The Chilean fans had been roaring, hoping their side could claw back into the match. But the tempo, the rhythm, the flow of play — everything had been hijacked. Argentina didn't just have the ball; they owned the tempo, dictated the movements, suffocated the game with a silk rope disguised as possession.
And at the heart of it all was Romeo Teixeira.
He didn't sprint. He didn't shout. He just moved. Calculated, measured, silent. Like a chess player five moves ahead.
Chile had started the half by pressing like their lives depended on it — and maybe they did. For a team with aging legs and bruised egos, pressing high against Argentina's midfield was a gamble. But they had no other choice. Sit back, and Messi would pick them apart. Press, and maybe—just maybe—they could force a mistake.
They didn't.
Romeo adjusted his position, always a half-step ahead of the Chilean swarm. Messi dropped deep to offer himself. Di María drifted inside, Aguero pulled a center-back wide, and Romeo—cool as ever—threaded ball after ball between the chaos like he had a god's view of the pitch.
"They're cooked," Romeo thought, not smugly, just with the clarity of someone who had already seen the outcome.
From the sideline, Jorge Sampaoli looked furious and helpless. He barked at his players, waving his arms, pushing them higher, wider, faster.
But pressing was eating his team alive.
The Chileans chased, lost shape, then chased again. It wasn't a coordinated press—it was desperation. And every second they burned their lungs, Romeo's Argentina tightened the screw.
Ray Hudson's voice rang out over the English commentary feed:
"That midfield trio—Messi, Romeo, Di María—they're not just passing. They're painting. With daggers. And Romeo, good grief… he's conducting this orchestra like a veteran maestro."
Alan Teixeira, watching from the stands next to their younger sister Sophia, clenched a fist under the seat. He knew this version of Romeo. Cold. Focused. Unstoppable.
Down on the pitch, Romeo received a square pass from Paredes.
He barely looked up.
He didn't need to.
He already saw the entire backline fraying — Medel taking a half step too wide, the left-back recovering too late, Bravo unsure whether to stay or sweep.
Aguero was floating in the channel, right on the edge of offside, waiting for the trigger.
Romeo fired it.
A perfectly weighted lofted ball arced over the midfield and split the defensive line like a scalpel. Aguero didn't need to break stride. He surged forward, glanced up, and struck it before it even kissed the turf.
Volley. Mid-air. Controlled chaos.
Bravo dived.
Too late.
The ball skimmed the ground, ricocheted under the keeper's arms, and slammed into the net.
3–0.
The stadium erupted. Blue and white flags. Thunderous drums. Flares. A wall of sound.
Romeo exhaled slowly, almost calmly, as Aguero sprinted toward him.
"You did it! You really did it!" Aguero shouted, before dropping to one knee in front of Romeo, laughing like a madman.
Romeo blinked, caught off-guard.
Then Aguero grabbed his foot, pantomimed a shoe shine, and roared:
"DAD!!"
Romeo winced.
"Don't ever do that again."
But he couldn't help the twitch of a smile.
The cameras caught it all.
The headlines were already being written.
> "Romeo Teixeira: The Silent Maestro Behind Argentina's Destruction Job"
> "Aguero Scores Hat Trick. Romeo Provides All Three."
> "No Flash. No Noise. Just Brilliance."
---
From there, Chile collapsed.
Their legs gave out before their spirit did, but both eventually fell. Romeo wasn't done. He orchestrated another assist for Di María. Then slipped a through ball that let Aguero cross to Messi, who tapped in with surgical precision.
6–0.
A tactical massacre.
Romeo's fingerprints were on all of it.
In the post-match press conference, head coach Carlos sat with a grin that refused to die.
> "We expected a win," he said, "but not like this. Romeo silenced every doubt. Every critic. And no one in the world can ignore what they saw tonight."
The press turned to Romeo.
Nineteen. First full cap. Five assists. No celebration, no posturing. Just eye contact and the quiet intensity of someone who only cared about the next match.
He leaned toward the mic.
> "We trained to control tempo," he said. "Everything else followed."
Simple. Clinical. No theatrics.
But everyone in the room knew: a new conductor had stepped into the world stage.
And he had just played Chile like a broken violin.