The ball rolled again, cutting across the pristine turf as the referee's whistle signaled the restart.
From the moment play resumed, PSG surged forward with the ferocity of a nest of hornets, their press relentless and suffocating. They moved like a machine—precise passes slicing through narrow lanes, thundering shots testing the limits of Madrid's defense.
Yet, despite their brilliance, the goal they so desperately sought remained out of reach.
Madrid stood firm, unyielding, immovable like a mountain against a storm. Their backline bent but never broke, their midfield tirelessly swept up loose balls, and their keeper parried every attempt with grim resolve.
Each minute that slipped away without a breakthrough only tightened the noose around PSG's chances; the weight of missed opportunities clung to them like a shadow.
The electric buzz that once filled the air also thinned into a brittle silence.
