The second leg. PSG vs Real Madrid.
The Parc des Princes was shaking. The Ultra fans lit flares, painting the stadium in red smoke and noise.
**Aggregate Score: 2-2.**
Soccer stood in the tunnel. Next to him, Kai Rivers adjusted his pristine white captain's armband.
"Your hair is messy," Kai noted, flicking a piece of confetti off Soccer's shoulder.
"Wind," Soccer shrugged. "Do you use glue?"
"It's called pomade, Savage. Imported."
Kai looked at the tunnel exit. The light at the end was blinding.
"This is it," Kai said, his voice unusually serious. "Win, and you face Juventus. Lose, and you watch from the couch."
"Zero is waiting," Soccer bounced. *Click-click.*
"Zero is a wall," Kai agreed. "But tonight... I am the hammer."
They walked out. The roar was physical. It punched you in the chest.
***
**Kickoff.**
PSG started fast. Noa was efficient. Pass-move-pass.
But Real Madrid wasn't scared. They countered.
Kai Rivers played like a man possessed. He drifted into pockets of space, invisible until he received the ball.
Minute 20.
Kai got the ball. He did a **Triple Stepover**. Fast. Blinding.
The PSG defender fell over.
Kai shot.
Curler. Top Bin.
**GOAL.**
**Real Madrid: 1 - PSG: 0.** (Agg: 3-2 Madrid).
Kai ran to the camera. He pointed at his temple. *Think.*
***
**Minute 45.**
Halftime approaching.
PSG needed a goal.
Soccer received the ball wide. He was trapped against the touchline by two Madrid defenders.
"Box him in!"
Soccer looked at the space. No exit.
*Zone.*
He closed his eyes for a microsecond. The noise faded.
He saw the line. Not a pass. A dribble path *through* the defender's legs.
He opened his eyes.
He kicked the ball against the defender's shin intentionally.
*Rebound.*
The ball bounced back.
Soccer used his **Titanium Sole** to stop the bounce dead.
He rolled the ball through the confusion.
The defender, disoriented by the rebound physics, stepped wide.
Gap found.
Soccer accelerated.
He passed to Noa.
Noa one-touch flicked it back. A wall pass.
Soccer was in.
Keeper rushing. **Thibaut Courtois** (The Belgian Wall).
Courtois was massive. He spread his arms like wings.
Soccer didn't shoot high. Or low.
He shot *through* the keeper.
**The Drill Shot.**
He hit the ball with maximum topspin. It hit the ground right in front of the keeper, skipped violently over his hand, and smashed the net.
**GOAL.**
**PSG: 1 - Madrid: 1.** (Agg: 3-3).
Halftime whistle.
***
**Second Half.**
It was a stalemate. 3-3 on aggregate. Heading to Extra Time.
Then penalties.
Nobody wanted penalties. Not with Courtois and Donnarumma (PSG keeper) in goal.
Minute 88.
Kai Rivers had the ball. He was tired. His hair was messy (gasp).
He drove at the PSG defense.
"Last chance!" Kai yelled.
He cut inside.
Soccer tracked him.
King vs Assassin.
"Shoot!" Kai roared. He faked a shot.
Soccer didn't bite. He stayed planted.
Kai, seeing no opening, did something insane.
He passed.
Not to a teammate. To space.
"Run!" Kai yelled at his striker.
The striker ran onto the loose ball.
Goal?
No.
The striker tripped. Exhaustion.
The ball rolled out for a goal kick.
**Full Time. Extra Time.**
***
**Extra Time.**
The players were dead on their feet.
Minute 110.
Soccer's titanium leg was heating up. The friction burn was real.
"One goal," Soccer panted. "Just one."
Noa was limping. He had taken a knock.
"Soccer," Noa gasped. "Go alone."
Soccer nodded.
He got the ball at midfield.
Madrid backed off. They feared the speed.
Soccer dribbled.
*Spring Step. Spring Step.*
He rhythmically pounded the turf.
Kai chased him. "You won't score!"
They reached the box.
Soccer stopped. Hard.
Kai ran past him.
Soccer cut back.
He aimed.
But a Madrid defender slid. Blocking the shot.
Soccer didn't shoot.
He passed.
Backward. To the edge of the box.
To **Noel Noa**.
The God was there. Waiting.
Noa took a touch.
"Checkmate," Noa whispered.
He curled it into the top corner.
**GOAL.**
**PSG: 2 - Madrid: 1.** (Agg: 4-3).
The whistle blew.
PSG wins.
Kai fell to his knees. Defeated again. By the Pack.
Soccer walked over. He helped Kai up.
"Your hair is a mess," Soccer grinned.
Kai laughed. A bitter, tired laugh.
"Next year," Kai promised. "Next year, I bring clippers. I will shave that titanium leg off."
***
**Semi-Final Draw.**
PSG advanced.
They faced **Juventus**.
Zero. The Void.
Soccer looked at the bracket.
"Ghost Hunting," Soccer muttered.
But first... he had a visitor.
A text message.
**FROM: SILAS (THE PHOENIX).**
*"Walked today. 10 meters. Pain level: 4/10. Calculated return to pitch: 3 months."*
Soccer typed back.
*"Hurry up calculator. The numbers don't add up without you."*
Soccer put the phone away.
He looked at the PSG medical staff wrapping ice around his leg.
"Zero doesn't concede goals," Soccer said to the empty room. "He catches everything."
He touched his knee.
"So we have to shoot something he can't catch."
"Like what?" the trainer asked.
"Lightning."