Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

The pandemonium at Anfield was a beautiful, glorious, and utterly uncontrollable force of nature. From 3-0 down, Liverpool were level.

On the Manchester City sideline, Pep Guardiola, the grandmaster, the architect of a million perfect victories, was in a state of quiet, simmering meltdown.

He was pacing, he was muttering to himself, he was arguing with his own shadow. The 'Tactical Frustration' debuff was in full effect.

"THEY ARE RATTLED! THE CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE ARE ON THE ROPES!" the commentator, Barry, screamed, his voice a ragged mess of pure, beautiful chaos. "Arne Slot's halftime gamble has paid off in the most spectacular fashion imaginable! Anfield is a fortress of dreams, and right now, they are dreaming of the most impossible victory in Premier League history!"

The final twenty minutes of the match were not a football game; they were a siege.

Liverpool, fueled by the roar of the crowd and the scent of blood, were a relentless, suffocating red tide.

Their defensive line pushed up to the halfway line, a bold, aggressive statement of intent. They were not just trying to win; they were trying to annihilate.

"AGAIN! AGAIN! NO MERCY!" Virgil van Dijk roared, his voice a booming, captain's command that echoed around the pitch.

The game was now being played almost exclusively in Manchester City's half. Every time a City player got the ball, they were swarmed by two, sometimes three, red shirts. The pressure was immense.

The ball was a magnet for Liverpool's attackers.

Mo Salah, a blur of red lightning, went on a mazy, brilliant dribble, tying the City defenders in knots before his shot was heroically blocked.

A minute later, it was Nathan Ngumoha's turn, his raw, explosive pace a constant, terrifying threat. Another dribble, another desperate block, another corner.

It was a relentless barrage.

"It's a siege, Clive!" Barry yelled, completely lost in the drama.

"An endless barrage of brilliant, wicked deliveries from Trent Alexander-Arnold! City are just heading the ball away and praying for the final whistle! They're camped so deep in their own box they're practically sitting in the laps of their own fans!"

The corner count was becoming ridiculous. Four, five, six corners in the space of ten minutes. From one, a powerful header from Konaté was scrambled off the line. From another, a clever, flicked header from Isak went agonizingly wide.

On the pitch, the players were running on pure adrenaline.

"Leo! Where do you want me?!" Ngumoha yelled, looking to his new creative leader.

"Stay wide! Stretch them! The space will come!" Leon yelled back, directing the traffic, a conductor in the heart of a beautiful storm.

In the 88th minute, the pressure finally caused a fatal crack in the City machine.

A desperate clearance was intercepted by Liverpool. Mo Salah was suddenly free, running at the heart of the exposed defense.

Rodri, City's midfield anchor, who had been a rock all game, was caught out of position.

He had no choice. He launched into a cynical, professional, and utterly desperate foul, scything Salah down from behind.

The referee didn't hesitate. He had already given Rodri a yellow card in the first half for a similar foul. He sprinted over, his hand already reaching for his pocket. A second yellow, followed by the inevitable, game-changing red card.

"HE'S OFF! RODRI IS OFF!" Barry screamed. "Manchester City are down to ten men! A moment of cynical desperation, and the champions of Europe are on the brink of collapse! Can they possibly hang on?!"

The final minutes were an onslaught. Liverpool, with a man advantage, threw everything forward. The noise in the stadium was a physical, vibrating force.

The fourth official's board went up. Four minutes of added time.

In the 92nd minute, the ball came to Trent Alexander-Arnold, 30 yards from goal. The crowd screamed "SHOOT!" He obliged. He unleashed an absolute missile of a long shot, a swerving, dipping thunderbolt that was destined for the top corner. But Ederson, in the City goal, produced a magnificent, world-class, flying save, tipping the ball over the bar.

One last chance. The final corner of the game.

Trent whipped it in. The ball was headed away, but only to the feet of Mo Salah. He shot. It was blocked. The ball ricocheted to Isak.

He shot. Blocked again. A frantic, pinballing mess of blue and red.

Somehow, the ball squirted free, rolling perfectly, beautifully, to the feet of Leon, just outside the box. The world seemed to slow down. He had the 'Power Shot'. He had the 'Silken Dribble'. He had a thousand options. But he chose the simplest one. He saw a gap. He drew back his foot.

But just as he was about to strike it, a sky-blue shirt appeared from nowhere, launching into a heroic, game-saving slide tackle.

It was Byon. His best friend. His shadow. He had read his mind. He got a crucial, decisive touch, deflecting the ball agonizingly wide.

The final whistle blew. It was over.

A 3-3 draw.

The stadium was a strange, beautiful mixture of emotions. The Liverpool players collapsed to the grass, a mixture of pride at their incredible comeback and a gut-wrenching disappointment at not finding the winner. The City players, the ten survivors, collapsed in a heap of pure, unadulterated relief.

The two sets of players, warriors who had just been through a battle for the ages, began to exchange handshakes, a deep, profound respect in their eyes.

Leon was sitting on the grass, his head in his hands, replaying that final chance, when a shadow fell over him. He looked up. It was Byon. His friend's face was a mask of exhaustion and a quiet, profound respect. He held out a hand.

"You owe me a new pair of ankles," Byon said, a tired, wry grin on his face as he pulled Leon to his feet.

"You owe me a new brain," Leon shot back, a genuine, happy laugh bubbling up from his chest. "I think Pep broke it."

They stood there for a moment, two friends, two rivals, who had just given everything they had on the biggest stage. They swapped shirts, a simple, powerful gesture of sportsmanship.

As they walked towards the tunnel together, arm-in-arm, the roar of the Anfield crowd washing over them, Byon leaned in close.

"Hey," he said, his voice a low, serious whisper.

"That new president of yours at Inter... Briatore. He called my agent."

Leon froze. "What?"

"Yeah," Byon said, a strange, almost amused look on his face.

"A 'casual inquiry', he called it. He just wanted to know if the champions of Europe might be interested in a trade. Their 'unhappy' playmaker for a certain German-born left-back..."