The world had shrunk to a single, terrifying stage:
A patch of grass, a ball, a goalkeeper, and Paulo Dybala. Leon stood on the halfway line, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.
He had the cheat code. The answer key.
But it was locked inside his head, 60 yards away from the man who needed it most.
He couldn't run. He couldn't shout. The noise of the Stadio Olimpico was a physical wall, and the referee would book him for leaving the center circle.
He had to do something. Something subtle. Something that wouldn't look like he was communicating with a secret agent from the future.
He turned to Julián Álvarez, who was next to him, nervously chewing on the collar of his shirt.
"Julián," Leon said, his voice a low, urgent hiss.
"Yeah?" Julián whispered back, his eyes wide with tension.
"Look at me," Leon commanded. Julián turned. Leon made eye contact, then pointed, a single, sharp, decisive gesture to his right—Sommer's right. He held the point for a fraction of a second longer than was natural, his eyes boring into Julián's.
Julián just looked at him, completely bewildered. "Right?" he whispered. "What's to the right? Is there a good pasta restaurant over there you're recommending for after the match?"
Leon just shook his head, a flicker of panic in his eyes.
But then, across the pitch, he saw Yann Sommer glance towards the center circle.
For a split second, their eyes met.
Sommer had seen the gesture.
A look of confusion, then curiosity, then dawning understanding passed across the veteran keeper's face. He trusted his young teammate.
The referee blew his whistle. Dybala began his run-up.
He did the little stutter-step, just as the system had predicted.
His non-kicking foot planted just a little further back. He was going right.
Sommer didn't wait. He didn't hesitate. He launched himself to his right with every ounce of power he had left, a green blur of conviction.
Dybala struck the ball cleanly, but Sommer was already there, a giant, defiant wall.
The ball cannoned off his outstretched hands and flew away to safety.
The Inter players on the halfway line erupted, mobbing Leon, who was just standing there, a wave of dizzying relief washing over him. The Roma fans were stunned into a dead, horrified silence.
"A SAVE! A MIRACLE SAVE!" the commentator screamed. "SOMMER GOES THE RIGHT WAY! He read Dybala like a book! The magician has been denied! The tide has turned in the shootout!"
The advantage was with Inter. The pressure was now immense on Roma.
Next up to the spot for Inter was the coolest man in the stadium, Cole Palmer.
He walked to the spot with the calm, unhurried gait of a man strolling to the corner shop for a pint of milk.
He placed the ball, took two steps back, and coolly passed it into the bottom corner as the keeper dove the wrong way.
Julián Álvarez just shook his head in awe. "Of course he scored," he muttered to Lautaro. "I think his heart is just a block of ice with a little British flag on it."
Next for Roma was Romelu Lukaku.
The big Belgian was all about power. H
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Sommer dove out of the way, and the net nearly ripped off its moorings.
It was Julián's turn. The chaotic Argentine practically skipped to the penalty spot, a goofy grin on his face.
No one knew what to expect. He ran up, and at the last second, he tried an audacious, delicate little chip—a Panenka. It was a terrible idea. He scuffed it.
The ball floated weakly towards the goal. The keeper, who had already dived, watched in horror as the ball just had enough momentum to bounce pathetically over the line before he could scramble back.
3-2 to Inter. Julián just shrugged and jogged back, laughing.
"I DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT WAS, BUT IT'S A GOAL!" the commentator roared. "The most stressful, ugliest, most beautiful penalty I have ever seen! The sheer, unadulterated nerve of Julián Álvarez!"
The pressure was now suffocating for Roma.
Bryan Cristante, their powerful midfielder, was next. He looked nervous.
He ran up and blasted the ball, aiming for the corner. But he hit it too well, with too much power. The ball flew past the diving Sommer and crashed against the inside of the post with a loud, heartbreaking CLANG. It ricocheted across the face of the goal and out.
A miss! The Inter players went berserk. They were one kick away.
The world stood still. The score was 3-2. This was the fifth and final penalty for Inter Milan.
If this kick went in, the Coppa Italia was theirs.
And the man walking from the center circle, the man with the entire weight of the season on his shoulders, was Alessandro Bastoni.
The script was almost too perfect, too cruel.
The man who had been the hero with his first equalizer. The man who had been the ultimate villain with his tragic, late own goal.
Now, he had the chance for ultimate redemption.
His walk from the halfway line was the longest journey of his life.
The whistles and jeers from the Roma fans were a physical wall of hate, a desperate attempt to break him.
He looked pale, the ghost of his earlier mistake still haunting his eyes.
He reached the penalty spot and placed the ball down, his hands trembling slightly.
In the huddle, the Inter players were holding onto each other, their arms linked, so tight their knuckles were white.
Some were praying. Some couldn't even look.
Leon watched, his heart pounding, his Vision blessedly silent.
This wasn't about stats or analysis.
This was about a man, a moment, and a chance to rewrite his own story.
Bastoni took a deep, shuddering breath. He looked at the goal. He looked at the keeper. He looked at the ball. He blocked out the noise.
He blocked out the hate. He blocked out his own mistake. There was only him and this kick.
The referee blew the whistle.
Bastoni ran up, his stride firm, his focus absolute.
He didn't try for placement. He didn't try for finesse.
He pulled back his left foot and struck the ball with every ounce of anger, frustration, hope, and love he had in his body.
The ball flew like a missile, a rising, unstoppable blur of white.
The goalkeeper dove, a desperate, futile gesture. The ball rocketed into the very top corner of the net.
For a split second, there was silence as 70,000 people processed the finality of it.
Then, the Inter side of the stadium detonated. An atomic bomb of pure, unadulterated joy.
Bastoni didn't run. He just fell to his knees, his head in his hands, and sobbed, the tears of redemption washing away the pain of his earlier mistake.
His teammates sprinted from the halfway line, a blue and black tidal wave, burying him in a pile of screaming, crying, laughing bodies.
They had done it. They were the champions of Italy.