The sky over Lusail, Qatar, looked as if it had been painted in gold. The sun was setting slowly, while the murmur of eighty thousand souls turned into a roar. The air was heavy, thick with adrenaline and hope. On the giant screen, the score flashed:
Italy 2 - Portugal 2
88:45 minutes
It was the final no one would ever forget. Two nations, two philosophies, two dreams colliding under the same sky.
At the center of that green colosseum, Micheal Bianchi, captain of Italy, felt his heart beating like a war drum. He wasn't just a footballer: he was the symbol of a people yearning to touch glory again after decades of disappointment.
"Micheal!" shouted his teammate Romagnoli, sending him the ball. Micheal controlled it with the sole of his boot, lifted his head and saw the red sea of Portuguese jerseys closing every gap.
But he was born for these moments.
One breath. One feint. He flicked the ball over the first defender with an elastico, leaving him frozen. The crowd exploded. Then a sombrero over the second, a burst of speed, the wind in his hair. His muscles burned, but his mind was sharper than ever.
"Go, Micheal… go!" the commentator screamed, his voice cracking with emotion.
In front of him, like a wall, stood Rúben Dias. Micheal faked with his body, then slid the ball through his legs with a perfect nutmeg, time itself seeming to pause. The defender spun too late. Micheal was already past.
Now the field opened wide. Ahead, only Rafael Leão chasing back and, farther away, Diogo Costa, Portugal's keeper.
A flash of thoughts tore through his mind.
This is it. The last chance. For Italy. For me.
He pushed harder, carried the ball onto his right foot. His breath came short, his heart pounded violently. Every beat was a drum inside his head.
At the edge of the box, he stopped dead. The defender behind him slid past, fooled completely. Micheal raised his eyes, saw the goalkeeper rushing out.
And then he struck.
A curling shot, perfect, filled with power and poetry.
The ball soared through the air, carving a line that defied logic. Time seemed to slow. Every eye in the stadium locked onto that white sphere.
The keeper dove desperately, fingertips grazing the ball…
…which smashed against the crossbar.
BOOM!
A sound that shook the stands. The ball bounced back into the box. Total chaos.
Micheal lunged for the rebound. His heart was hammering like crazy, but he didn't stop. One last sprint. One last breath.
And then he felt it.
A stab. A searing pain ripping through his chest like an invisible blade.
His breath vanished. His legs trembled.
But he didn't fall. Not yet.
The ball was there. Just a step away. The goal of his life.
His vision blurred. The roar of the crowd turned into a distant echo.
Micheal stretched his leg…
And blackness.