yellow shirts closed instantly because Lecce's game plan hadn't changed even with the lead.

Hjulmand came from the right, Blin from the left, both converging with aggressive body shapes designed to force a mistake or win the ball, and Demien's first touch took him slightly forward into the trap they'd set, his back to goal, both defenders closing the remaining space.

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