Neymar gave a quick nod and jogged back out to his station on the wing.
For the next nine grueling minutes, absolute deadlock resumed.
Barcelona attacked in waves. Real Madrid absorbed every blow with stubborn discipline. Ramos and Pepe held their double-coverage on Lorenzo with a ruthless focus that felt intensely personal. Every time Neymar cut inside, Marcelo shadowed him stride for stride. Every time Messi drifted toward the right channel, Modrić filled the passing lane. The defensive grid remained completely airtight.
However, Modrić had already covered nearly fifteen kilometers in just forty minutes of play, and he had done so largely because Iniesta had been running him ragged across the pitch. In the 42nd minute, that relentless physical toll finally caught up with the Croatian midfielder.
Barcelona gradually regained their rhythm. Iniesta pushed higher up the pitch, while Busquets dropped cleanly between the center-backs to give Xavi more breathing room to orchestrate play. The passing sequences began clicking through the phases again, and Modrić, who had been first to every second ball all evening, was suddenly half a step late.
Xavi collected a pass from Busquets near the halfway line and immediately glanced left. Neymar had already started his sprint. He was technically supposed to cut inside toward Marcelo, exactly as he and Lorenzo had mapped out moments earlier. But midway through his acceleration, Neymar spotted the flank open up ahead of him and made a split-second executive call. Just one more cross. If it worked, they would pull a goal back. If it failed, he would return to the plan.
He stayed out wide, burning past the line. Xavi read his movement instantly, driving a crisp, hard pass into the channel that Neymar met in full stride.
Marcelo had been leaning slightly toward the middle, leaving him roughly two yards out of position.
Neymar didn't need any more than that.
He surged down the touchline, ate up ten yards of space, and reached the byline before Marcelo could recover. He glanced up once into the crowded penalty area.
Ramos was positioned five yards deep, protecting the near post. Pepe was stationed closer to the penalty spot. Between them lay a tiny gap, a sliver of space that was constantly shifting because Lorenzo was actively moving through it.
Neymar whipped the cross in with the inside of his right boot. It was a driven, dipping delivery that arced straight across the six-yard box at head height.
Lorenzo timed his surge to perfection. He had spent the entire first half locked in the grip of two central defenders, but in the brief two seconds it took Neymar to reach the byline, both men were forced to make a snap choice about where to mark, and both had chosen wrong.
Lorenzo arrived in the gap between them at the exact right second. He leapt cleanly into the air, his neck snapping forward with all the explosive force his header template had been building all season. The ball struck his forehead like a cannon shot, flying straight toward the far post.
Casillas threw himself across the goal, his fingertips brushing the leather, but it was nowhere near enough.
The ball crashed off the inside of the far post and ricocheted across the line into the back of the net.
Fweet—!
2-1.
Camp Nou exploded with a sound that had been absent all evening. Ninety-five thousand voices went from total silence to absolute uproar in half a second. The sheer relief in the air was as loud as the celebration itself.
"GOAALLL! LORENZO PULLS ONE BACK!" Santiago's voice cracked completely into the microphone. "Two to one! A perfectly weighted, driven cross from Neymar, and Lorenzo rises right between the two-man wall of Ramos and Pepe to head Barcelona back into this match! Camp Nou is absolutely alive!"
Inés broke down the replay with breathless intensity. "That was literally the first genuine opening Lorenzo has had all evening, and he took it because he absolutely had to. Just look at the timing of that run. He stayed completely still until Neymar reached the byline, then accelerated into the precise gap between the center-backs the second they committed elsewhere. That kind of natural instinct is basically impossible to teach."
Lorenzo sprinted toward the corner flag, but he skipped his usual extravagant celebration. He simply ran over, pressed his lips to the club badge on his jersey, and pointed directly at the south stand where the chant had started. His gesture carried a clear message: I heard you. Now keep singing.
Neymar caught up to him first, grabbing him by the shoulders with a wild grin. "I told you, man! I told you that lane was going to be wide open if we executed it right!"
"You didn't really tell me anything," Lorenzo replied with a breathless laugh. "You just delivered it. Beautifully."
Messi arrived a second later, placing a steady hand on Lorenzo's chest. "We need maybe one more before the whistle. We really need it."
Busquets was already sprinting back toward the center circle with the ball tucked under his arm, desperate to speed up the restart. On the touchline, Martino allowed himself a small, controlled nod. The score was still 2-1, and Real Madrid were still in front. But the emotional weight of the match had fundamentally shifted, and everyone inside the ground could feel it.
Across the pitch, Ronaldo stood watching the celebration with his hands resting on his hips. He wasn't visibly angry, nor did he look rattled. Yet his posture had lost some of the dominant swagger it had carried after his second goal. He had looked completely untouchable ten minutes ago; now he looked like a man who had just been reminded that the opposing team was still very much alive.
Ancelotti clenched his jaw tightly on the touchline. Zidane stepped up beside him, keeping his voice low. "We really need to see out these next two minutes cleanly, Carlo."
"I know."
"If they score again before half..."
"I know, Zizou. I know. Relax, the players know how to manage this."
The referee signaled the restart. Real Madrid played it completely safe, cycling possession through their backline to run down the remaining seconds. The official signaled two extra minutes of stoppage time. Barcelona pressed aggressively, but Real Madrid held their ground until the whistle finally blew for halftime. The home crowd remained on their feet, roaring their approval as Lorenzo walked toward the tunnel with his shirt in his hand and adrenaline pumping through his veins.
Inside the home dressing room, Martino stood beside the tactical whiteboard, eyeing his squad.
"They are not actually better than us," Martino stated calmly, looking around the room. "They played well for forty-two minutes because we basically allowed them to. We are definitely not going to let them do that for forty-five more. When we go back out there, we press much higher up. Iniesta plays noticeably closer to Lorenzo. Neymar keeps doing exactly what he just did. Every bit of quality we've shown all season, we bring out in the second half."
He turned his focus directly onto Lorenzo. "You know what to do out there, right?"
Lorenzo gave a firm nod. "Yes, coach. Absolutely."
You know what time it is! Drop those Power Stones to keep us climbing the ranks!
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