The San Siro was a hurricane of sound.

Emil Audero's brilliant save in the 43rd minute felt like a goal. The roar from the fans was deafening, a wave of noise that crashed over the pitch and lifted our spirits. I felt a surge of elation.

The Vision hadn't just shown me a weakness; it had shown me a solution, a path to a better outcome.

I looked over at Audero, who was still dusting himself off, a wide, relieved smile on his face. He glanced at me and gave a quick, grateful nod, a silent acknowledgment of my desperate shout.

The half-time whistle blew moments later, and we all sprinted back to the dressing room, the air buzzing with energy.

Inside, Coach Chivu was already pacing, but his expression was one of quiet satisfaction. "That save, Emil! Fantastic!" he said, clapping Audero on the back. "And Leon… what was that?" He turned to me, a curious glint in his eye.

"How did you know?"

I hesitated, fumbling for a simple answer.

"I… I just saw it, Coach. The way Lukaku was going to hit it. It was just a feeling."

He stared at me for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. "A feeling. I'll take it. Whatever it is, keep having it. You're reading the game like a veteran out there. But don't get comfortable. Mourinho will have them fired up for the second half. They'll come at us even harder. We need to be ready. We need to be the ones who score first."

The second half began with the kind of ferocity we'd expected. Roma, led by the intense tactical mind of their manager, came out with renewed purpose. Their passing was sharper, their movements more fluid.

The game was an all-out battle for control.

The Vision was now more active than ever. As the play unfolded, I saw the new symbols, a whole language I was just beginning to understand.

A small boot with a dotted line would appear near a player just before they made a pass, and a pair of stylized running legs would flicker around a defender right before they were about to sprint to close down a space.

A solid-looking shield would appear near a player who was about to go for a tackle, and the familiar leg and ball symbol would pop up whenever a shot was imminent.

It was like watching the Matrix, but instead of green code, it was a subtle, shimmering language of gold and blue, telling me not just what was, but what could be. I was seeing the intent behind the action.

My new ability was put to the test in the 55th minute. Dybala got the ball just outside our box, with Federico Dimarco rushing to close him down.

The Vision flared, and I saw a boot and a dotted line appear next to Dybala, pointing at a player making a run into the box.

"Dimarco!" I yelled. "He's passing! Watch the run!"

Dimarco, who had heard me and seen the effect of my previous shout, didn't hesitate. He shifted his body, just a fraction of a second ahead of the pass, and managed to intercept the ball, clearing it out of danger.

Heeeey!

The crowd roared again, a collective sigh of relief. Dimarco gave me a quick, questioning look, a mix of shock and gratitude. The team was starting to trust me, not just as a player, but as a kind of a living compass on the pitch.

But Roma was relentless. They were too good, too disciplined to be thrown off for long.

In the 62nd minute, it happened. Roma's midfielder, Bryan Cristante, got the ball in the middle of the pitch.

Thud-thud-thud!

I saw a boot with a dotted line appear next to him, and a pair of running legs next to Dybala, who was already moving.

I opened my mouth to shout, but it was too late.

Tchhh!

The pass was a low, driven thing that sliced through our midfield, and Dybala was on it like a flash.

The commentator's voice boomed through the stadium speakers.

"Dybala receives it in space! Can he get a shot off??"

My eyes were on Dybala. The Vision flared again, not with a simple leg and ball symbol, but with a torrent of new symbols I couldn't process in time—a blur of colors and shapes, a kind of chaos I hadn't felt since the Madrid match.

He was a master of his craft, and his actions were so complex that my Vision struggled to keep up. He did a quick step-over, throwing off our defender, and with a beautiful, curling shot, sent the ball toward the far post.

Audero dove, his body stretched to its limit. He got a hand to it, but it was too powerful.

The ball rebounded off the inside of the post and into the net.

GOOOAALLL!

The cheers from the small contingent of Roma fans were a sharp, painful sound that cut through the silence of the San Siro. We were losing.

The score was 1-0.

The goal didn't break us, but it changed the momentum of the game. Roma, now with the lead, played with more confidence.

We pushed forward, but their defense was a fortress. Chris Smalling (Potential 86, Current 84) was an absolute rock at the back, winning every aerial duel and blocking every shot.

In the 69th minute, we were on the attack, with me trying to feed a pass to Álvarez in the box.

But the ball was intercepted, and Roma launched a lightning-fast counter-attack.

The Vision went wild, and I saw a pair of running legs near their right-back, Zeki Çelik. A boot with a dotted line appeared near Dybala, pointing to Çelik.

I knew what was coming.

"Çelik! On the wing!" I yelled, trying to get the attention of our defender, Alessandro Bastoni.

But the pass was already there. Çelik was in acres of space, sprinting down the wing.

He took a touch and whipped a cross into the box.

The ball hung in the air for a split second, and I saw the leg and ball symbol flash near Lukaku.

This time, the symbol was clear, but there was nothing I could do. My mind was reeling, trying to keep up. I was a few yards away, and I couldn't get back in time.

The commentator's voice was a frantic shriek.

"Çelik delivers a fantastic cross…?! This could be the winner!!!"

Lukaku rose high, towering over our defense. He got his head to the ball, and with a powerful, downward header, sent it crashing into the back of the net.

Dooom!

GOOOOALLLLL!

My heart sank. The score was 2-0 to Roma.

A minute later, a small, sad cheer came from the Roma section of the crowd as the announcer's voice rang through the speakers.

"Roma lead, 2-0!" The game was slipping away from us, and the weight of the world felt like it was creeping back onto my shoulders.

Just as the clock hit the 70th minute, I felt a familiar, terrible dread.

We had lost control. The momentum was gone. We were a goal down, and the clock was ticking, ticking, ticking away.

My eyes drifted to the sidelines, where I could see Coach Chivu shouting instructions, his face a mask of frustration.

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A/N: Your comments truly make my day and help me refine the story. What's one thing you're hoping to see happen next?

Thanks for reading up to this chapter!