The whistle blew, and the noise of the crowd was replaced by the frantic chatter of the team.
We stumbled back into the dressing room, exhausted but exhilarated.
The scoreboard read 2-2. Extra time was coming.
Coach Cristian Chivu stood in front of us, his face a mixture of pride and intensity.
He wasn't yelling, wasn't throwing water bottles. He was just looking at each of us, his gaze unwavering.
"Look at me," he said, his voice surprisingly calm.
"Seventy minutes in, we were down two-nil. Two. Nothing. And you fought back. You played with heart, with passion, with a kind of courage that can't be taught. We're not tired," he declared, his voice rising a little. "We're not finished! We've got thirty minutes left to play the game of our lives. Go out there and remind them who we are!"
The speech was short, but it ignited a fire in us. We huddled together, patting each other on the back, our tired faces alight with determination.
"We can do this, guys," Lautaro Martínez said, his voice raw with emotion. "For each other. For the fans."
I looked at Julián Álvarez and Cole Palmer, my two closest friends on the team. Both of them were breathing heavily, their faces streaked with sweat.
"That second goal, Leo," Palmer said, his voice full of admiration. "I just put it in the box, and you were there. It was incredible."
"Just a lucky guess," I said, a grin spreading across my face. It wasn't a lucky guess, and we all knew it. My Vision had given me the exact coordinates, the perfect flight path to meet the ball. It was a beautiful, powerful thing.
"No more lucky guesses," Álvarez said, clapping me on the shoulder. "From now on, it's all on purpose. We finish this."
We all got a quick drink and a few last-minute instructions from the coaches before heading back out onto the pitch. The atmosphere in the San Siro was even more electric than before. The tension was so thick you could almost taste it.
The first half of extra time began, and it was a cautious, tactical affair. Both teams were tired, and neither wanted to make a mistake that would cost them the match.
I could feel my legs burning, but my mind was clearer than ever. The Vision was no longer a frantic blur. It was calm, focused. I was seeing the language of the game not as a torrent, but as a conversation. A player's intent, their hidden path, the weakness of the defense. It was all there, laid out in shimmering gold and blue symbols.
In the 102nd minute, Roma launched a rare attack. I saw Paulo Dybala, their talisman, with a small leg and ball symbol flashing near him, a clear sign of an incoming shot.
I looked to my left and saw a pair of running legs near their striker, Romelu Lukaku, a warning that he was trying to get into position for a rebound.
I sprinted back, trying to cover both threats, but there was a limit to what I could do.
Dybala struck the ball, a powerful shot that flew past our defense. Emil Audero, our keeper, made a fantastic diving save, but the ball rebounded, landing right in front of Lukaku.
My heart sank. This was it.
But then, a blue flash appeared near our defender, Francesco Acerbi. A shield symbol, a tackle. He had somehow gotten back in time, and with a brilliant, outstretched foot, he blocked Lukaku's shot just as it left his foot. The ball went out for a corner.
We survived. We were a team, a machine, and everyone was playing their part.
The second half of extra time was even more intense. Both teams were exhausted, running on pure adrenaline. The game was open, full of mistakes, but also full of opportunities.
In the 117th minute, a moment of magic. I got the ball just outside Roma's box. The Vision flared, but this time it wasn't a single symbol.
It was a complex, beautiful tapestry of possibilities. I saw a boot with a dotted line pointing towards Palmer, who was on the right side of the box.
But Palmer's symbol was different. It had a pair of crossed-out running legs next to it, and a shimmering, empty ball. It meant a fake shot. A deception.
"Leon receives it from Dimarco…?!" the commentator's voice was a high-pitched shriek.
I faked a move to my left, drawing a defender to me, then I played a perfect, one-touch pass to Palmer.
The Roma keeper, Rui Patrício (Potential 85, Current Ability 83), was focused on me, but Palmer was now in a one-on-one situation.
Palmer, a player with a Potential of 91, took a touch, then another, and then he wound up for a powerful shot.
The leg and ball symbol flashed next to him, a signal of a sure goal. The keeper, seeing the shot coming, committed. He flew through the air, his body stretched out in a desperate dive.
But Palmer didn't shoot. The Vision had been right. It was a fake.
With the keeper in mid-air, Palmer calmly nudged the ball to his left, into the open space where I had been sprinting to.
"What is this?! Palmer... he's not shooting! He's passing! It's a cross..." the commentator was losing his mind.
I arrived at the ball, with an open goal in front of me, a perfect, empty net waiting for me. I didn't think. I didn't hesitate. I just acted.
I placed the ball with a simple, easy touch, right into the center of the goal.
WISHHH! The ball swished into the back of the net. The San Siro exploded into a volcanic roar of sound.
The score was now 3-2.
The final three minutes were a blur of chaos and celebration. Roma, in a desperate attempt to salvage the game, pushed everyone forward, but we held them off, our defense a renewed, unbreakable wall.
Then, the referee blew the final whistle, a long, piercing sound that cut through the noise and signaled the end of the match.
We had won. We had done it. We had come back from two goals down. The whole team ran to me, lifting me onto their shoulders, my face beaming with a mix of exhaustion, happiness, and sheer disbelief. I had a trophy. My first trophy.
As I was hoisted high, I looked at Cole Palmer and Julián Álvarez, and I saw their stats. They hadn't changed. But the way they looked at me, the way they trusted me, the way we had played together… that had changed. The Vision wasn't just a tool to help me. It was a tool to help us all.