The Parc des Princes was a living, breathing beast on derby night. The air crackled with tension, thick with the scent of flares and spilled beer. Ibukun could feel the vibrations of sixty thousand stomping feet through the tunnel walls as he waited to emerge. The System's golden text burned in his vision, stark against the swirling chaos:
***MATCH PARAMETERS***
→ **Opponent:** Paris Saint-Germain (Mbappé man-marking variant)
→ **Mission:** Directly outperform Mbappé in:
- Goals
- Successful dribbles
- Key passes
→ **Failure Penalty:** -15% composure for next three matches
The roar when he stepped onto the pitch was deafening—half cheers from the traveling Lille supporters, half jeers from the sea of PSG ultras already unveiling a tifo depicting Ibukun as a crying child.
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**First Blood**
From the opening whistle, Mbappé stuck to him like a second shadow. The French superstar didn't just mark—he talked, his lips barely moving as they jostled for position near midfield.
"You think one good season makes you special?" Mbappé breathed, his breath warm against Ibukun's ear as a goal kick sailed overhead. "I've been doing this since you were in diapers."
The first real chance came from nothing. A misplaced pass from PSG's midfield sent the ball skidding toward the touchline. Ibukun lunged, stretching every sinew to keep it in play. His first touch was heavy—too heavy—and Hakimi smelled blood, coming in fast with a tackle that sent Ibukun sprawling into the advertising boards.
The impact rattled his teeth. The referee waved play on.
Jay-Jay's voice crackled through the System's feedback: *"Get up. They want you rattled."*
---
**The Chess Match**
As the first half wore on, the game settled into a brutal rhythm. Marquinhos and Danilo formed an impenetrable blue wall, while Mbappé's marking became increasingly physical—a forearm here, a sly stamp there, always just shy of a card.
Then, in the dying minutes of the half, space finally opened.
A quick one-two with Lille's winger sent Ibukun streaking down the left channel. Hakimi recovered faster than expected, but Ibukun had studied his tendencies—the Moroccan international always favored showing attackers onto their weaker foot.
A feint right, then a sharp cut left left Hakimi grasping at air. The shot was pure instinct—a rising drive that kissed the crossbar before rippling the net.
The Lille supporters erupted. Ibukun didn't celebrate, just locked eyes with Mbappé as he jogged back to position. The message was clear.
---
**The Response**
PSG came out swinging in the second half. Mbappé abandoned his marking duties, switching to a free-roaming role that immediately paid dividends. A quick interchange with Neymar sent him through on goal, his finish as clinical as it was inevitable.
1-1.
The stadium shook with renewed energy. For the next twenty minutes, PSG pressed like demons, their attacks coming in waves. Donnarumma started playing as a sweeper, cutting out every hopeful through ball before it could reach Ibukun's feet.
Then—a gift.
A lazy pass from Verratti was intercepted by Lille's midfielder, who immediately looked for Ibukun. The ball arrived slightly behind him, forcing an awkward first touch that somehow, impossibly, became an advantage—Danilo overcommitted, leaving just enough space for a snapshot.
The strike wasn't clean. It wasn't pretty. But it was effective, squirming under Donnarumma's dive before nestling in the far corner.
2-1.
Mbappé's expression turned thunderous.
---
**The Final Test**
With ten minutes remaining, PSG threw everything forward. The tackles grew reckless, the challenges borderline criminal. A particularly nasty foul from Danilo left Ibukun writhing near the center circle, his left ankle throbbing.
The System pulsed a warning:
***INJURY ALERT***
→ **Lateral ankle sprain (Grade 1)**
→ **Recommended:** Immediate substitution
→ **Alternative:** Pain suppression (Cost: 800 SP | Duration: 15min)
He chose suppression.
The numbness spread like ice water, just in time for PSG's final assault. A dubious penalty call—Marquinhos going down easily under minimal contact—gave Mbappé his chance from the spot.
The Frenchman didn't miss.
2-2.
But Ibukun wasn't done.
As the clock ticked into stoppage time, a tired clearance fell to him near midfield. Three defenders closed in. The System screamed options, but Ibukun had already decided.
A quick feint bought half a yard. The shot, when it came, was pure instinct—a dipping, swerving nightmare that left Donnarumma rooted as it crashed in off the underside of the bar.
3-2.
Pandemonium.
---
**The Aftermath**
Valentina met him in the tunnel, her usual composure fractured. "Do you have any idea what you've just done?" she breathed, her fingers digging into his arm. "That's Perez on the phone right now. That's Florentino fucking Perez."
Ibukun barely heard her. The System's final alert pulsed through the haze of exhaustion:
***PHYSICAL DEBRIS REPORT***
→ **Left ankle sprain (Grade 1)**
→ **Neural fatigue:** 89%
→ **Warning:** System failure imminent if thresholds exceeded
Jay-Jay's hologram appeared one last time as he slumped onto the treatment table.
*"Enjoy this,"* the ghost said, uncharacteristically solemn. *"It gets harder from here."*
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