The tunnel stank of antiseptic and adrenaline. Concrete walls pulsed with echoes of stomping boots and distant chants. Femi Adeleye stood still, heart pounding beneath the frayed Lagos wristband wrapped tightly around his arm. Sweat beaded at his temple, but his eyes remained locked on the figure across the narrow corridor.
Elias Rikken leaned casually against the opposite wall, dragging a finger through the dirt caked to his cleats. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—sharp, deliberate, cruel.
"Nice night for a funeral," Elias said, voice light but laced with venom.
Femi's reply was cold, clipped. "Yours."
The concrete shook as the thunder of fifty thousand fans rose above. Ajax's end chanted "Naija Jet!" in rhythmic waves, red banners billowing like war flags. Across the divide, Madrid's faithful roared back, "¡Hala Madrid!"—a sound that felt like cannon fire.
Coach Bakker appeared beside Femi, gripping his shoulder hard. "Leave scars," he growled.
---
First Half
From the first whistle, Madrid's press hit like a chokehold. Femi barely had time to scan before Marco Aguilar darted past Noah Willems on the flank, lashing a venomous shot toward goal. Daan Visser dove, hands stinging as he slapped the ball away. It ricocheted straight to Elias, whose follow-up clipped the outside of the post. The metallic clang rang through the stadium like a warning.
"Settle!" Femi barked, as Dekker sent a panicked clearance sailing into the crowd. His teammate's face had gone ashen, his hands shaking as if caught in a storm.
Lagos taught you better, Femi thought grimly. You don't panic in chaos. You live there.
Ajax pushed back. Josip Van der Berg, fire in his veins, bulldozed Hugo Ortega in midfield. The crowd erupted. Femi seized the moment, arcing a forty-yard diagonal to Jacek Kowalski on the right wing. Kowalski glided past Mateo Vidal and sent in a sizzling cross.
Souleymane Traoré rose high, twisting midair. His glancing header veered just wide, brushing the net's side with a cruel whisper.
"Close!" Josip roared, voice hoarse with hunger. "Again!"
But Madrid was relentless. Aguilar again—slipping a pass into Elias's stride. The striker curled it with elegant venom, a shot destined for the top corner.
Visser soared, fingertips brushing the ball just enough to deflect it onto the crossbar. He landed hard, punching the turf and roaring, "Not tonight!"
---
The Wound
The clock ticked to the 41st minute when Yassine Bouali misread the rhythm. His pass was soft, lazy—intercepted cleanly by Ismael Peña.
One touch. Then another. A surgical pass slipped through Ajax's line, and Elias was gone.
Dekker stumbled, unable to react. Femi saw the danger and lunged.
Too late.
Elias shaped his body and fired low into the far corner. The net rippled. The scoreboard blinked.
1–0, Madrid.
The noise was deafening. The ground tilted beneath their feet.
Dekker dropped to his knees, stunned. Femi was on him in an instant, yanking him up by the collar.
"You freeze now, we die!" he spat, eyes blazing.
---
Halftime: Resurrection
Barely a breath later, Josip surged forward, blood streaking down from a gash at his temple. He charged down the left wing, cross ricocheting wildly off a defender.
The ball arced strangely, looping high.
Souleymane didn't hesitate. He twisted mid-air, executing a scissor-kick that sent the ball crashing into the net.
1–1.
The Ajax end exploded in sound and light. Souleymane sprinted to the corner flag, dropped to his knees, and kissed the black tape on his wrist.
For you, Amadou.
In the locker room, the walls shook.
Coach Bakker hurled his clipboard against the wall, shards splintering.
"They bleed too!" he roared. "Make. Them. Crawl."
Josip was grinning through his blood. Dekker sat on the bench, shoulders heaving, eyes on his boots.
Femi pressed his wristband to his lips, the familiar taste of Lagos dust grounding him.
"Next forty-five," he whispered. "Our name on it."
---
Second Half
Madrid came storming back.
Adrian Romero let loose from thirty yards—Visser flung himself full stretch, tipping it wide.
Elias slipped behind Dekker again. Aguilar's cross was perfect, Ortega's volley wasn't—sailing harmlessly over the bar.
"Not here!" Femi bellowed, throwing his body in front of Elias's latest strike, absorbing the full force with his thigh.
Elias leaned in, breath hot. "Tired already, Adeleye?"
Femi didn't answer. He didn't need to.
In the 55th minute, Romero struck again—this time a wicked volley from just outside the box. Visser leapt, fingers brushing the ball just enough to send it over the bar.
"I'm a goddamn wall!" the keeper shouted, veins bulging.
Three minutes later, Souleymane cut inside, wove past Bruno Costa, and was chopped down in the box.
No whistle.
On the sideline, Bakker hurled his water bottle, screaming, "Blind rat!"
Josip retaliated—crunching into Ortega with a brutal, clean tackle. The referee didn't hesitate—yellow card. Josip just laughed, teeth red with blood.
"Worth it."
---
Extra Time
The game stretched into extra time, a battle of attrition. Legs were heavy. Every sprint a gamble.
In the 98th minute, Femi intercepted a lazy pass and drove forward, launching a long ball over the top. Souleymane met it on the volley—but the shot skimmed the post, leaving fans gasping.
At 106, Dekker rose above the pack, his header smashing off the crossbar. He hit the ground, touched his wristband, and locked eyes with Okoro on the bench.
No more errors, his gaze said.
By 115, Visser was running on fumes, palming away another curling shot from Elias before collapsing to his knees.
"I'm empty!" he gasped.
---
The ball rolled to Femi deep in Ajax's half.
Elias closed in, eyes wild. "Nowhere to run, Jet."
Femi's vision tunneled.
Lagos.
Broken bottles. Dirt pitches. Streetlight shadows. Survival.
Tapping into his instincts as a former winger, he feinted left, nutmegged Elias clean.
Ortega lunged. Femi spun past him. The crowd was on its feet, a tidal wave of sound.
Souleymane peeled wide, pulling defenders with him. Space opened.
Femi kept going, his head yelling at him to go it alone—past Costa, past Merino.
Calvo, the Madrid keeper, rushed out.
Femi chipped.
The ball sailed into the air, a slow-motion prayer.
It kissed the crossbar.
And dropped in.
2–1, Ajax.
The stadium erupted. Pandemonium.
---
Femi collapsed on the pitch, lungs heaving, heartbeat deafening. Josip was the first to reach him, grabbing his arm and pulling him up with a guttural roar.
Souleymane ran over, forehead pressed to Femi's, tears streaking his cheeks. Neither spoke. They didn't need to.
Elias stood at the edge of the box, unmoving. His captain's armband peeked from under his sleeve—tattered and faded. The same one he'd worn the first time Femi beat him.
On the touchline, Coach Bakker wrapped his arms around Visser, who sobbed into his gloves.
"You mad bastards," Bakker whispered.
In the stands, Liam Janssen watched it all unfold. Bandages peeked from his collar as he mouthed silently through the madness.
"Make it count."
---
The floodlights dimmed. Across the continent, the shadow of Camp Nou waited.
But for now, beneath Madrid's lights, Ajax's scars shimmered like gold.