Hernandez as the team captain took the ball, lost in thought.
Then took a deep breath inhaling as if he was ready to gamble his life.
He walked over and pressed the leather into Cassian's chest.
"Take the shot,Cass. Make the world go crazy for Milan."
"I will, Captain." Cassian took the ball from him.
There was no tremor in his voice. He knew the stakes. If he missed, the critics would devour them both.
If he scored... he'd become a god in San Siro. But Cassian didn't feel the weight of the fans or the ghost of the pressure.
He only felt the ball.
Did he care about the noise?
No.
The only thing he wanted… was to score.
And he would—no matter what.
He believed in himself. Even if Buffon or Neuer came to stop it they wouldn't be able to do it.
This wasn't arrogance—it was the absolute, objective truth of his own talent.
"Wait... Hernandez is stepping away! It's Cassian! He is taking the shot!" Alex's voice cracked with disbelief.
The stadium transformed into a cauldron of noise—a jagged mix of desperate prayers and venomous boos.
In the middle of the chaos, he stood behind the ball, his shadow stretching long across the San Siro turf.
Five steps back, two to the side. He reached down and adjusted his shorts, his quads tensing like coiled springs.
The air around him seemed to hum with a static charge. To the thirty-thousand in the stands, the noise was a deafening roar; to him, it had flattened into a low, rhythmic thrum—the beating of his own heart.
TWEEEEET
The referee's whistle cut through the tension like a blade.
Cassian moved. His approach was a blur of practiced violence. His plant foot dug into the sod, anchoring his entire world, while his right leg swung with the force of a piston.
Thwack.
The sound of laces meeting leather was crisp, a solitary note that silenced the stadium for a heartbeat.
He didn't need to see it hit the net to know. He felt the vibration travel from his ankle to his hip—a "clean" strike, devoid of friction.
He watched, frozen in his follow-through, as the ball defied physics.
It rose with terrifying speed, clearing the leaping wall by a fraction of an inch, hitting its invisible apex, and then—it died. It dipped violently, a heat-seeking missile screaming into the top-bins.
"GOOOOOOOOOAL! IS THIS REAL LIFE, ALEX?! FROM 1–2 TO 3–2! HE'S DONE IT! CASSIAN! THE BIG BAD VILLAIN OF MADRID HAS SILENCED THE WORLD!"
As the net rippled and the stadium erupted into a chaotic symphony of sound, the mask of the cold tactician finally broke.
Cassian sprinted toward the corner flag, his face contorted in a roar of pure, unadulterated defiance.
Then he slowed—slowed until his run became a deliberate walk.
He turned, faced the wall of Atletico's fans who moments earlier had rained bottles and abuse upon him.
And then, with the calm of a maestro, he bent forward in a slow, theatrical bow.
The cameras caught it, the flames of flares still burning, the fury in Atletico's eyes, the delirium in Milan's section, the tears on head coach's cheeks.
Security swarmed into the stands, yellow jackets surging as they warned the Atletico's ultras to calm themselves or risk ejection.
The referee, trying desperately to restore order, stormed across the pitch toward Cassian.
And then came the twist.
The yellow card was raised.
But that doesn't matter.
He had already sealed the match.
In that final minute, he hadn't just played the game—he had bent reality to his will.
"That's three tonight from Milan!" Brad's voice was almost cracking, carried by disbelief
"A brace and an assist from Cassian! And It's one that has dragged Milan, kicking and screaming, into the Champions League final!"
" You'll tell your kids, your grandkids, if you were lucky enough to see this boy live tonight. Because this, this isn't normal. This is rare air, this is genius, this is history being written right in front of our eyes."
Cassian, finally shepherded back into Milan's half, tugged at his shirt and glanced once more at the scoreboard.
92:36
The game was already beyond the time allotted.
The Atletico's players looked broken, their shoulders sagging, their feet heavy, their eyes staring at the grass as though wishing it would swallow them whole.
The ball was rolled back into play almost half-heartedly, a token restart.
No passes, no ambition. And then—
FWEEE, FWEEE, FWEEEEEE!
The final whistle.
Flags shook violently, voices thundered, and tears spilt down the cheeks of fans who had travelled hundreds of miles for this night.
The Milan bench flew forward, sprinting onto the pitch, and the substitutes who hadn't played a single minute joined the chaos as if they'd been there all along.
On the other side, Atletico collapsed.
"And there it is," Brad declared, his tone both triumphant and reverent.
"AC Milan, are into the Champions League final for the 12th time in their history. And this time, with this boy leading them, you feel they don't just dream of being there. They believe they can go all the way."
On the pitch, the players had converged on Cassian.
He was tackled to the ground in a pile of limbs, Rafael landing across his back, Hernandez hugging his neck, Giroud pounding his chest with an open hand.
For a moment, he was lost beneath them, swallowed by joy.
He rose from the turf, breathless, hair, now loose sticking to his forehead with sweat, and instead of roaring with them, he moved deliberately towards the Atletico players.
He found Griezmann first, helping him to his feet with a firm hand.
Then Felix, still kneeling, only shook his head.
He placed a hand on his shoulder anyway.
Slowly, he went from one to another, offering handshakes, small words, gestures of respect.
Football could be cruel—and he understood.
Tonight it was cruel to Atletico, but the next time, it could be him and seeing how they were, he was going to make sure nothing like that ever happened to him.
Fans were filtering out of the stadium now, streams of red and white shirts disappearing into the exits, their chants long since silenced.
Then the announcer's voice rang across the stadium, cutting through the chaos.
"Ladies and gentlemen... your UEFA Man of the Match tonight... Cassian Marchessi."
A roar went up from the Milan's end as Cassian walked forward, his face unreadable but his body electric.
He accepted the award, the hollow sphere shaped with stars and then turned to find Hernandez, who grinned widely as he held out the match ball.
The captain had taken it straight from the officials.
This is yours," Hernandez said simply.
Cassian smiled, flicked the ball up with his foot, juggled it once, and caught it with a single hand as the cameras flashed, capturing the moment.
And then he turned, ignoring the reporters who swarmed at the edge of the tunnel, their microphones thrust forward, their voices clamoring for words.
Behind him, the chants thundered louder and louder.
CASSI-AN! CASSI-AN! CASSI-AN!
The night belonged to him.