The Philips Stadion had fallen silent. Not the respectful hush that follows an anthem, but the hollow emptiness that lingers after an unexpected turn of events. Four-nil. Four goals that sliced through PSV's defense as if it were nonexistent. Four moments that had shifted the narrative.
Demien walked the corridor beneath the stadium, his steps steady and unhurried. No smile—just determination. The echo of his shoes against the concrete matched the rhythm of his thoughts. He had witnessed this before, or something akin to it, in another time, another life.
Behind him, the players' voices rose and fell like waves—D'Alessandro speaking rapid Spanish to Morientes, Giuly's laughter cutting through the chatter, Xabi responding thoughtfully to questions no one else had yet considered. They had earned this moment, though none truly grasped the significance of their achievement.
They had altered the course of history.
