CHAPTER 67: CHAPTER 67 – BREAKING THE RHYTHM

The night had become a living thing inside Allianz Parque—a pulsing, heaving beast of noise and heat and desperation. The air itself seemed to vibrate with sixty thousand voices screaming in unison, the scent of burnt flares and spilled beer mixing with the earthy tang of freshly watered grass. Every blade of turf glistened under the stadium lights, each droplet reflecting the chaos unfolding above.

Thiago wiped his forearm across his brow, the sweat stinging his eyes as he jogged back into position. His lungs burned with each breath, his muscles screaming from the relentless pace, but his mind remained eerily calm—a still point in the hurricane. The scoreboard read 1-1, but the numbers lied. This wasn’t equilibrium. This was the eye of the storm.

Across the pitch, Neymar materialized from the chaos like a phantom. One moment he wasn’t there—the next, he was collecting the ball near the left touchline with that casual arrogance only true genius possessed. The entire stadium seemed to inhale as he received the pass, even the Palmeiras faithful falling silent for half a heartbeat.

Then he danced.

A Santos fullback overlapped as a decoy. Neymar ignored him.

Instead, he executed a dragback so sudden it left the pressing midfielder lunging at empty air, his studs tearing up a divot of grass where the ball had been. A centerback charged in—too late. Neymar cut inside with two quick touches, changed direction with a hip swivel that defied physics, then threaded a pass through a gap no mortal player should have seen.

The shot that followed was low and vicious. Palmeiras’ keeper reacted with feline reflexes, getting just enough of his fingertips to push it wide.

Corner.

The tension snapped taut enough to cut skin.

Neymar strolled to the corner flag like he owned the stadium, the home crowd pelting him with whistles and profanities. He didn’t flinch. Just lifted the ball with delicate fingers, kissed his fingertips, and placed it down with the care of a jeweler setting a diamond.

Thiago positioned himself near the edge of the box, marking the secondary runner while keeping one eye on Neymar’s setup. Every muscle in his body coiled tight.

The cross came not high and looping, but low and wicked—a sizzling delivery that bent around the first defender. The near-post run was perfectly timed, the flicked header even more so.

GOAL.

1-2.

Santos back in front.

For one terrible moment, the stadium seemed to collapse in on itself—a collective gasp sucking all the air from the arena. Then, like a wounded beast rising for one final stand, the Palmeiras faithful roared back to life. Their voices shook the very foundations, a primal scream of defiance.

Thiago stood near midfield, his chest heaving, his pulse pounding in his temples. Not from fear. Not from doubt.

From cold, crystalline purpose.

Rafael appeared at his shoulder, sweat pouring down his face in rivulets. "No panic," he gasped. "We keep breaking their shape. You’re stretching them every time you touch it."

Thiago nodded once, sharp as a blade. "Let’s rip it open."

The restart was a declaration of war.

Palmeiras didn’t bother with patient buildup. They went straight for the throat.

Rafael orchestrated the assault like a maestro, drifting wide right to overload that flank, dragging three Santos players with him. Thiago waited on the left, his body coiled like a spring, every nerve ending alive to the possibility.

When the switch came, it was a thing of beauty—a raking diagonal that skipped once before reaching him at full tilt.

He didn’t control it.

He weaponized it.

First touch: a blistering acceleration past the scrambling fullback.

Second touch: a subtle inside shift that left the recovering centerback sliding through empty grass.

The crowd surged to their feet as one, their roar building like a tidal wave.

Thiago chopped once with his right foot, cut back sharply onto his left, and drove toward the penalty area with single-minded intent.

Nando’s scream for the ball cut through the noise, but Thiago didn’t rush.

He waited.

That split-second hesitation that turned space into opportunity.

Then—

The cross.

Not whipped. Not driven.

Lofted with perfect weight and trajectory, curling just behind the defensive line like a lover’s whisper.

Nando launched himself at full stretch, his forehead connecting with a crack that echoed through the stadium. The ball bulleted downward, across the keeper’s dive, kissing the far post before nestling in the net.

GOAL.

2-2.

The Palmeiras bench erupted—coaches spilling onto the touchline, substitutes leaping over barriers. In the stands, grown men wept openly, their voices raw from screaming.

Thiago sprinted to the corner flag, his chest heaving, his arms spread wide as teammates mobbed him. Nando grabbed his head with both hands, screaming directly into his face: "That ball, irmão! That fucking ball!"

Rafael arrived last, his laughter breathless and bright. "You see them crumble? That’s us. That’s you."

The match had become a wildfire.

And Santos had no intention of being burned without a fight.

Neymar took the restart like a man possessed, his dribble through three Palmeiras players so effortless it seemed to defy the laws of motion. The crowd’s gasp was audible even over the drums as he ghosted a pass into the box—only for the keeper to punch it clear with a desperate lunge.

The game descended into beautiful chaos—a back-and-forth slugfest between two teams refusing to yield.

83rd minute.

Palmeiras won a corner after Thiago’s cross was blocked by a desperate sliding challenge. He didn’t join the scrum in the box. Instead, he lingered near the edge of the D, his eyes scanning the organized chaos before him.

Rafael’s delivery was pinpoint—but cleared only as far as the edge of the area.

The defensive midfielder recycled possession quickly, feeding Rafael near the touchline. One look up. One measured pass back to Thiago.

No defender closed him down.

Fatal mistake.

One touch to set himself.

Then—

The cross.

Not to Nando this time. Not to the obvious target.

A wicked, bending ball toward the far post—a siren’s call for Rafael’s late run.

Santos’ defense collapsed toward Nando like moths to flame, leaving Rafael unmarked on the blindside.

One touch.

GOAL.

3-2.

The eruption was seismic. Eneas punched the air so violently he nearly toppled over. Players spilled onto the pitch despite the referee’s protests. In the stands, strangers embraced like lifelong friends, their voices merging into one wordless roar of pure joy.

Thiago didn’t join the wild celebrations.

He dropped to a crouch near the corner flag, his hands on his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

The final minutes passed in a blur—Neymar’s last-gasp curler bound for the top corner until the keeper’s miraculous intervention, the referee’s whistle cutting through the noise like a knife.

Full time.

Palmeiras 3 - Santos 2.

As his teammates collapsed to the turf in exhausted joy, Thiago remained standing. His boots were caked in mud, his jersey torn at the shoulder, his body screaming in protest.

He raised one hand to the sky—not in triumph, but in acknowledgment.

Of the fight.

Of the fire.

Of the final that now awaited.