The sun hung high over the Alfredo Di Stéfano Stadium, casting long, sharp shadows across the pristine emerald turf. As the players of both teams emerged from the tunnel, a deafening wall of sound erupted from the stands, a mixture of calcified loathing and expectant triumph.
At the front of the line, the members of the Japanese idol group, Rev. from DVL, stood in their choreographed positions, waving with practiced smiles. Hashimoto Kanna, stood on her tiptoes, her large eyes scanning the approaching athletes.
"They're coming out! Look at the intensity," one of the girls whispered, her voice barely audible over the Real Madrid fans' rhythmic chanting.
Kanna's gaze swept over the Barcelona B squad. In Japan, the narrative had been singular: all eyes were on the younger "Messis" of the academy. But as the starting eleven lined up on the pitch, the reality was a stark contrast to the headlines. The familiar young face they expected to see was a small, solitary figure currently taking his place on the distant substitute bench, obscured by the towering frames of the senior reserve players.
Kanna noted, her eyes locking onto the tall, broad-shouldered figure wearing the number 99. "Look at the big screen. The center-forward position."
The girls looked up at the massive stadium display as the names scrolled past: Adama, Munir, Lorenzo.
"Lorenzo? another girl remarked, her brow furrowing. "But he doesn't look like a student. He looks like a professional athlete. Is he the one the South American papers are calling the 'Beast of La Masia'?"
The realization rippled through the stands. To the casual fans, the academy was a place for technical dancers, but the boy standing in the center circle, staring down the Real Madrid captain with a cold, predatory focus, looked like a warrior designed for combat. He didn't have the slight, fragile frame of a typical prospect; he had the presence of a predator who had already tasted blood.
In the press box, Inés Valdes was already typing with a frantic, rhythmic speed. When she saw the starting lineup confirmed on the official sheet, she felt a jolt of professional electricity.
"Sacristán is actually doing it," she muttered to her cameraman, who was focusing the lens on Lorenzo's unwavering face. "He's starting the 'problem child' in the most hostile stadium in Spain. This isn't just a tactical substitution; this is a declaration of war against the AFA narrative back in Buenos Aires."
Inés pouted as she scrolled through the live comments on the global community platform where Lucia was still streaming. The digital world in Argentina was currently a state of absolute, chaotic fragmentation.
[Lorenzo is starting? In the Mini-Clásico? Sacristán must be suicidal.]
[Look at the arrogance of that number 99. He's standing there like he owns the Di Stéfano.]
[This has to be a marketing stunt. Barcelona is trying to provoke the AFA by showing they value the kid the national team discarded.]
[If Nacho bullies him off the pitch in the first ten minutes, his career is over before the sun sets. This is a suicide mission.]
Inés knew the stakes were higher than just a game. If Lorenzo failed, he would become the definitive punchline of Argentinian football, the boy who thought he was bigger than the Federation only to be humbled by Madrid's reserves. But if he succeeded... the fallout for the AFA Coordinator, Marcos, would be catastrophic.
On the pitch, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense. The referee, a veteran official who understood the volatile nature of a derby, was busy reprimanding Adama Traoré. The muscular winger was bouncing on the balls of his feet like a heavyweight boxer, his dark eyes fixed on the Real Madrid full-back with a hunger that bordered on the feral.
Beside him, Munir El Haddadi was the image of calm elegance, his fingers adjusting his captain's armband as he whispered a few final tactical notes to Lorenzo.
Lorenzo stood in the center circle, the ball resting beneath his boot. He could feel the weight of ten thousand pairs of eyes, but the Drogba physicality template made him feel anchored to the earth, a heavy, unshakeable presence. The Inzaghi instinct was already firing, mapping the gaps between the Real Madrid center-backs and calculating the exact moment they would overcommit.
Across the halfway line, Jesé Rodríguez and Álvaro Morata were engaged in a quiet, smug conversation, their eyes tracking Lorenzo with blatant, unearned disdain. Jesé, already being hailed as the "New Cristiano," leaned against the line with a smirk of pure arrogance.
"Hey, Álvaro," Jesé whispered, gesturing with his chin toward Lorenzo's number 99. "Do you think Sacristán found this kid at a local deli? Is he the new ball-boy they dressed up to fill the space?"
Morata rolled his eyes, a smug smile tugging at his lips. "Sacristán is desperate. He's lost his main strikers and he's digging through the Juvenil A trash heap. This kid probably won't even manage a touch before we're up by two. Look at him, he's probably still wondering why the fans are shouting at him."
"It's a parting gift for us," Lucas Vázquez chimed in from the wing, his gaze dismissive. "We're heading to the first team next season; these Barça kids are heading back to the dormitory to cry. Let's make this quick. I want to score at least twice before the half just to keep the scouts interested."
Jesé nodded, his eyes flashing with the entitlement of a player who believed the pitch was merely a stage for his solo performance. "Consider this our farewell tour. We're going to show the world the difference between a Galactico-in-waiting and an amateur."
Lorenzo heard the sneers drifting across the grass. He didn't respond. He didn't need to. He simply adjusted his weight, his eyes locking onto the Real Madrid goal with a focus so sharp it felt like a physical threat. He wasn't there to represent a "market" or a "narrative." He was there to satisfy the hunger of the Beast, and the white shirts of Madrid looked like the perfect meal.
Sacristán stood in the technical area, his arms crossed so tightly his knuckles were white. He had gambled everything on this starting eleven.
If Lorenzo, Munir, and Adama couldn't break the Madrid press, his career as the Barcelona B manager was likely over by evening.
The referee looked at his watch. The whistle went to his lips. The Mini-Clásico was no longer a theoretical debate, it was a visceral reality.
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