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The match had turned. Twenty-one minutes played, two-nil down, and Atlético's pressing, which had been genuine, organised, Simeone's best work of the season was now running on fumes rather than belief.
In the box, Garrido stared at the pitch. "Is Courtois sleepwalking?"
"No," Cecilia said. "He's wide awake. That's worse."
On the pitch, Atlético tried. They were still Simeone's team — they didn't stop running, didn't retreat into the defensive shell that lesser sides would have built. Koke and Turan continued working the flanks. Costa continued holding the ball up. But the vertical intent had gone. The passes were sideways. The press arrived a step later than it had in the opening ten minutes.
Barcelona circulated. In the 34th minute, the third goal arrived through the kind of sequence that made the LMN trio look like a single organism.
It started with Busquets. Godín and Miranda exchanged short passes outside their own area, then struck a long clearance toward midfield. Gabi rose for the header but Busquets arrived first — a clean, powerful flick that sent the ball sideways into Xavi's path.
Xavi to Iniesta. Two touches. Iniesta to the left channel, a low diagonal that split Turan and Filipe Luís.
Lorenzo collected the ball right at the edge of the area, instantly feeling Miranda's massive frame pressing hard against his back. He didn't even try to turn. Instead, he leaned right back into the defender, using Miranda's own momentum to anchor himself and buy the split second of stability he needed. With a single, deft touch, he rolled a perfectly weighted wall pass into the path of Neymar, who was already bursting inside from the left wing. The ball was placed beautifully, meeting Neymar exactly at the peak of his stride.
Neymar took it without breaking. He drove past Juanfran on the angle — one step, two steps, the Brazilian's hips moving with the particular fluidity that made defenders guess rather than react — and hit it low across Courtois's body into the far corner.
Courtois lunged, throwing his full length across the goalmouth, but his fingertips trailed the ball by a matter of inches. He slammed onto the turf and just lay there motionless for a beat — the specific stillness of a goalkeeper who has conceded three times before halftime and has stopped calculating how to prevent the fourth.
SWISH.
3-0.
The Calderón made a sound that was less a groan and more a collective exhalation — the air leaving the building. The away section sang. Neymar ran to the corner flag. Messi and Lorenzo reached him together.
Santiago's voice from the booth: "Three-nil! The LMN combination — Lorenzo's lay-off, Neymar's finish, and Messi orchestrating the space that made both possible. Atlético's defensive structure, the tightest in La Liga, has conceded three away goals in thirty-four minutes."
In the closing minute of the first half, Atlético threw everyone forward for a corner. Every player with a height advantage surged into Barcelona's box — including Courtois, the desperate gamble of a team with nothing to lose from a set piece.
Thiago's delivery was good. The ball arced toward the six-yard area. Lorenzo, who had dropped to defend, rose above Godín and Miranda simultaneously and headed it powerfully out of the area.
Iniesta collected. The referee blew for halftime.
3-0 at the break.
Inside the Barcelona dressing room, Tata Martino stood in front of the tactical board. He didn't say a single word about the first half they had just played. Instead, he skipped straight to next week.
"Our opponent in the Copa del Rey final is almost certainly going to be Real Madrid," he announced, tapping the board. "Athletic Bilbao can cause them problems, sure, but Madrid are the clear favorites in their leg. Start getting your heads right for them now."
Busquets let out a low whistle from his locker, a grin breaking across his face. "The boss is already scouting the final opponent at halftime. Simeone would absolutely lose his mind if he heard this."
Iniesta shrugged, unlacing his boots to re-tie them. "Last time we were in a Copa knockout, he had us studying the Champions League draw at halftime too."
"That's only because last time we were also cruising 3-0 at the break," Xavi chimed in with a smirk. "There's definitely a pattern here."
Martino allowed himself the briefest fraction of a second of what might have been a smile, but just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished back into his usual stoic expression.
The second half delivered absolutely no drama. Simeone's side dug in and fought with the ferocious, relentless intensity they always did, but the three-goal mountain, combined with a noticeably deflated Calderón crowd, made the rest of the match feel purely academic.
Atlético threw bodies forward in a desperate bid to salvage pride, but Barcelona just absorbed the pressure and counter-attacked with the cool, calculated ease of a team that had done this a dozen times already this season. Against elite European and La Liga opposition alike, they had mastered the rhythm — knowing exactly when to step on the gas, and exactly when to just hold the ball and choke the life out of the game.
In the 76th minute, Diego Godín managed to salvage a shred of pride for the hosts, rising high above Mascherano at a corner to power home a thumping header—a consolation goal that the Calderón greeted with exhausted gratitude rather than any actual, genuine hope.
Then, in the 81st minute, Xavi unleashed a stinging long-range drive from well outside the box that rattled violently off the base of the right post. The rebound spun out at a wicked, narrow angle inside the area, landing right in front of Messi. Without a single heartbeat of hesitation, he just reacted — lashing it first-time across Courtois and tucked deep into the far corner. It was a finish born of pure, lethal instinct. Messi sprinted toward the corner flag to celebrate, with Lorenzo and Neymar instantly catching up to mob him.
"Look at that — all three of us on the scoresheet tonight," Neymar grinned, throwing his arms around them.
"You mean again in this match?" Messi laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself as they walked back.
The scoreline now read 4-1.
The final whistle came with the stadium already half-empty.
Atlético Madrid 1 — Barcelona 4.
In the tunnel, Lorenzo walked side by side with Messi, their boots clicking against the concrete as the distant roar of the stadium began to fade.
"The Copa final is probably going to be Madrid," Messi said, his voice quiet as he threw a towel over his shoulders.
"Martino already told us," Lorenzo replied with a slight shrug.
"Yeah, I know he told us that at the halftime of a semi-final," Messi pointed out, a small, amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That is a whole new level of confidence, even for him."
Lorenzo smiled, looking down the corridor. "Hey, it just means he trusts the squad."
"No, it means he trusts the scoreline." Messi stopped for a brief second, looking right at him with a knowing glint in his eye. "Trust me, there's a big difference."
Cecilia was waiting just outside the tunnel, her heavy jacket zipped up tight against the chill, hiding his number nine jersey completely from sight. She didn't say a single word when she finally saw him walk out. She just stepped straight into his path, smoothly linked her arm through his, and effortlessly fell into step beside him as they began the long walk toward the waiting team bus.
He looked down at her, a tired but happy smile breaking across his face. "Did you see the second goal?"
"Yeah, the one where you literally stole the ball right off Courtois's boots?" She looked up at him, her eyes dancing. "My father almost had a genuine cardiac event right there in the box."
Lorenzo chuckled. "Is he actually alright?"
"Oh, he'll survive. He's already aggressively formulating his argument for exactly why the referee was completely biased against them." She squeezed his arm a little tighter, her tone softening into something deeply sincere. "You were incredible tonight, Lorenzo. Honestly, all of you guys were."
Lorenzo felt the sudden, comforting warmth of her hand pressing through the thick fabric of his jacket sleeve. The sharp January Madrid air was biting, and the massive stadium lights were slowly shutting down behind them, casting long shadows across the concrete. For a brief, quiet moment, the entire evening shrank down to just the two of them walking side by side — a beautiful, simple reality that felt miles away from the chaos of the previous ninety minutes.
Garrido trailing a few paces behind with Blanca, kept his eyes locked on their linked arms, his jaw set in a heavy, brooding silence.
Blanca reached over, giving his shoulder a gentle, consoling pat.
"I already know exactly what you're about to say," he muttered without looking at her. "So don't say it."
"I wasn't going to," she replied smoothly.
"You were thinking it, though."
"Loudly," she confirmed, a quiet, amused smile playing on her lips.
[Status: Copa del Rey Semi-Final 4-1 at Calderón.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.