SIGNAL IDUNA PARK
The stadium rumbled with a mixture of jubilation and fury as Luka's celebration registered with the away supporters. What had begun as a childish taunt—the Fortnite L dance performed directly in front of the PSG ultras—ignited something dark and immediate.
"Singe noir!" came the first shout, barely audible over the general roar.
"Fils de pute!"
"Monkey boy!"
The slurs cascaded from the away section, each more vile than the last. Luka froze momentarily, his celebratory smile faltering as the meaning registered. Bellingham was faster to react, his face contorting with rage as he took a step toward the stands.
"Say it to my face!" he shouted, pointing directly at a group of ultras pressed against the barrier. "Come on then!"
Stadium security immediately mobilized, forming a human barrier between the players and the increasingly hostile away supporters. Several objects—plastic cups, a lighter, something that looked suspiciously like a battery—rained down onto the pitch.
Reus appeared at Luka's shoulder, gripping his arm firmly.
"Don't give them what they want," the captain said, his voice calm but commanding. "They're trying to get in your head. Walk away."
Luka stood his ground for a moment longer, locked in a staring contest with the faceless mass of blue shirts and twisted expressions. He felt a heat rising in his chest—not hunger for glory but pure, uncomplicated anger. This wasn't about football. This was something uglier.
"Luka, now." Reus's voice hardened as he physically turned the teen away. "We finish this on the scoreboard."
The referee had seen enough, summoning both captains while match officials conferred with stadium security. After a tense minute of discussion, play resumed with a warning announcement broadcast throughout the stadium that further incidents would not be tolerated.
As Luka jogged back toward the halfway line, he caught Paredes watching him with a smirk.
"Welcome to the big league, kid," He called. "Your little dance have consequences."
Luka kept his eyes fixed ahead, refusing to engage. The scoreboard read 1-0 to Dortmund, but the real battle, he realized, had only just begun.
HALF-TIME: BORUSSIA DORTMUND 1-0 PARIS SAINT-GERMAIN
The players disappeared down the tunnel without further incident, but across the digital world, the match had already sparked a firestorm:
—
@ChampionsLeague: HT: Borussia Dortmund 1-0 Paris Saint-Germain
Zorić's strike just before half-time separates the sides in what has been a tense and controversial encounter so far. #BVBPSG
@OptaJoe: 1 - Luka Zorić (17y 241d) Four Goals. R16. Emergence.
@GaryLineker: That disallowed Haaland penalty is one of the most contentious decisions we've seen all season. If his boot did touch the ball twice, it's by millimeters. VAR is supposed to correct clear and obvious errors, not this. #BVBPSG
@rioferdy5: Can we talk about that Zorić goal though?! The way he left Paredes for dead before that finish. Absolutely ice cold from the teenager. This kid is something else.
@SkyFootball: BREAKING: UEFA confirms it is investigating reports of racist abuse from the away section following Zorić's goal celebration. More to follow.
@JanAageFjortoft: Just talked to one of Dortmund's coaching staff. Apparently Zorić specifically practiced that exact move against Paredes in training yesterday. He studied videos of Paredes defending and identified that weakness. At 17 years old. The game intelligence is off the charts.
@FabrizioRomano: 🚨
@ZZ10: Wow, what is happening in Paris. Told you all these kids are special. Remember when they said he was too skinny to make it? Who's laughing now? Keep shining ⭐️ [Zinedine Zidane's verified account]
@BVB_Ultras: ABSOLUTE SCENES IN THE SUDTRIBUNE!!! THE YELLOW WALL IS BOUNCING!! ZORIĆ HAS SET THIS PLACE ON FIRE!! 💛🖤 #BVBPSG
@FIFAcom: FIFA is aware of the incidents at Signal Iduna Park and stands firmly against racism and all forms of discrimination. We await UEFA's investigation.
@433: 'The Penalty Incident' 👀 Did Haaland really touch the ball twice? You be the judge... [Video clip: slow-motion replay of Haaland's penalty, showing his foot possibly grazing the ball twice during his shooting motion]
@TrollFootball: PSG players acting like they've never seen a 17-year-old destroy them before... did y'all forget Messi exists? 😂 #BVBPSG
@TheEuropeanLad: Just spotted something interesting in the replays. Watch Paredes right before Haaland takes the penalty - he's clearly digging at the penalty spot with his cleats. Surely that's a yellow card offense? #BVBPSG [Video clip: Paredes subtly scuffing the penalty spot while the referee is distracted]
@BellinghamFans: Jude helping Luka after he got that disgusting abuse from the away end. Brotherhood stronger than hate. These two teenagers are showing more maturity than those so-called "fans." #BVBPSG
@tactical_times: Guerreiro clearly struggling with what looks like a hamstring issue. PSG targeting that left side repeatedly - 67% of their attacks coming down that flank. Dortmund need to address this at half-time or it could cost them. #BVBPSG
@TheAthleticFC: "The game is rigged!" - Microphones caught that shout from Dortmund's bench after the disallowed penalty. UEFA unlikely to let that slide without some form of sanction. #BVBPSG
@talkSPORT: BREAKING: Reports of clashes between PSG and Dortmund fans outside Signal Iduna Park again. Local police deploying additional units to the area.
@Football_Tweet: Luka Zorić and Kylian Mbappé face-to-face after that challenge just before half-time. The present vs. the future? Or the present vs... the present? #BVBPSG [Image: The confrontation between Zorić and Mbappé, foreheads almost touching]
@BleacherReport: SOMEONE MAKE THIS THE FIFA 24 COVER RIGHT NOW #BVBPSG [Edited image: Zorić and Mbappé's confrontation stylized as a FIFA cover]
@Carra23: That Mbappé-Zorić moment reminded me of Keane and Vieira in the tunnel. There's something brewing here - two generational talents recognizing each other. Elite mentality from both. #BVBPSG
@goal: Have we just witnessed the birth of football's next great rivalry? 👀 #Mbappé #Zorić #BVBPSG
<>
In the Dortmund dressing room, the atmosphere was charged but focused. Rose moved methodically from player to player, delivering tactical adjustments while medical staff worked on Guerreiro's hamstring.
"We're making the change," Rose announced, looking at Schulz. "You'll start the second half. Their right side is dangerous—Hakimi's positioning is unpredictable. Stay connected with Hummels."
The manager paused, scanning the room until his eyes found Luka, who sat quietly with his head down, still processing the events of the first half.
"Luka," Rose called, causing the teenager to look up. "How are you feeling?"
The question carried weight beyond the physical. The stadium incident still hung in the air, unspoken but present.
"I'm good, coach," Luka replied evenly. "Ready to go again."
Rose studied him for a moment, then nodded. "They'll target you again and again. Paredes, Verratti—they'll try to provoke you. That's the game within the game. Use it. Make them pay where it hurts most." He tapped the scoreboard on the tactical board. "Here."
Bellingham, sitting next to Luka, bumped shoulders with him. "We've got your back," he said quietly. "All of us."
From the other side of the room, Haaland looked up from adjusting his boots. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes locked with Luka's in silent solidarity.
Rose clapped his hands, drawing everyone's attention for his final instructions.
"They'll come out firing," he warned. "The first fifteen minutes of this half will determine everything. Absorb the pressure, stay compact, and then—when the moment is right—we counter. They're pushing too many men forward. The space is there to exploit."
The manager paused, sweeping his gaze across every player.
"This isn't just about tactics anymore," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that somehow carried more weight than if he'd shouted. "They think they can intimidate us—on the pitch, in the stands, in the boardroom. Show them who we are."
The whistle signaling the end of half-time echoed through the corridor outside.
"Dortmund on three," Reus called, extending his hand to the center of the circle they'd formed.
"One, two, three!"
"DORTMUND!"
As they filed back toward the tunnel, Luka felt a strange calm settling over him. The noise from eighty thousand fans penetrated the concrete walls, like distant thunder announcing an approaching storm.
He touched the bracelet beneath the tape—and took a deep breath.
"Half-time analysis from our commentary team," the stadium announcer's voice echoed. "Martin Tyler and Peter Drury."
"Extraordinary scenes at the end of that first half," Tyler's measured voice carried across the stadium. "Dortmund lead through that magnificent Zorić strike, but the story has unfortunately extended beyond football."
"Indeed, Martin," Drury responded, his distinctive cadence unmistakable. "The celebrations triggered those deplorable incidents in the away section. UEFA delegates are conferring as we speak, and we understand a formal warning has been issued to both clubs."
"A reminder to all supporters," the stadium announcer interjected, "that racist behavior in any form will result in immediate ejection and potential criminal charges. Borussia Dortmund and UEFA maintain zero tolerance for discrimination."
The referee's whistle cut through the commentary, signaling for the teams to emerge. Luka fixed his gaze straight ahead as they walked onto the floodlit pitch, refusing to acknowledge the hostility emanating from the PSG bench.
Rose grabbed his shoulder as they reached the touchline. "Stay focused," the manager said quietly.
Luka nodded, eyes scanning the field. Guerreiro was already on the bench, his hamstring wrapped in ice.
"One change for Dortmund to start this second half," Tyler announced. "Nico Schulz replaces Raphaël Guerreiro, who's been struggling with what looks like a hamstring issue since the twenty-minute mark."
"Sensible from Marco Rose," Drury added. "PSG targeted that flank repeatedly, and Guerreiro's mobility was severely compromised. Schulz offers fresh legs, though perhaps less attacking impetus."
"No changes for Paris Saint-Germain," Tyler continued. "Pochettino evidently satisfied with his starting eleven despite trailing."
Oliver gathered the captains for a brief word, his expression stern as he emphasized the need for calm. The tension was visible in how the players positioned themselves—proximity without eye contact, bodies angled away from opponents as if even acknowledgment might trigger confrontation.
The whistle blew, and PSG immediately seized the initiative.
"Paris coming out with clear intent," Drury observed as the visitors strung together a series of lightning-quick passes. "There's a determination about them now, an urgency absent in the first period."
Verratti orchestrated from deep, finding Neymar who immediately released Mbappé down the left channel. The Frenchman's acceleration was breathtaking, leaving Schulz scrambling to recover.
The ball moved with surgical precision—Mbappé to Neymar, back to Verratti, then a diagonal ball finding Messi who had drifted into space. The Argentine's first touch was immaculate, killing the pace of the pass while simultaneously changing its direction.
With a subtle shift of weight, Messi dragged two defenders toward him before executing a reverse chip that seemed to defy physics—the ball floating over Hummels, its trajectory a perfect arc into the path of Mbappé's diagonal run.
"Magnificent vision!" Drury exclaimed.
Mbappé had timed his movement perfectly, breaking between Akanji and Schulz. The ball dropped over his shoulder, and without breaking stride, he connected with a volley of stunning technical precision.
"GOAL!" Tyler's professional composure momentarily abandoned him as the net bulged. "WHAT A FINISH FROM KYLIAN MBAPPÉ! Forty-seven minutes played, and Paris Saint-Germain are level!"
The away section erupted in euphoria, blue smoke bombs igniting as PSG players mobbed their striker. Mbappé sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees before rising to his signature celebration—arms folded across his chest, face a mask of stoic confidence.
"The response Pochettino demanded," Drury observed. "Barely two minutes into the second half, and the dynamic of this tie has shifted completely."
VAR initiated the standard goal check, examining Mbappé's position when Messi released the pass.
The check completed quickly, confirming what most observers already knew—the goal would stand. Mbappé had timed his run with millisecond precision.
Luka hadn't even turned to watch the celebration. He stood at the center circle, eyes fixed on the ground, mind already recalibrating.
Minutes of tense, tactical football followed. PSG dominated possession, probing patiently while Dortmund absorbed pressure, occasionally threatening on the counter. Neither side created clear opportunities, the midfield battle growing increasingly physical as fatigue and tension mounted.
By the fifty-fifth minute, Dortmund had stabilized, gradually reasserting themselves in the contest. A foul on Bellingham near the right touchline gave them a chance to deliver the ball into a dangerous area.
"Free-kick to Dortmund in an interesting position," Tyler observed. "Not quite close enough for a shot, but perfect for delivery into the box."
As players jostled for position, Reus approached the ball, then unexpectedly stepped away. Luka emerged from the cluster, indicating his intention to take it.
"It appears young Zorić wants this," Drury said, surprise evident in his tone. "We all know what happened last time he took a freekick from this range."
The stadium hushed as Luka placed the ball carefully, his ritual deliberate and unhurried. Memories of his spectacular free-kick—the one that completed his hat-trick—flickered through the collective consciousness of the crowd.
Luka's focus narrowed to a small section of the goal—the top right corner, just beyond Donnarumma's considerable reach. He visualized the trajectory, the spin, the exact force required. The distance was considerable, requiring perfect execution.
The referee's whistle sounded, and Luka began his approach. His run-up was measured, building momentum gradually before his right foot connected with the ball, imparting both power and precise spin.
"Struck beautifully!" Drury exclaimed as the ball arced toward the top corner.
Donnarumma launched himself full-stretch, fingers extending toward the seemingly unstoppable strike. What followed was a moment of goalkeeping brilliance—the Italian somehow managing to not only reach the ball but generate enough force to push it wide of the post.
The ball spun toward the corner flag where Reus, demonstrating remarkable alertness, had already begun his run. The captain recovered possession, cutting back toward the penalty area as PSG scrambled to reorganize their defense.
"Dortmund maintain the pressure," Drury observed as Reus assessed his options.
With defenders converging, Reus unleashed a power-time shot that seemed destined for the bottom corner until it struck the inside of the post with a resounding thud, ricocheting across the face of goal before bouncing out of play.
Reus sank to his knees, hands clasped behind his head in disbelief.
As the ball flung across the pitch out the touchline, Mbappé immediately ran to collect ball, eager to maintain PSG's momentum.
Reus, recognizing the strategy, sprinted toward the ball to delay the restart. Pochettino, whether deliberately or instinctively, shifted his position in the technical area, partially obstructing the captain's path.
What followed unfolded with chaotic rapidity—Reus, unable to stop his momentum, collided with Pochettino who collapsed theatrically onto the turf. The contact appeared minimal, but Pochettino's reaction triggered an immediate response from the PSG bench.
"Controversy erupting on the touchline!" Drury's voice rose as substitute players and staff members from both teams converged on the scene.
Sergio Rico, PSG's reserve goalkeeper, reached Reus first, grabbing the German by the throat and shoving him backward. The situation deteriorated instantly—Kimpembe sprinted, securing Reus in a headlock as coaches attempted to separate them.
The confrontation expanded, players from both teams abandoning their positions to join the melee.
Akanji arrived with explosive intensity, driving his shoulder into Kimpembe with enough force to break his hold on Reus. The Swiss defender's intervention escalated the physicality, both players now grappling with dangerous intent.
Paredes attempted to approach Reus from behind, only for Bellingham to intercept, grabbing the Argentine's shirt and throwing him forcefully to the ground. Within seconds, the technical area had transformed into something resembling a street brawl—players pushing, grabbing, and shouting as officials desperately tried to restore order.
The referee and his assistants eventually managed to separate the warring factions, creating enough space to begin addressing the instigators. Oliver's expression was thunderous as he reached for his pocket, yellow cards appearing with metronomic regularity.
Reus received the first booking, despite appearing more victim than aggressor. Pochettino followed, accepting his caution with theatrical innocence. The cards continued—Bellingham, Akanji, Kimpembe, and Mbappé, who had raced from the center circle to involve himself in the confrontation. Several substitutes from both benches were also cautioned, their names dutifully recorded by the fourth official.
The incident took nearly four minutes to resolve completely, the flow of the match shattered by the interruption. As players gradually returned to their positions, the camera found Cole Palmer standing alone in the center circle, eyes fixed skyward in apparent contemplation.
His expression was one of detachment—not disinterest, but the peculiar isolation of someone processing events on an entirely different frequency from those around him. He hadn't joined the melee, hadn't allowed himself to be drawn into the emotional vortex that had consumed his teammates during the entire game in fact.
"I made a promise," he whispered to himself, the words lost beneath the stadium's roar. "Today, the world learns my name."
He'd pledged to deliver Dortmund a victory, to step out from the shadows of his more celebrated teammates. Yet here he stood, the scoreline level, having not contributed anything.
The sky above Signal Iduna Park had darkened to deep twilight blue, floodlights now dominant against the fading natural light. He inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of cut grass and sweat grounding him in the moment. The disruption had reset the game's rhythm, creating an opportunity for whoever could impose their will first.