The tunnel was dead quiet except for studs clicking on concrete. Jude bounced on his toes, the buzz from Palmer's goal still electric in his chest, but something felt different now. Heavier. Like holding dynamite with a lit fuse.
Back out into the noise, but it wasn't the same chaos as before.
Liverpool kicked off and immediately the game slowed to a crawl. Henderson rolled it back to Van Dijk, who stood over the ball for what felt like forever before passing it sideways to Matip. The center-back took three touches, looked around, passed it back to Alisson.
Nothing urgent. Nothing rushed.
Just patient, methodical control that made every second stretch like taffy.
Alisson held the ball, taking a few touches as he practically walked to the edge of his area. Ten seconds passed.
Fifteen. Finally he passed it to Robertson, who was standing completely alone near the touchline.
Robertson's first touch was perfect, expected since he had no pressure whatsoever. He looked up, surveyed the field like he was reading the morning paper, then played it inside to Thiago.
The Spanish midfielder had acres of space. Could have taken a nap if he wanted.
Can was jogging toward him but not sprinting, everyone understanding this would be a long forty-five minutes.
Thiago's pass found Fabinho, who killed it stone dead before rolling it sideways to Henderson. The captain stood over the ball, motionless, while Dortmund's entire shape shifted around him like he was the center of gravity.
Forty-seven minutes on the clock and nothing had happened except passes.
Henderson finally moved the ball when Haaland got within ten yards, simply rolling it to Fabinho.
The Brazilian took his time, looked around, played it back to Matip.
The pattern was hypnotic and maddening. Pass, control, wait, pass again. Liverpool moved the ball like they were playing keep-away, never hurried, always two steps ahead of any pressure.
Jude pressed forward when Thiago got it again, trying to disrupt something, anything. But the Spaniard was already gone, a delicate flick sending the ball to Robertson.
"Close him down!" Can screamed, but Palmer was forty yards away and Robertson had all day to pick his pass.
The low driven cross was low and hard, aimed at Jota's feet.
Jota controlled the ball with his back to goal, all the while Akanji breathing down his neck.
In most cases it would have been a defensive win, but Jota's touch was magic. The ball stuck to his foot despite the pressure, spinning away from Akanji's challenge while somehow staying under control. His second touch played it back to Thiago, who'd drifted into space again.
Back to possession. Back to patience. Back to slow torture.
Forty-nine minutes and Liverpool had completed thirty-two passes without Dortmund touching the ball once. The crowd was getting restless, shifting in their seats, desperate for something to happen.
Salah finally got involved, receiving from Alexander-Arnold out wide. His first touch took him past Guerreiro easily, second touch opened space for a cross.
But instead of delivering it, Salah stopped. Just stood there with the ball, waiting. Guerreiro backed off, not wanting to dive in. The entire Dortmund defense held its breath.
Salah played it back to Alexander-Arnold.
The groan from the stands was audible. Pure frustration echoing around the stadium. They wanted chaos, wanted chances, wanted something to justify the emotional investment.
Instead they got Alexander-Arnold passing it back to Matip.
Fifty minutes. Still nothing. Liverpool strangling the life out of the game, making it small and slow and mind-numbingly methodical. But effective.
God, it was effective.
Can finally nicked the ball when Thiago's pass to Henderson was slightly underhit. The crowd exploded, desperate for anything to cheer about.
Can's touch was clean, found Jude moving into space.
For a moment, tempo threatened to increase.
But Liverpool's press was immediate. Henderson and Fabinho converging, cutting off forward options. Jude had to check back, play it safe to Guerreiro.
The fullback tried to drive forward but Salah was tracking back, cutting off the route. Pass inside to Hummels was the only option.
Back to square one.
The fifty-second minute brought the first glimpse of danger. Henderson's pass to Salah was weighted perfectly, finding the Egyptian in space. His cross came early, whipped toward the penalty spot.
Bodies converged - Jota near post, Mané back stick, Henderson late from deep. But Kobel's positioning was perfect, claiming it under pressure. His distribution was immediate, rolling to Akanji.
But Liverpool's press was instant. Jota and Henderson closing from different angles, forcing a hurried clearance straight to Thiago.
Possession was expected but then everything exploded.
Henderson received the ball after dropping off, completely unmarked. Instead of the usual sideways pass, he looked up and saw space. Salah was making a run on the right, timing it perfectly.
The pass was raking, forty yards, hit with pace and precision. Salah's first touch was clean, taking him clear of Guerreiro's challenge. Suddenly Liverpool were away, numbers forward, Dortmund scrambling.
Salah drove at the defense, Hummels backpedaling desperately. The Egyptian's pace was devastating, eating up ground with every stride. Mané was sprinting down the left eager to arrive at the backpost he'd once been at moments ago.
And Alexander-Arnold overlapping on the right.
Three on two. Nightmare scenario.
Salah shaped to shoot from the edge of the area, Hummels committing to the block. At the last second he shifted it right to Alexander-Arnold, who was completely unmarked.
The fullback's shot was struck cleanly, rising toward the top corner. Kobel's dive was spectacular, fingertips barely reaching it, tipping it onto the crossbar.
The rebound fell to Mané six yards out, goal gaping. He swung at it with his left foot, connection clean, surely scoring.
It hit Akanji's outstretched leg and spun wide.
The crowd's roar was primal.
How had that stayed out?
But Mané was furious, wheeling around to face Salah. "Why didn't you pass earlier?" he screamed, arms spread wide. "I was free for ten seconds!"
Salah shrugged, jogging back toward the halfway line. "Didn't see you."
"Bullshit! You never see me!"
Henderson jogged over, hands raised. "Lads, we go again. Keep doing what we're doing."
But the moment was gone. Liverpool's first real chance, their best spell of pressure, undone by bad luck in equal measure.
Play reset, minutes past, and Liverpool were probing again. Thiago's pass to Robertson was weighted perfectly, the left-back's cross dangerous until Hummels headed it clear.
The ball fell to Fabinho twenty-five yards out, completely unmarked. His shot was struck with venom, rising toward the bottom corner. Kobel's positioning was perfect, diving low to push it around the post.
Corner to Liverpool.
Their first of the half.
Alexander-Arnold took it short to Salah, who immediately played it back. The fullback's delivery was whipped in with pace, aimed at Van Dijk at the back post.
The Dutchman's leap was prodigious, his header powerful and accurate. But it crashed against the crossbar, the metallic clang echoing around the stadium.
So close.
Fifty-eighth minute and Dortmund made their first change. The fourth official was standing near the halfway line, board ready. Rose had been having an animated conversation with his staff, pointing at different areas of the pitch.
Number 11 off.
Number 32 on.
Reus walked slowly toward the touchline after handing the armband to Hummels, his legs heavy after an hour of chasing. He raised his hand to acknowledge the crowd's applause, but his face showed pure frustration.
Reyna bounced on the sideline, eager to get involved. The American looked fresh, sharp, dangerous.
Finally Reus reached the sideline. Handshakes with Rose, words of encouragement lost in the noise. Reyna sprinted on, full of energy.
Soon after he came on, another Liverpool surge happened.
Salah's run on the right was perfectly timed, Alexander-Arnold's cross finding him in space.
His header was powerful, well-directed, destined for the bottom corner.
Hummels threw himself in the way, the ball cannoning off his shoulder. Corner to Liverpool.
This time Alexander-Arnold delivered it with height, the ball hanging in the air forever. Bodies collided in the penalty area - yellow shirts and red shirts creating chaos.
Van Djik's leap was massive, his header goalward. But Haaland's positioning was perfect, his clearing header sending it back to the halfway line.
Henderson collected it, of course. Always in the right place. His touch was clean, pass simple to Thiago.
Liverpool had another moment. Jota's movement between the lines was intelligent, receiving from Thiago with Akanji closing. His flick over his own head was audacious, the ball sitting up perfectly as he spun.
But Hummels had read it, lunging forward. Their legs tangled, both going down in a heap.
Free kick to Liverpool, twenty-eight yards out. Central position.
Alexander-Arnold stood over it, adjusting the ball twice. The wall formed - five Dortmund players linking arms, Kobel covering his near post.
The strike was perfect. Up and over the wall, dipping toward the top corner with vicious spin. Kobel's dive was spectacular, fingertips barely reaching it, deflecting it against the crossbar.
The rebound fell to Henderson six yards out, completely unmarked.
This was it. This was the equalizer.
His shot rose over the bar.
Henderson stared at the sky, unable to believe his luck. The crowd exhaled collectively, relief mixing with terror.
Every attack felt like it might be the one. Salah's cross from the right was dangerous, Mané's header forcing Kobel into another save.
Dortmund were hanging on through desperation and defensive discipline. Every tackle was committed, every header contested, every yard fought for like it was the last.
In a play after, Guerreiro's throw found Bellingham, who played it to Can. The midfielder's touch was clean, finding Reyna in space.
The American's pass split Liverpool's defense perfectly, finding Palmer in acres. His first touch was sublime, taking him clear of Robertson's challenge.
One-on-one with Alisson.
Palmer shaped to shoot, the technique looking perfect. The ball curled toward the corner, seemed destined for the net.
It struck the inside of the post.
The sound was sickening. A metallic clang that sucked the air from the stadium. The rebound spun across the goal mouth, bodies converging desperately.
Van Dijk hooked it clear with inches to spare.
Palmer lay on the turf, staring at the sky.
Six inches between glory and agony.
Liverpool's response was immediate. They sensed blood, recognized Dortmund were wobbling. The tempo increased, their passing more direct.
Sixty-eighth minute brought another chance. Salah's cross was venomous, Jota's header goalbound until Hummels blocked it with his body.
Corner to Liverpool. Alexander-Arnold's delivery found Van Dijk at the back post, his header powerful.
Over the bar.
Again.
Henderson stood there, hands on his head. How was it still 3-3?
Liverpool were playing football from another planet. Their movement, passing, positioning - everything was perfect except putting the ball in the net.
They were creating chances at will while Dortmund clung to their lead like drowning men.
Seventy minutes on the clock. Twenty minutes between dreams and nightmares.