The moment before

Paris held its breath.

The February sun hung low over the city, casting long shadows across the Parc des Princes as streams of people converged on the stadium like tributaries flowing into a mighty river. The air crackled with that peculiar electricity that only Champions League nights could generate – a blend of anticipation, anxiety, and pure footballing romance.

Six-year-old Thomas clutched his father's neck tighter as they navigated through the growing crowd, his PSG scarf fluttering in the crisp evening breeze. From his perch on his father's shoulders, the world below seemed to pulse with color and sound. Rivers of blue and red merged with islands of yellow and black, creating a shifting kaleidoscope of football tribalism. The familiar chorus of "Allez Paris" rose and fell like waves, punctuated by the deeper, more guttural chants from the traveling Dortmund faithful.

"Papa, look!" Thomas pointed toward a group of ultras unfurling a massive tifo depicting Saint-Germain slaying a dragon. "Is that for tonight?"

His father adjusted his grip, chuckling. "Oui, mon petit. But remember, dragons aren't so easily slain."

Near Gate E, Marie-Claire pulled her vintage Pastore jersey tighter against the cold, watching the endless stream of humanity flow past. Twenty-seven years of following PSG, and still these nights made her hands tremble. She'd seen the evolution – from struggling domestic side to Qatar's crown jewel, from David to Goliath. Yet something felt different tonight. The usual confidence among the PSG faithful carried an undercurrent of... was it anxiety?

"They say the Croatian boy is special," the old man next to her muttered, as if reading her thoughts. He'd been coming to this stadium since before she was born, his weathered face a map of PSG's history. "Like Mbappé was. Like Messi was."

"We have three of the best attackers in the world," Marie-Claire responded, but even to her ears, it sounded more like a prayer than a statement.

The membrane between anticipation and reality grew thinner as kickoff approached. In the narrow streets surrounding the stadium, impromptu football matches broke out between children wearing Mbappé and Zorić shirts, their shouts echoing off ancient walls. A group of Dortmund fans had commandeered a corner café, their yellow scarves bright against the Parisian twilight, their songs carrying traces of hope and defiance across the evening air.

Eight-year-old Liam pressed his face against the window of his mother's car, stuck in the matchday traffic. The stadium lights had just flickered on, and even from here, he could feel the magnitude of what was coming. A group of ultras marched past, their flares painting the gathering darkness in shades of red and blue. The smoke drifted lazily upward, merging with the low clouds, creating a ethereal canopy over the Parc des Princes.

"Maman, will we make it in time?" he asked, anxiety creeping into his voice.

"We always do, mon cœur," his mother smiled, though her fingers drummed nervously on the steering wheel.

Near the away section, a pocket of yellow and black pulsed with Germanic precision. The Yellow Wall might have been 500 kilometers away, but its spirit had traveled well. Their songs carried stories of past glories, of European nights when David trumped Goliath, when football romantic's dreams came true. A father lifted his daughter onto his shoulders, her small hands clutching a homemade sign: "Zorić, make magic happen."

The atmosphere shifted subtly as word spread through the crowd – the teams had left their hotels. The murmur grew to a roar as police motorcycles appeared in the distance, their lights cutting through the gathering dusk. Behind them, two buses approached: one gleaming white with PSG's crest, the other a distinctive yellow and black.

In the PSG bus, Mbappé sat quietly, headphones on, visualizing the night ahead. In the Dortmund bus, Luka Zorić gazed out at the sea of humanity, his reflection ghostlike in the tinted glass.

Outside, the crowd surged forward, phones raised high, trying to catch a glimpse through the dark windows. Thomas, still on his father's shoulders, watched in awe as the buses disappeared into the stadium's bowels. The flares burned brighter now, their smoke creating a mystical haze through which the Parc des Princes loomed like a colosseum of dreams.

"Papa," he whispered, though his voice was lost in the thunderous chants, "is this what magic feels like?"

His father didn't answer immediately, too caught up in the electricity of the moment. Above them, the Paris sky had turned the exact shade of blue on their home jersey, as if even the heavens had dressed for the occasion. The stadium lights pierced the evening like beacons, calling football's faithful to witness what was about to unfold.

Inside the stadium's concrete arteries, Martin Tyler's voice carried through millions of televisions worldwide, his distinctive tone lending gravitas to the moment.

"Paris in February. The Champions League knockout stages. Football doesn't get much better than this, Peter," he mused, the familiar warmth in his voice making even the mundane feel momentous.

"You're absolutely right, Martin," Peter Drury responded, his theatrical cadence already building. "This stadium has seen its share of European nights, but something feels different about this one. Perhaps it's the weight of expectation on PSG's shoulders, or maybe it's the fearlessness of this young Dortmund side."

The tunnel buzzed with controlled chaos – camera flashes, security personnel speaking in hushed tones, UEFA officials checking their clipboards with mechanical precision. The PSG lineup emerged first, Mbappé leading them out, his face filled with focused intent. Behind him, Messi's diminutive figure carried that familiar air of quiet intensity.

Through his AirPods, Luka Zorić let Kanye's "I Wonder" wash over him, its synthetic beats matching his heartbeat. The tunnel's fluorescent lights created strange shadows, making everything feel slightly surreal. A small figure caught his attention – a girl, couldn't be more than seven, somehow having slipped past security. She held a yellow and black scarf in trembling hands.

"Luka!" she called out in French-accented English. "Make them cry tonight!"

He couldn't help but smile, giving her a small wink as he adjusted his earbuds. The girl's father, presumably a stadium worker given his credentials, quickly ushered her away, but not before she flashed a gap-toothed grin that somehow cut through the pre-match tension.

"And speaking of making people cry," Drury continued, his voice rising with characteristic flourish, "young Cole Palmer has been doing exactly that to Bundesliga defenses. Two goals in his first two games, including that absolutely sublime effort against Union Berlin."

"That rotation game proved quite revealing, didn't it?" Tyler added. "Rose's decision to rest key players against Union initially raised eyebrows, but Palmer's performance – that curling effort into the top corner particularly – suggested there's real depth in this Dortmund squad."

The stadium's architecture channeled the noise like a natural amplifier, the chants from both sets of fans creating a wall of sound that seemed almost physical. The LED boards around the pitch displayed a staggering statistic: 1.9 billion viewers expected worldwide.

"Just look at these numbers, Martin," Drury marveled. "The most-watched Round of 16 match in Champions League history. Even surpassing the viewership of that famous Barcelona comeback against PSG in 2017."

"And you have to wonder if that night still haunts the Parisians," Tyler responded. "For all their domestic dominance, for all the billions invested, that European crown still eludes them. Watching Barcelona, Real Madrid, even their opponents tonight lift that trophy... it must burn."

The teams lined up in the tunnel, the Champions League anthem beginning its familiar crescendo outside. Luka removed one earbud, letting reality seep back in. Ahead of him, Reus adjusted his captain's armband. Behind him, Palmer bounced nervously on his toes.

"The last time these teams met in the knockout stages," Drury's voice rose dramatically, "it was PSG who emerged victorious. But football has a way of offering redemption, doesn't it? A chance to rewrite history."

"And speaking of history," Tyler added, "this stadium has seen its share of legends announced to the world. A seventeen-year-old Thierry Henry for Monaco, a young Ronaldinho in PSG colors, Mbappé's emergence... you wonder if tonight..."

"Ninety-eight percent capacity," Drury noted. "You couldn't get a ticket for love nor money. Some changing hands for upwards of five thousand euros. And look at this atmosphere..."

"Sometimes in football," Drury's voice trembled with emotion, "you can feel history holding its breath. Tonight feels like one of those nights."

Transistioning—the familiar opening bars of Headlines by Drake pulsed through Luka's earbuds as he made his way toward the locker room, the bass line threading through his consciousness like a serpentine reminder of what was to come:

I swear it feels like the last few nights, we been everywhere and back…

The bass vibrated through his chest, matching the thunderous heartbeat of the stadium itself.

I swear this life is like the sweetest thing I've ever known…

Through the midst of it all, streams of supporters flowed toward their seats like tributaries joining a mighty river, their faces lit with that peculiar anxiety and excitement that only Champions League nights could produce. A father lifted his son onto his shoulders, the boy's PSG scarf trailing like a banner in the artificial wind of the corridor. An elderly woman in a vintage Dortmund jersey clutched her grandson's hand, telling him stories of European nights long past – of Mueller and Beckenbauer, of victories snatched from the jaws of defeat, of heartbreaks that still stung decades later.

But point the biggest skeptic out, I'll make him a believer…

The music couldn't drown out the whispers that followed him through the corridor. "There he is – Zorić," someone murmured in rapid French. "They say Real Madrid's already prepared a hundred million euro offer." Another voice, deeper: "He's too young. This stage will swallow him whole."

Luka let the doubts wash over him like rain on a window. They were nothing new – he'd heard them all his life. The words had followed him from Manchester's youth trials to the hallowed grounds of the Signal Iduna Park. Now they echoed through the corridors of European football's newest temple of excess, where petrodollars had built a monument to ambition that stretched toward the Paris sky.

In the Dortmund locker room each player lost in their own private ceremony of preparation. Emre Can wrapped tape around his socks, muttering what might have been a prayer or a curse – sometimes, Luka thought, there wasn't much difference between the two. In one corner, Bellingham was already in game mode.

"Luka," Jude called out, his voice cutting through the music and the tension like a blade through silk. "Come here."

Luka removed his earbuds as his friend pulled him close, gripping his shoulders with the authority of someone who'd been here before, who'd tasted both the sweetness of victory and the bitter ash of defeat on nights like these. "This is your night," Bellingham whispered, intensity burning in his eyes like banked coals. "Your fucking night. You understand? They think they know what's coming – they've watched the videos, studied the patterns. But they haven't seen what you can really do. Not yet."

Marco Reus appeared next, years of European campaigns had etched lines around his eyes that told stories of triumphs and tragedies, of moments seized and opportunities squandered. "Listen up," he began, his voice carrying the weight of experience that no tactical briefing could provide. "They expect us to play the victims. To bow down to their millions, their superstars, their dreams of buying what we've earned through blood and sweat. But tonight..." He paused, letting his eyes meet each player's gaze, a general inspecting his troops before the charge. "Tonight we show them what Dortmund means. What football means when it's not just about balance sheets and billion-euro takeovers."

"Remember the triggers," he emphasized, pointing to specific areas of the pitch where battles would be won or lost. "When Mbappé drops deep, when Messi drifts inside. We've prepared for this. We're ready for this. They may have individuals who can change the game in a moment, but we have something they can't buy – unity. Trust in it."

If you thinkin' I'ma quit before I die, dream on…

Back in the tunnel, the energy shifted like a weather system before a storm. The Champions League backdrop sparkled under the light, players began emerging from both locker rooms,Luka felt something change within him – a sharpening of senses, a heightening of awareness that made every detail stand out in crystalline clarity. His reflection in the glossy tunnel wall caught his eye, and for a moment, he saw what the papers had been calling him: The Falcon of Zagreb.

Then Mbappé was there, standing barely two meters away. Their eyes met, held. Five seconds that felt like an eternity. Neither looked away first – an equal recognition of what was at stake, of what this night could mean for both their stories. Finally, they both turned forward, ready for war.

"Remarkable statistics coming through," Martin Tyler's voice carried across the airwaves, reaching millions of homes where fans leaned forward in anticipation. "Eight hundred million viewers already tuned in, and we're still twenty minutes from kickoff. This could break all records for a Round of 16 match."

"And just listen to this atmosphere," Drury added as the cameras panned across the stadium, capturing a scene that looked more like a Renaissance painting than a sporting event. The PSG ultras had created a sea of blue and red, their flares painting the Paris night in surreal colors that made the sky itself seem to burn. The Dortmund end was a solid wall of yellow and black, their flags snapping in the wind like war banners.

The children lined up alongside the players, their small hands trembling with excitement, their eyes wide with the realization that they were standing next to their heroes. Some tried to maintain composure, while others couldn't help but steal glances at the giants beside them. The Champions League anthem began its majestic ascent, and Luka closed his eyes, letting it wash over him. This was different from the group stages, different from anything he'd experienced before. The magnitude of the moment pressed against his chest, a reminder that some games were more than just games.

Die Meister... Die Besten... Les Grandes Équipes... The Champions...

Drury's voice rose with the occasion, each word carefully chosen: "For Paris Saint-Germain: Donnarumma in goal, the Italian colossus whose penalty heroics wrote him into European folklore. Mendes, Kimpembe, Marquinhos, and Hakimi across the back, a defensive line that cost more than some clubs' entire squads. Verratti, Paredes, and Pereira in midfield, artists and warriors in equal measure. And that devastating front three – Neymar, Messi, and Mbappé, perhaps the most expensive collection of attacking talent ever assembled on a football pitch."

"And for Borussia Dortmund," Tyler continued, his voice carrying the gravitas of someone who had seen football's evolution from working-class sport to global entertainment empire, "Kobel between the posts, the Swiss wall who's kept four clean sheets in his last seven appearances. Guerreiro, Akanji, Hummels, and Ryerson in defense, a blend of experience and youthful energy. Can and Bellingham anchoring the midfield, with Reus in the number ten role – the captain whose story is intertwined with the club's very identity. Malen and Zorić providing width, and Haaland the spearhead, the Norwegian phenomenon who seems to score at will."

The handshakes began, that final ritual before battle. Neymar's touch lingered a moment longer with Reus, perhaps remembering their last encounter, a night of drama that had ended in tears for both sides. Messi offered that familiar slight nod to each opponent, respect incarnate, a living legend who had seen it all yet still approached each game with the hunger of a debut. The air crackled with possibility, with the potential for moments that would be remembered long after the final whistle.

Standing in line for the anthem, Luka felt the nerves finally hit him, a trembling in his hands that no amount of deep breathing could quite control. The magnitude of what lay ahead – ninety minutes that could define careers, shape legacies, write history – threatened to overwhelm him. But then he heard it, cutting through the chaos like a beam of light through storm clouds: a small voice from the crowd, pure and clear.

"Allez Luka! Fait les pleurer!"

The same little girl from the tunnel, her words carrying a child's simple faith. Make them cry. In that moment, something crystallized within him. The nerves didn't vanish, but they transformed, becoming fuel for the fire that had driven him to this stage, this opportunity.

He took a deep breath, letting the Champions League air fill his lungs, his blood, his soul. The nerves transformed into something else – not confidence exactly, but readiness. A state of perfect clarity where past and future ceased to matter, where only the present moment existed. This was what he was born for. This was his stage.

This was his night.

The referee glanced at his watch, the final seconds ticking away like heartbeats before a lover's first kiss. The anthem reached its crescendo, a sound that had launched thousands of dreams and nightmares. History held its breath, waiting to see what story would be written on this cold Paris night, where twenty-two men would battle not just for victory, but for immortality.

The game was about to begin.

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Decent interactions from readers on the previous chapter, so since I had this one waiting-why not drop now?