Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The one-minute break between the two halves of extra time was the strangest, most surreal minute in football history.

The players didn't receive tactical instructions; they received emergency aid.

Physios ran onto the pitch with water bottles, energy gels, and cramping spray, treating the field like a battlefield triage unit.

On the Inter sideline, Coach Chivu wasn't yelling at his assistants anymore.

He was just staring at the pitch, a silent, smoldering volcano of tension.

His counterpart on the Roma bench was doing the same.

All the tactics, all the plans, had been burned away in the glorious, chaotic fire of the match.

This was now in the hands of the football gods.

The players, meanwhile, were operating in a state of delirious exhaustion.

"I can't feel my left leg," Federico Dimarco announced to Denzel Dumfries as they shared a water bottle. "It's just a rumor at this point. A suggestion of a leg."

"I'll trade you," Dumfries gasped back. "I'll give you my left leg for your right lung. I think mine has retired."

The commentator, somehow still finding the energy, was practically weeping with joy. "LOOK AT THEM! THEY ARE GHOSTS! APPARITIONS! They are running on memory and the roar of this incredible crowd! Ten minutes to find a hero! Ten minutes to avoid the cruel, cruel lottery of the penalty shootout! This is no longer sport! This is cinema!"

The final ten minutes were a beautiful, agonizing crawl.

The game was slow, punctuated by moments of desperate, frantic energy.

Players would summon the will for one last lung-busting sprint, only to find their legs completely disobeying their commands.

In the 114th minute, Roma's Leandro Paredes, a pitbull of a midfielder, somehow found the energy to go on a mazy, stumbling dribble, bouncing off two Inter players before finally collapsing in a heap, the ball trickling harmlessly away.

Two minutes later, it was Inter's turn.

The ball was worked to Lautaro, who tried to turn his defender, a move he had made a thousand times. But his legs were screaming in protest.

He stumbled, fell, but somehow, with the sheer power of his upper body, he hooked the ball with his foot from the ground, poking it into the path of the onrushing Hakan Çalhanoğlu.

The Turk, with the goal in his sights, drew back his foot to shoot... and was immediately flattened by a wave of cramp so severe he just fell over, clutching his hamstring.

"THEIR BODIES HAVE GIVEN UP!" the commentator wailed. "Their minds are writing checks their legs can no longer cash! This is beautiful! This is brutal! This is football!"

The clock ticked into the 119th minute. One last chance. The ball was cleared from a Roma attack and fell to Leon.

He surged forward, the last man on the pitch who seemed to have any semblance of control over his own limbs.

He played a quick one-two with Julián Álvarez, who had somehow managed to run 17 kilometers despite only being on the pitch for one half.

The return pass was perfect. Leon was in space, 25 yards out.

The stadium held its breath. This was it. The 'Leondona' moment.

The final word in an epic story. He struck the ball with every last ounce of energy he had.

It flew true, a powerful, swerving shot destined for the top corner.

But the Roma keeper, Rui Patrício, launched himself through the air, a yellow blur, and got the very tips of his fingers to the ball, pushing it just past the post.

A collective groan of a million heartbreaks echoed around the stadium. That was it. The final whistle blew.

The inevitable had arrived. Penalties.

The players, who had been running for two hours, now had to endure the longest, loneliest walk in football: the walk from the sideline to the center circle.

They collapsed in a heap, arms around each other, a huddle of exhausted brothers facing their final trial.

Coach Chivu's final words were simple. "I am proud of you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "No matter what happens now, you are fighters. You are Inter. Now go and show them."

Lautaro, as captain, had the agonizing job of choosing the five takers. He looked around the circle of pale, weary faces. Çalhanoğlu, the specialist. Palmer, the coolest man on the planet. Julián, the chaotic genius. Himself. And for the fifth, his eyes settled on Leon. "Leo. You are fifth." It was the ultimate vote of confidence.

As the takers were chosen, Inter's veteran goalkeeping coach, a wily old fox named Luca, pulled Yann Sommer aside. He had a small, battered notepad in his hand, filled with years of research.

"Listen to me, Yann," Luca whispered, his voice a low, urgent rasp. "Pellegrini. When he's under pressure, he goes to your left. Every time. Dybala loves the little stutter-step, then aims for the right corner. Lukaku is pure power, down the middle or slightly to your right. Cristante always looks at the corner he's aiming for. Watch his eyes."

Sommer, his face a mask of calm, just nodded, absorbing every word.

He was a veteran. He had been here before. He was ready.

The coin toss was done.

Roma would shoot first, towards the end of the stadium housing their own screaming, baying fans. The pressure was immense.

The first to walk was the Roma captain, Lorenzo Pellegrini.

The whistle from the Inter fans was deafening, a desperate attempt to shatter his focus. He placed the ball.

The referee blew his whistle. Pellegrini ran up and struck the ball hard and low... to Sommer's left. Just as Luca had said.

Sommer dove the right way, a powerful, explosive dive. But the shot was perfect, tucked right into the corner.

The keeper's fingertips brushed the ball, but it wasn't enough.

1-0 to Roma.

Now it was Inter's turn. Hakan Çalhanoğlu, the man with nerves of steel, walked up.

He looked calm, but Leon's Vision showed his heart rate was a frantic drumbeat.

He placed the ball, took his signature short run-up, and coolly passed the ball into the opposite corner, sending the keeper the wrong way.

1-1. The Inter players and staff on the sideline roared with relief.

The second man for Roma began his long walk from the center circle. It was Paulo Dybala.

The magician.

The man who had already scored one impossible goal.

Leon watched from the halfway line, his own heart pounding in his chest.

His turn was coming. The pressure was unbearable.

He closed his eyes, trying to calm his nerves, and then he remembered.

[Manager Mode!]

He activated it, focusing his entire will on the figure of Dybala placing the ball on the penalty spot. The system flared to life, no longer just a passive observer, but an active, analytical tool.

[Player Analysis: Paulo Dybala]

[Penalty Tendency (Under Pressure): 82% chance of stutter-step, followed by shot to goalkeeper's RIGHT.]

It was the same information Luca had given Sommer.

But then, a new line of text appeared, a level of detail he had never seen before, a product of the fully unlocked 'Manager Mode'.

[Micro-Expression Detected: Slight narrowing of the left eye immediately precedes stutter-step.]

[Body Language Anomaly: When aiming right, plants non-kicking foot 2cm further back than when aiming left.]

Leon's eyes snapped open.

He didn't just know what Dybala was likely to do.

He knew how to see it coming. He had the cheat code.

He turned and looked at Sommer, who was 60 yards away on the goal line.

He had the answer that could win them the cup.

But how in the world was he going to tell him?