Marco Rossi's (Current: 82) words, "We're a team, Fischer, a team! Pass the ball! You're not here to make a movie about yourself!" echoed in Leon Fischer's (Current: 84) ears, louder than the roar of the Copenhagen crowd. Shame, hot and stinging, flooded through him.

He saw his teammates' averted gazes, their 'Current' ratings reflecting a quiet disappointment. The ball was long gone, Copenhagen was attacking, and Leon felt a cold dread settle in his stomach.

He had let his arrogance get the better of him, and in the Champions League, it was a costly mistake.

The remaining minutes of the match were a blur of frantic effort.

Leon, chastened, tried to simplify his game, making quick, simple passes, tracking back, and trying to contribute defensively. His 'Vision' (95) still showed him the shimmering icons of future actions, but now, he saw them with a new filter – a filter of teamwork. He was no longer looking for the flashy, individualistic play, but for the most efficient, safest pass to a teammate.

Copenhagen, fueled by their relentless 'cohesion' and the energy of their home crowd, continued to press. They seemed to have endless energy, closing down every Inter player, making every pass a struggle. The game was locked at 0-0, and it felt like Inter was fighting for survival, not chasing a victory.

"Copenhagen are relentless!" the commentator exclaimed, his voice tight with tension. "They're making Inter Milan work for every single inch of this pitch!"

The clock ticked past the 85th minute. It looked like Inter would be lucky to escape with a draw. Leon felt the fatigue setting in, but it was overshadowed by a desperate need to make amends.

Then, in the 89th minute, Inter won a free-kick just outside the Copenhagen box, slightly to the left. It was a dangerous position, a chance for a late winner.

Hakan Çalhanoğlu (Current: 86), Inter's set-piece specialist, stepped up to take it.

Leon watched him, his 'Vision' showing him the familiar leg and a curling shot icon above Çalhanoğlu's foot. He knew it would be a powerful, bending effort.

The Copenhagen goalkeeper, Kamil Grabara (Current: 78), positioned his wall, his 'Current: 78' showing a mix of determination and anxiety.

Çalhanoğlu took a deep breath, then ran up.

BOOM!

The ball rocketed off his foot, a blur of white, curling viciously over the wall. Grabara leaped, stretching every fiber of his being, his fingers brushing the ball.

CLING!..... The ball struck the inside of the post with a sickening thud, then bounced across the goal line and into the net!

GOOOAL!

The small section of Inter fans erupted in a mixture of relief and disbelief! It was 1-0 to Inter Milan! An agonizingly late goal!

"Hakan Çalhanoğlu! A moment of brilliance!" the commentator roared, his voice cracking with emotion. "He's snatched it for Inter Milan! What a free-kick! What a way to win a grueling match!"

The final whistle blew just moments later, bringing an end to the most difficult 90 minutes Leon had experienced since joining Inter.

The victory was secured, but it felt hollow. There was no joyous pile-on, no triumphant roars from the players.

In the dressing room after the match, the atmosphere was as quiet as if they had just suffered a crushing defeat. Players slowly peeled off their jerseys, the usual post-match banter completely absent. No one looked directly at Leon, but he felt their gazes, subtle and fleeting, yet heavy with unspoken words. The shame from Rossi's outburst, amplified by the coach's earlier look of disapproval, burned in his chest.

He sat on the bench, head down, picking at a loose thread on his shorts. Then, a shadow fell over him. He looked up. Coach Cristian Chivu (Current: 90) sat down beside him, quietly. His 'Current: 90' was calm, but his eyes held a depth Leon hadn't seen before.

"Leon," Chivu began, his voice low, almost a whisper, "you are an incredibly talented player. Your goal in the Derby, your penalty, your vision… it's truly special. You have a gift."

Leon braced himself, expecting a lecture.

"But," Chivu continued, his gaze steady, "the greatest players are those who make the team better, not those who prove they are the best on the team. Remember that."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "Individual brilliance is wonderful, but it means nothing without the team. Especially in the Champions League."

He placed a hand on Leon's shoulder, a light, comforting touch.

"Learn from this, Leon. Grow from it. We move forward, together." Then, he stood up and walked away, leaving Leon alone with his thoughts.

On the flight back to Milan, Leon avoided everyone. He found an empty row and sat by himself, staring out at the dark sky.

He replayed the match in his head, not just his own moments, but the collective 'cohesion' of Copenhagen, the way they moved as one, suffocating his individual attempts. He replayed Rossi's harsh words, the sting of them still fresh. And then, the coach's quiet, profound statement.

The greatest players are those who make the team better.

It hit him with the force of a revelation.

His 'vision,' his ability to see the future actions of players, his new 'Blind Side Escape' skill – these were incredible gifts.

But he had been using them for himself, to show off, to prove he was the best. He had seen the shimmering icons, but he had ignored the most important one: the invisible, burning 'cohesion' of a true team.

For the first time, Leon realized that his "vision" was not just a superpower; it was a responsibility. It wasn't just about seeing what he could do, but how he could use that insight to elevate everyone around him. And his arrogance, that intoxicating feeling of being the "wonderkid," was the quickest way to turn that gift into a curse.

He had almost cost his team a crucial Champions League point, all because he wanted to make a "movie about himself."

He closed his eyes, a new kind of determination settling deep within him.

This was a lesson he wouldn't forget. The journey to conquer Italy and Europe wouldn't be about individual glory, but about becoming the player who truly made his team better. And to do that, he had to change. He had to evolve, not just his skills, but his mindset.