In the stands, amid the roaring screams and wild shouts, the Camp Nou pulsed with an electric energy that seed to shake its very foundations. In just four breathless minutes, the score had flipped — from a daunting 2-0 down to a thrilling 2-2. The kings of remontada were at it again, and the fans poured every ounce of their passion into the night, their voices a tidal wave of hope and celebration.
But for one man among the sea of jubilant culés, the mont was sothing altogether different.
Diego stood near the railings, surrounded by young fans — teenagers and twenty-sothings whose exuberance overflowed with the fresh thrill of the ga. Yet Diego, at 65 years old, was an old soul in this ocean of youth. A lifelong blaugrana, he had carried the weight of countless seasons, victories, heartbreaks, and unforgettable matches etched deep in his bones.
And now, watching the boy who had just netted two stunning goals in quick succession to pull them level, Diego felt a different fire stirring within him — a mory, sharp and vivid.
It wasn't the equalizer that gripped his heart, nor the promise of the coback alone. No, he had witnessed gas like this before, more tis than he could count.
What struck him — what rooted him in place with a stunned silence — was the reflection of a ghost from his past.
The young prodigy, Mateo, ran with a blistering speed, the ball glued to his feet, his body a fluid force cutting through defenders. The way he had dismantled the goalkeeper — the pendulum move, the masterful feint that left the keeper grasping at thin air — that move had been burned into Diego's mory for over three decades.
As Diego's eyes locked onto Mateo sprinting toward the halfway line, not even pausing to celebrate the equalizing goal, but already hungry for more, sothing shifted in his gaze.
A shimring image overlapped with the present — a vision from the past.
He was no longer 65, but a young man in his pri, standing in those very stands over 30 years ago. The scent of the pitch, the roar of the crowd, the blazing sun on his face all ca rushing back.
In that mont, looking at Mateo — that fierce, relentless spirit — Diego whispered to himself, almost reverently,
"El Fenóno."
While one old fan was seeing the past reborn through the sprinting figure of young Mateo, another man — watching from far closer, yet feeling just as distant — was struck by that sa image.
That man was none other than Lionel Andrés ssi.
Having been sent off with a red card and two goals down on the scoreboard, ssi had stord toward the locker room, frustration boiling in his chest. He didn't want the caras to catch the anger in his eyes — not tonight. He had felt helpless. Powerless. To know he couldn't help his team in the next ga, during such a critical stage of the league, was unbearable.
But just as he crossed the tunnel, not even halfway into the corridor, he heard it — a thunderclap of a roar from the Camp Nou. A scream so loud, so raw, it cut through his anger like a blade.
Startled, ssi ran the rest of the way into the locker room, where a single television hung in the corner, broadcasting the ga. The replay was already rolling.
And there it was.
The kid. The very boy ssi had passed in the field not long ago. The one with eyes full of fire and feet that whispered secrets to the ball. He had scored. A perfect chip — not unlike ssi's own trademarks — floated past the keeper and nestled into the net.
ssi smiled, a small, knowing smile.
But the replay hadn't even finished before another sound — louder, more violent, more visceral — shook the walls. The stadium erupted again. A second goal.
ssi's fist flew into the air. He let out a shout, alone in the locker room, the sa passion coursing through him as if he were still out there on the pitch. He didn't need to check the score. He already knew. Barça had equalized.
And this — this was what it ant to him.
This was what it ant to bleed blaugrana.
This was what the crest on his chest had always stood for — not just winning, but rising. Fighting. Never giving up, even when the gods seed against them.
And then, the screen confird it. Mateo again. Holding the ball. No celebration, no theatrics. Just fire in his veins as he ran to the center circle, already demanding the winner.
ssi stood there, the mory of the red card fading into the background, as his eyes locked on the screen. His smile softened into sothing warr, almost paternal. His eyes, deep and reflective, seed to shimr with more than pride — they held aning. Understanding. Recognition.
As he watched the boy run, ssi saw more
It wasn't just ssi who had been moved. On the sidelines, Ronald Koeman—who had been shouting monts ago out of frustration—was now on his knees, arms to the sky, bellowing with joy. His voice cracked with disbelief and exhilaration, fists clenched in triumph as he scread toward the heavens.
This wasn't anger anymore.
This was ecstasy.
Barcelona was back.
And now… they were coming for the win.
From the comntary box, the voice of the night echoed through living rooms and radios, the kind of voice that would be replayed for years to co.
"Koeman must have an angel smiling on him right now! A substitution written in the stars—a kid brought on at the perfect ti, and just like that, two goals… two bolts of lightning. This is madness. This is magic. This… this is Barcelona heritage.
You can feel the soul of this club echoing through the stadium—the echoes of Remontadas past, of Rivaldo, Ronaldinho, Iniesta, ssi… And now—Mateo. A na the world will rember after tonight.
He's not just scored goals—he's brought a heartbeat back into this team. And that heartbeat is thundering louder than ever."
On the pitch, amidst the whirlwind of emotion, Mateo moved like a figure untouched by the chaos around him.
"Nice goal!"
"Nice one, kid!"
"Let's goooo!"
Voices rang out from his teammates as he passed, dodging eager hands, avoiding head pats and back slaps with the ease of soone still on a mission. His focus never wavered.
Ball in hand, he jogged straight to the center circle, placing it down with purpose. He looked up—eyes locking with one of the Huesca players.
That look.
It wasn't anger. It wasn't arrogance. It was pressure. Purpose. Promise.
The kind of look that didn't belong to soone happy with a draw.
No—Mateo didn't co to share points.
He didn't co to equalize.
His eyes said it all.
He ca to win.
One player from the Huesca team looked more defeated than the rest.
It was none other than Garcia.
The sa Garcia who had once been the hero of the night. The sa Garcia who had walked into Camp Nou and ripped Barcelona apart on their own turf. He had danced, dictated, destroyed. His na was supposed to echo through headlines in the morning—"Garcia Dismantles Barcelona."
But now?
Now, under four minutes—just four cursed minutes—it was all gone.
Two dispossessions.
Two blinding runs.
Two goals.
Now the hero was forgotten. The spotlight had shifted. The kid had taken it—snatched it right out of Garcia's hands like it was never his to begin with.
Garcia stood frozen, the roar of the crowd a distant hum in his ears as he stared at the boy—Mateo.
That fire in Mateo's eyes—it wasn't normal. It wasn't joy. It wasn't satisfaction.
It was unfinished business.
Garcia clenched his jaw, anger bubbling like lava under his skin.
You still want more?
You're not happy?
You—you—
He was boiling.
He'd teach this kid a lesson. He'd show him what it ant to challenge a lion.
PHEEEEEEEEEP!
The whistle blew.
The match resud.
Mateo was off like a gunshot.
No hesitation.
No build-up.
He just exploded, sprinting like a storm let loose, eyes locked on the ball.
Garcia, still standing at the center, watched him charging forward—and his eyes widened.
All that rage inside him?
Gone.
Wiped clean.
Now there was only one thought:
Why is he running toward ?
The ball ca to Garcia—as it always did.
He was still their best. Still their brain. Still the one the team trusted to rebuild, to restart, to fix this.
But Mateo had been watching.
Mateo had known.
Garcia moved quickly—this ti, he was ready. He turned, already shaping his body to release a pass to the wing.
But then…
He felt it.
That presence.
Heavy. Cold. Close.
Like death walking into the room.
He looked down—
And there it was.
A leg.
Long. Crooked. Perfectly placed.
And then, right beside his ear, ca a voice.
Low. Quiet. Cruel.
"Move, man."
Not loud.
Not angry.
Just cold.
Disrespectful in a way that shattered pride.
And then—impact.
A weight slamd into his side. Mateo's body had collided with his, but it wasn't a foul. It was a warning.
Panic rushed through Garcia's chest like a flood breaking a dam.
His breath caught.
If he takes the ball now, he's gone. He's GONE.
And in that split second—Garcia's instincts betrayed him.
He didn't think. He didn't reason.
His eyes, red with frustration. His hands, moving before his brain could stop them. Stretching. Grabbing.
Sothing.
Anything.
And then—
PHEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
The whistle again.
Louder.
Angrier.
Followed by shouts.
Rage.
Barcelona players sprinting towards him like wolves. The crowd erupting in a way it hadn't all night, a wave of noise crashing down on him, breaking every inch of calm left in his mind.
Garcia blinked.
Looked down.
There—at his feet—was the kid.
Mateo.
Lying on the ground.
Holding his head.
Not moving.
A statue of pain.
And in that mont… it hit.
Like a steel bat to the chest.
His lungs stopped working.
His heart sank into his stomach.
His legs felt like glass.
The noise faded.
His thoughts vanished.
Only one remained.
One thought. One sentence that echoed in his skull louder than the crowd ever could:
"I'm dead."
A/N
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