The silence in the tunnel was suffocating.
Not actual silence—Anfield's singing filtered down through tons of concrete, muffled but unmistakable—but the absence of words between teammates who'd just been systematically dismantled.
Jude's studs clicked against the floor, each step echoing off walls that seemed to lean inward, compressing their humiliation into something physical.
Akanji hadn't looked up once since leaving the pitch, his eyes fixed on some point three feet in front of his boots. That mistake—the heavy touch, it would haunt him for months.
The dressing room door opened to deep heat, sweat, the mixture of grass and mud that clung to everything. But it felt alien now, like walking into someone else's space. Jude sat heavily on the bench, began working at his laces with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy. The synthetic material was slick with moisture, difficult to grip properly.
Something twisted in Jude's chest.
Started as embarrassment, transformed through anger, arrived at something harder to name.
They were being humiliated on one of football's biggest stages, and they were just... accepting it? Rolling over like kicked dogs?
That wasn't who they were. That wasn't who he was.
His father's voice echoed from a decade ago, muddy Sunday morning in Birmingham when an older team had pushed them around: "You can lose, son. Losing happens. But you never, ever stop competing."
Rose entered without fanfare, closing the door with deliberate softness. He set his tablet on the tactics board, loosened his tie exactly two inches, and simply looked at them.
The silence stretched. Hummels shifted like he might speak, Rose's slight head shake killed the words before they formed.
"I've been in football thirty years," Rose began, voice conversational like they were discussing the weather. "Player, coach, manager. I've seen teams lose. I've seen teams get beaten badly." He paused, eyes moving across each face. "I've rarely seen a team quit."
The word hit like cold water.
Quit.
Such a small word to carry such weight.
"Liverpool pressed, you panicked. They moved the ball, you watched. They competed for every second ball, you hoped someone else would get it." His voice never rose, which somehow made it worse. "The scoreline is 2-0, but it should be five. And every person in this stadium knows it."
Jude felt heat rising from his chest to his face.
They had quit. Not consciously, not deliberately, but through a thousand small surrenders. Every time they'd chosen the safe pass over the brave one. Every time they'd let Liverpool's reputation make decisions for them.
"There is forty-five minutes left," Rose continued. "The question is simple: are you footballers or are you tourists?"
The room bristled.
"You think you're the first team to be 2-0 down at Anfield?" Rose moved to the board, picked up a marker. "Barcelona were 3-0 down. They scored four. Roma were 5-0 down on aggregate. They won 4-2 here." The marker squeaked as he wrote. "You know what those teams had that you currently don't? Belief. Fight. The basic understanding that football matches are ninety minutes, not forty-five."
Jude found himself standing without consciously deciding to.
"Then we fight." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, but he pushed through. "We go out there and we fight for every ball, every yard, every second. They want to humiliate us? Make them earn it."
Reus looked at him—really looked, like he was seeing something new. Then the captain stood too, decision made.
"He's right. We've been playing scared since the bus pulled up. Scared of the crowd, scared of their reputation, scared of making mistakes." He pulled the armband tighter on his bicep. "I'd rather lose 5-0 trying than 2-0 surrendering."
"Now," Rose said, energy shifting, "tactically, small adjustments..."
The tactical talk was brief but pointed. Press higher. Be more direct. Get bodies around Haaland. Take risks. Most importantly, and here Rose's eyes found each of them, take responsibility.
Stop waiting for someone else to be brave for you.
As they prepared to return, Jude caught his reflection in the mirror by the door. Grass stains painted abstract patterns on his shorts. Sweat had carved channels through the dirt on his face. But his eyes—his eyes looked different. Harder.
His mother would say he had his "game face" on, that expression that used to worry her during youth matches when things got heated.
The tunnel felt different on the return journey.
The noise grew with each step, but now it felt like fuel rather than pressure. Jude bounced on his toes, felt the good burn in his muscles, the reserves he'd held back out of nervousness now ready to explode.
"Lets fucking go lads!"
The restart came quickly. Liverpool kicked off, immediately looking to establish the same patterns.
But where Dortmund had dropped deep in the first half, now they pushed higher. Where they'd been passive, now they engaged.
The first real collision came after ninety seconds. Fabinho received the ball in space, took a touch to set himself, and found Can arriving like a freight train. The challenge was fair but full-blooded, sending both players sprawling. Fabinho bounced up immediately, arms spread in protest, but Can was already chasing the loose ball.
Liverpool tried to reimpose their rhythm, but the spaces weren't quite what they'd been. Thiago still found pockets, but now Dahoud tracked him, stuck tight, made everything uncomfortable. Henderson still tried to dictate, but Jude matched him stride for stride, using his youth and energy to disrupt the metronomic passing.
Soon, a Liverpool attack broke down when Mane's touch deserted him, the ball running through to Kobel.
Instead of taking his time, Kobel launched it quickly toward Haaland. Van Dijk won the initial header, but the second ball dropped to Brandt.
Brandt had endured a torrid first half, Alexander-Arnold dominating their personal duel. But Trent had pushed high, expecting the slow build-up to continue. Suddenly Brandt had space, enough to drive forward, head up, look for options.
Palmer—sorry, that substitution hadn't happened yet.
Reus made a diagonal run, pulling Matip out of position. Haaland peeled away from Van Dijk, creating separation. Brandt's cross was aimed at the Norwegian, whipped in with pace.
The connection was solid, Haaland's header directed toward the bottom corner. But Alisson's reflexes were extraordinary, diving low to his left to palm it away.
The ball spun toward the corner flag, first chance gone.
The away section found its voice, songs of defiance replacing the funeral dirges of the first half.
"That's it!" Jude heard himself shouting. "Keep going!"
The game developed a different rhythm. Still Liverpool's possession, still their patterns, but now contested, now fraught with danger. Every pass faced pressure. Every touch invited a challenge. The technical quality dropped but the intensity soared.
In the fifty-fourth minute. Jude had dropped deep to receive from Akanji, Henderson tracking him as always. But this time Jude was ready. He let the ball come across his body, using his first touch to wrong-foot the Liverpool captain. As Henderson adjusted, Jude pushed the ball past him and accelerated.
Henderson's challenge came from behind, desperate rather than malicious. His studs caught Jude's ankle, sending him tumbling across the turf in a tangle of limbs and curses.
The pain shot up from his ankle through his calf, sharp and hot. Pain was also information, and the information said nothing was broken, nothing torn.
Just bruised pride and bruised bones.
Jude rolled onto his back, saw Henderson standing over him with hands raised, the universal gesture of "I didn't mean it but I'm not that sorry."
Mateu Lahoz arrived with typical theatricality, already reaching for his pocket. The yellow card came out with a flourish, held aloft long enough for every camera in the ground to capture it. Henderson's protests were half-hearted—he knew it was deserved.
"You alright?" Henderson asked as Jude climbed to his feet.
"Peachy," Jude replied, testing his weight on the ankle.
The free kick came to nothing Brandt's delivery cleared by Van Dijk. but now Liverpool's captain was on a yellow with thirty-five minutes left. Every challenge now carried extra weight.
Rose made his moves just after the hour. Palmer replaced Reus, fresh legs and fearlessness for their exhausted captain. Meunier came on for Ryerson, experience to deal with Mane's threat.
Palmer's first contribution was to nutmeg Alexander-Arnold. After making a run wide he received the ball near the touchline, Liverpool's fullback approaching with the confidence of someone who'd dominated all night.
Palmer dropped his shoulder left, then right, then slipped the ball between Alexander-Arnold's legs with insulting ease.
The crowd gasped. Trent's face flushed red. Suddenly Liverpool had a problem they hadn't anticipated—a player with the audacity to take them on.
Palmer drove forward, Alexander-Arnold scrambling to recover. The cross was overhit but won a corner. Another corner led to another, Dortmund suddenly camping in Liverpool's half.
Can's shot from the edge forced Alisson into a save.
Hummels headed inches wide from the resulting corner.
The seventy-eighth minute.
A Dortmund corner, Alisson collecting and immediately looking to launch. His throw found Fabinho, who played first-time to Henderson.
The Liverpool captain drove forward with unusual urgency.
His pass to Salah was perfection—weighted beautifully, splitting Dortmund's retreating defense. The Egyptian was through, Akanji desperately trying to recover, Kobel advancing from his goal.
Time slowed as Salah approached the penalty area. His touch was assured, bringing the ball under perfect control. Kobel spread himself, trying to make the target as small as possible. Akanji lunged desperately, knowing he was too late.
The finish was vintage Salah, opening his body, directing the ball low past Kobel's outstretched hand.
The net bulged. Anfield exploded.
Salah wheeled away in celebration, arms spread wide.
And Klopp punched the air on the touchline, glasses nearly flying off.
Three-nil. Game over.
Another European night, another victim claimed.
Jude felt his stomach drop through his boots. All that fight, all that effort, undone in one moment of transition.
But then Mateu Lahoz hand went to his ear, finger pressed against the communication device. He held up play, preventing the restart. The celebrations continued but players started noticing, glancing toward the referee.
"What's he doing?" Palmer asked, jogging over to Jude.
"No idea," Jude replied, but hope—dangerous, treacherous hope—began to bloom.
Lahoz jogged toward the touchline, where the fourth official waited with a tablet. The Spanish referee made the square television gesture with his hands.
The stadium noise shifted, celebration mixing with confusion and the first seeds of worry.
The wait stretched.
Ten seconds.
Thirty seconds.
A minute.
Lahoz stood with the tablet, watching something over and over. His expression gave nothing away—typical of his theatrical nature, milking the drama.
"He was off," Akanji said suddenly. "When Henderson played it, Salah was off. I saw it. I tried to play him off."
"Don't jinx it," Can warned, but everyone was watching Lahoz now.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably ninety seconds, Lahoz jogged back toward the center circle. He made a decisive gesture—no goal. Offside.
The away section erupted while Anfield groaned collectively.
Salah's reaction was pure disbelief. He stood with arms spread, appealing to anyone who would listen. Henderson argued with Lahoz, careful not to push too hard with that yellow card hanging over him.
"Get on with it!" Hummels shouted, clapping his hands. "Still work to do!"
Liverpool had celebrated a kill shot that didn't count. The crowd's certainty cracked.
Palmer nearly capitalized immediately. Collecting a loose ball after Liverpool's defenders switched off, he drove from halfway. The defence, backed off too far. Palmer's shot from twenty-five yards had Alisson scrambling, the ball fizzing inches wide of the post.
The final ten minutes became basketball. Liverpool pushed for the killer goal, committing men forward. Dortmund countered when possible, spaces finally appearing after eighty minutes of compression.
Both goalkeepers made saves. Both sets of fans alternated between hope and terror.
Meunier won a throw-in deep in Dortmund territory after Mane's poor touch under pressure let him down. Meunier took it quickly to Dahoud, who was immediately under pressure from Fabinho.
Dahoud's pass to Jude was slightly behind him, forcing an awkward first touch. Henderson closed quickly, looking to win the ball and kill the game. But Jude had learned.
Eighty-seven minutes of education in elite-level football. He let the ball run across his body, using Henderson's momentum against him, then pushed it through the Liverpool captain's legs as he committed.
Now Jude had space.
He drove forward, legs that should have been dead somehow finding another gear. The pitch opened up before him like a map of possibility.
For a few precious seconds, Jude had time to think, to choose, to impose his will on the game.
The sensible pass was to Palmer. The safe option was back to Can. But something in Jude's chest—that fire that had been building since halftime—demanded more. Twenty-five yards from goal, Alisson slightly advanced, the angle narrowing but not impossible.
Everything narrowed to this moment. The Anfield noise faded to white static. His peripheral vision caught teammates making runs, defenders converging, but none of it mattered. The ball sat perfectly after his last touch, begging to be struck.
His father's voice again: "Sometimes, son, you just have to have a go."
Jude planted his left foot, drew back his right, and hit through the ball with every ounce of strength and technique he possessed. The connection was pure—that sweet spot where power and placement merge into something unstoppable.
The ball flew like a guided missile, rising just enough to clear Fabinho's desperate lunge, dipping just enough to stay under the crossbar. Alisson… brilliant, unbeatable Alisson scrambled across his goal, extending every inch of his frame.
Never enough.
The net bulged. The away section detonated. Jude was already running, sliding on his knees toward three thousand people who'd never stopped believing, grass and mud spraying behind him like a comet's tail.
"COME ON!"
Two-one.
Four minutes of added time became five, then six. Every second stretched like an eternity. Liverpool appealed for everything—handball, fouls, divine intervention. Mateu Lahoz remained unmoved, whistle clenched between his teeth, waiting for that perfect moment.
It came after six minutes and thirty-seven seconds of stoppage time. A final Liverpool corner cleared to halfway, where Meunier simply booted it into the stands. No more football. No more chances.
The whistle—three sharp blasts that sounded like salvation.