A Starry Tower - PT1

THE GAME BEGINS

The Parc des Princes stood still, the weight of anticipation pressing against every seat, every breath, every heartbeat.

The referee glanced at his watch. The final seconds ticked away like heartbeats before a lover's first kiss.

The Champions League anthem faded into memory, its final echoes still lingering in the cold Parisian night. Banners rippled through the stands as the tifo of Saint-Germain slaying a golden dragon was carefully lowered, swallowed by the sea of blue and red. The players—twenty-two men on the brink of war—stood in formation, waiting for the rituals to be completed.

The captains stepped forward.

Marco Reus shook hands with Marquinhos, PSG's ever-reliable sentinel. There was no forced camaraderie, no unnecessary small talk—only a mutual understanding of the gravity of what lay ahead.

The referee held up the coin.

A flick of the wrist. The silver glinted under the stadium lights as it spun in the crisp air, tumbling toward fate.

Marquinhos called it.

The coin landed.

The official gave a nod. PSG had won the toss.

From the stands, the tension was almost unbearable. The moment before the moment.

Reus nodded, rolling his shoulders as he jogged back to his team. The officials cleared the field. The final staff members and photographers retreated to the sidelines. Now, only the game remained.

The whistle blew.

And with it, the first breath of battles

Marquinhos stood over the ball at the center circle, shifting his weight slightly, eyes scanning the pitch one last time before nudging it backward. Verratti received the first touch of the match, quickly rolling it to Kimpembe, who placed his foot on top of it, letting the game breathe.

Dortmund pressed, but not with full intensity.

Kimpembe took a breath, rolling the ball slowly beneath his boot before sweeping it wide to Nuno Mendes on the left. The young fullback took a couple of measured touches, lifting his head, scanning for options. Dortmund's front line shifted with him, yellow shirts adjusting their shape, pressing without overcommitting. Mendes feigned a forward pass but turned inside instead, cutting diagonally before sending it back to Kimpembe. A heartbeat later, Kimpembe spread it right, Marquinhos collecting the pass with a delicate touch.

From the sidelines, Marco Rose clapped twice. "Let them have it for now," he barked.

Dortmund's line remained disciplined. No reckless sprints forward, no frantic energy. Just control.

PSG probed. Paredes dropped deep, offering himself as an outlet. The Argentine flicked the ball forward into Messi's feet, but before the play could develop, Bellingham was there.

A flicker of aggression.

Messi took a small touch to his left—enough to protect it—but Bellingham pressed, his presence unyielding. The ball ricocheted slightly. Paredes recovered, rolling it back to Marquinhos, who once again recycled possession.

It was all very measured. A game of chess, each side taking their time to feel the other out.

The ball came back to Kimpembe, who stepped forward into space. Bellingham took a glance at him, reading the situation.

He's looking for the switch.

And there it was—the attempt.

Kimpembe, confident in possession, lifted his head and shaped his body for a long diagonal ball, aiming to stretch the play toward Hakimi on the right. But the pass was short.

Bellingham was already moving before the ball left Kimpembe's foot, his body surging into the lane, extending his leg. He reached it just as Paredes did, both men lunging for the loose ball—two forces colliding in the midfield battle.

CRACK.

The impact sent the ball spinning wildly, deflecting high into the air, neither side immediately claiming possession. It bounced near the sideline, rolling just out of reach

Then, the assistant referee raised his flag.

Throw-in, PSG.

Bellingham let out a breath, dusting himself off as Paredes did the same, neither acknowledging the other.

The throw-in was taken quickly.

Hakimi darted forward, immediately challenged by Guerreiro. A quick pass backward found Verratti, who took one touch, then another, before prodding it back to Marquinhos.

The ball cycled again, the Parisians weaving patterns, testing Dortmund's defensive structure.

Marquinhos to Kimpembe. Kimpembe to Mendes. Mendes inside to Verratti, who turned sharply under pressure from Can, a moment of quick footwork keeping the ball glued to his feet.

The Italian pivoted and slotted a pass to Neymar, who, for the first time in the match, found himself with a pocket of space. Neymar danced on the ball, shifting his weight, teasing a flick forward. Ryerson stood his ground, feet planted, refusing to bite.

A small feint. Then another. Neymar shifted right, then left, before flicking the ball between Ryerson's legs.

A nutmeg.

A gasp rippled through the crowd.

But Ryerson reacted instantly, spinning back and forcing Neymar toward the sideline. Before the Brazilian could recover, Can was there, doubling up, forcing the ball out for a throw.

And Neymar—who had been hoping to slip through unnoticed—found himself clapping sarcastically, shaking his head as he jogged back into position.

For the first time, Luka Zorić found himself involved, shifting toward the left to cut off passing lanes. He could hear Rose from the sidelines: "Press in phases! Don't go alone!"

PSG still had control, but now, their passes were shorter, their movements slightly rushed.

Hakimi, finding no immediate option, was forced back to Paredes. The Argentine turned, expecting to have time—

But Bellingham was there.

The Englishman lunged, cutting down space, forcing a hurried pass backward. The pass lacked power. It rolled toward Kimpembe, but the French defender wasn't prepared for it.

Luka pounced, cutting inside, stretching his leg out—

Kimpembe recovered just in time, lunging to poke the ball clear. But it skidded sideways—straight into Haaland's path.

The Parc des Princes collectively inhaled.

Haaland, one touch, a second touch, winding up for the strike—

Marquinhos threw himself in. A last-ditch block.

The ball deflected upward, spinning chaotically before landing in Donnarumma's gloves. The stadium exhaled.

Donnarumma took a slow breath, bouncing the ball once as he let the moment settle. The stadium hummed, a restless undercurrent of anticipation, the noise never truly fading.

"A game of patience," Peter Drury murmured over the commentary. "We've seen early sparks, but neither side is willing to overextend just yet."

"Exactly, Peter," Martin Tyler added. "These opening minutes, they're about setting the rhythm. PSG are trying to feel their way into the game, while Dortmund have made it clear—they're not going to press recklessly. They'll wait for the right moment."

Donnarumma took three steps back, eyes up. Then, with a measured swing of his right foot, he sent the ball sailing into midfield, a controlled but powerful strike aimed toward Danilo Pereira.

Danilo braced himself, the ball descending fast. He met it with a firm header, redirecting it towards Verratti, who had already positioned himself between two Dortmund midfielders. The Italian maestro controlled it with a deft touch, rolling it under his boot as Bellingham shadowed him closely.

Verratti was calm, eyes flicking across the pitch, reading the angles before shifting the ball onto his right foot and gliding forward.

"Here comes Verratti," Drury noted.

Bellingham kept close, forcing Verratti toward the center, but the Italian was unfazed. He leaned into the pressure, feinted left before turning sharply to his right, escaping the trap just as Emre Can lunged forward. A delicate touch into space, and suddenly PSG had momentum.

Verratti spotted the run, saw the opening. He shaped his body and slid a perfectly weighted ball through the lines, threading it toward Mbappé, who had ghosted off Akanji's shoulder.

For a brief second, it looked dangerous.

But Akanji was already reacting, his powerful strides eating up the ground between him and the ball. Just as Mbappé prepared to latch onto it, Akanji extended his leg and hooked it clear—a vital intervention.

"And Akanji reads it brilliantly!" Tyler exclaimed. "That's superb defending, stepping in just in time."

The ball rocketed back upfield, looping into Dortmund's attacking third. Bellingham, already on the move, readied himself. A PSG player—Danilo—was right there with him, jostling for position.

The ball dropped.

Bellingham didn't hesitate. He chopped at it with his right foot, flicking it behind his standing leg while spinning away in the opposite direction. Danilo reached but found nothing. Bellingham was gone.

"That's audacious from Jude Bellingham!" Drury marveled. "The composure, the confidence, and now Dortmund have space to break."

Bellingham surged forward, the game stretching. PSG's midfield scrambled back, trying to recover. He had options—Haaland was making a central run, Malen was darting inside. But then, his eyes found Luka.

Wide right. In space.

The pass was instant.

Luka saw it all happening, saw the ball curving toward him, saw the way the floodlights caught the spin, the way it rotated in mid-air. His pulse quickened. His first real touch. He'd been waiting.

The ball landed sharply against his boot, absorbing the weight perfectly, sticking to him as he moved. Immediately, he pushed forward.

Hakimi was there.

Luka knew better than to try and outrun him. The Moroccan was lightning. A straight foot race was a losing battle. No, this had to be something else.

He slowed slightly, shifting his weight as if to cut inside. Hakimi bit—just a fraction, just a hesitation. That was enough.

Luka snapped the ball down the line, bursting outside, feeling Hakimi's presence breathing down his neck. The space was tight, but he had an advantage now. He cut his stride for half a second—just enough to shift his momentum—before feinting again, this time cutting inside sharply, putting himself between Hakimi and the ball.

He was past him.

The box was in front of him now. The defenders had dropped, tightening into their lines. He lifted his head. Haaland was central, lurking between Marquinhos and Kimpembe.

The cross had to be perfect.

Luka adjusted his stride, then swung his foot through the ball, curling it toward the far post.

It was nearly there.

Haaland lunged, stretching every inch of his frame, but the ball was just beyond him. It skidded across the six-yard box and rolled out to the opposite side.

PSG recovered, Mendes collecting and taking a deep breath before resetting the play.

"That was nearly something special from Zorić," Tyler observed. "Hakimi almost had him pinned, but just that bit of trickery—just that extra feint—was enough to create space."

"That's what he brings," Drury added. "That unpredictability, that quickness of thought. He knew he couldn't beat Hakimi on pace alone, so he adapted. Smart play from the young Croat."

The game settled again, PSG working the ball back into their control, Dortmund stepping back into their shape. Luka exhaled, rolling his shoulders, keeping his breathing steady.

The game shifted into a higher gear as PSG launched forward with sudden intensity. Verratti, spotting a gap between Dortmund's lines, slipped the ball to Messi.

And there it was—the moment Luka had waited for since childhood. Seeing Messi in person, up close, was different from any video or highlight reel. The Argentine seemed to glide across the pitch, the ball magnetized to his feet as if controlled by invisible strings. Can lunged in, but Messi simply rolled the ball under his sole, pivoting in a liquid motion that left the German midfielder grasping at air.

"Messi, dancing through..." Drury's voice rose with excitement.

Bellingham was next, rushing to close down space, but Messi's center of gravity dropped impossibly low. The ball disappeared and reappeared between his feet as he wiggled through a space that shouldn't have existed. Luka found himself momentarily transfixed—it was like watching some strange hybrid of football and ballet. No wonder he was considered the greatest of all time.

"That's vintage Messi!" Tyler exclaimed as the Argentine accelerated past another challenge.

Twenty-five yards out, Messi shifted the ball onto his left foot. The shot was pure instinct, pure genius—a curling effort that rose and dipped viciously. Kobel stretched full-length, but he was beaten. The ball crashed against the crossbar with a sound that echoed through the Parc des Princes, bouncing high into the Paris night.

"OH! Inches away from something magical!"

Dortmund recovered quickly, Bellingham collecting the rebound and driving forward. He found Reus in space, who immediately looked for Haaland's run. But the pass was slightly overhit, allowing Marquinhos to step in and intercept.

The ball pinged around midfield, neither team able to establish control until Neymar received it wide left. The Brazilian's eyes lit up as he saw space ahead, accelerating past Can. But as he prepared to cross, Ryerson stepped across his path. Neymar's boot caught the Norwegian's shin, sending him tumbling to the turf.

The referee's whistle pierced the air.

Neymar threw his hands up in theatrical disbelief, laughing sarcastically as Ryerson writhed on the ground. "Come on, man!" he shouted in French, shaking his head. "Get up!"

"Allez Paris! Allez Paris!" The chant rose from the Auteuil end, where the ultras had created an inferno of red and blue smoke. Luka turned to witness the spectacle—it was like looking into the heart of a burning star. Flares crackled and sparked, their light catching the smoke and creating ethereal patterns that danced above the standing supporters.

"Ici c'est Paris!" The melody carried across the stadium, thousands of voices united in devotion:

"Paris est magique! Paris est magique! Ici, ici, c'est Paris! Allez Paris, allez!"

The game settled into a rhythm over the next few minutes. Messi continued to probe, dropping deeper to orchestrate play. Haaland made several threatening runs but remained well-marshaled by Marquinhos. In the 12th minute, Bellingham unleashed a long-range effort that Donnarumma gathered comfortably. A minute later, Mbappé's lightning break down the left ended with a cross that just evaded Neymar at the far post.

Now, in the 14th minute, the atmosphere had reached a fever pitch. The ultras' display had transformed the Auteuil end into something otherworldly—a wall of passion expressed through pyrotechnics and song. The smoke was so thick it created a haze through which the floodlights fractured into starbursts, casting strange shadows across the pitch.

"Ô Ville Lumière!" The chant shifted, an old favorite that spoke of Paris's eternal light:

"Ô Ville Lumière, Sens la chaleur, De notre coeur, De notre bonheur!"

Just as the voices of thousands of Paris ultimates reached a crescendo, the ball arced high through the Parisian night, a desperate clearance from Akanji that seemed destined to drift harmlessly into touch.

But Luka was already moving, his eyes locked on the trajectory, calculating angles and wind resistance with instinctive precision. He accelerated, stretching every sinew as he reached the ball just before it crossed the line.

"Zorić keeps it alive!" Drury's voice carried above the crowd's roar.

Hakimi was there instantly, shifting his weight, ready to pounce. The Moroccan's eyes narrowed, anticipating movement. Luka felt time slow, felt the defender's presence like a heat signature at his back. He feinted left, then right, his body swaying like a cobra preparing to strike. Hakimi didn't bite, maintaining his position with the patience of an apex predator.

"Careful..." Can shouted from midfield, seeing the trap forming.

But Luka had other ideas. In one fluid motion, he spun on his right foot, the ball seemingly glued to his left as he pirouetted away from Hakimi. The move was so sudden, so unexpected, that for a split second, the defender froze.

That split second was enough.

Luka burst inside, accelerating into space, but the cavalry was arriving. Verratti closed from the left, Paredes from the right, with Kimpembe charging straight at him—a triangle of blue converging on yellow.

"Three on one..." Tyler began.

The tackles came in hard and fast. Luka felt studs rake across his ankle as he tried to maintain balance. His knee buckled slightly, his body tilting toward the turf, but somehow the ball stayed close. As he fell, instinct took over. His right leg swept under his falling body in a motion that seemed to defy physics—a Laqueta born of desperation and genius.

"Extraordinary from Zorić!"

The ball emerged on the other side of the challenges, and Luka scrambled after it, his boots barely staying in bounds as he reached it near the endline. Without looking up, knowing exactly where his striker would be, he chipped the ball toward the six-yard box.

Haaland rose like a Norse god, towering above Marquinhos, his neck muscles straining as he powered his header toward goal. Donnarumma was beaten, the ball destined for the top corner—but Danilo appeared from nowhere, his header sending the ball spinning toward the edge of the box.

It fell perfectly for Reus.

The captain took one touch to control, another to set himself up. The reverse ball was pure instinct, threaded between Mendes and Verratti with surgical precision. Malen burst into the space, unmarked, his first touch taking him clear.

"Malen with space to cross!"

The Dutchman's cross was whipped in with venom, but Donnarumma read it, launching himself forward to punch clear just as Haaland arrived at the far post.

The referee's whistle shrilled. Corner to Dortmund.

Reus collected the ball, walking deliberately toward the corner flag. In the box, the pre-corner ritual began—subtle pushes, grabbed shirts, whispered threats. Luka moved toward the far post, but Kimpembe was there, wrapping his arms around him like a strait jacket.

"Get off me," Luka muttered, trying to create space.

Kimpembe's grip tightened. "Stay down, little boy," he growled in French.

The struggle intensified. Luka tried to break free, but Kimpembe suddenly released his grip, sending him face-first toward the turf. His lip caught on the landing, teeth cutting into soft flesh. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

The referee missed it completely.

Reus's cross came in, but Luka was still recovering, unable to reach it. The ball sailed over everyone and out for a goal kick.

As they walked back, Kimpembe smirked. "Welcome to Paris, kid," he sneered, his English heavily accented. "This isn't the Bundesliga anymore."

Luka's blood boiled, but he bit back his response, letting the coppery taste of his split lip remind him to stay focused. Haaland, however, had seen enough.

"Oi', Kimpembe!" the Norwegian's voice boomed across the pitch. "You're fucking shit. Need to cheat to stop a teenager? Pathetic defender. Humble yourself!"

Kimpembe turned, starting to respond, but Marquinhos pulled him away. "Focus," the captain commanded. "Don't let them in your head."

Luka wiped the blood from his lip with his sleeve, leaving a crimson streak across the yellow fabric. His eyes met Kimpembe's across the pitch, and in that moment, both knew this was far from over.

"And the tension rises at the Parc des Princes," Drury observed, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "We're seeing the kind of edge that makes Champions League nights so special. The question is: who will keep their head when it matters most?"

The clock ticked toward the fortieth minute as Donnarumma collected the ball. The Italian took his time, bouncing it twice, scanning the field with calculated precision. The Parc des Princes hummed with anticipation, the collective breath of fifty thousand souls creating a living, pulsing organism of sound and emotion.

Donnarumma stepped back, his gloves adjusting the ball one final time before launching it upfield with a powerful sweep of his right leg. The ball soared through the Parisian night, rotating slightly, catching the floodlights in a way that made it seem to glow against the dark sky.

"A long one from Donnarumma," Tyler observed.

In midfield, Hummels timed his jump perfectly, rising above Neymar to head the ball toward Bellingham. The Englishman controlled it with a deft touch, immediately scanning for options. Luka moved into space, calling for the ball with a raised hand.

"Here!"

Bellingham saw him, threading a pass between two PSG players. Luka took it in stride, his first touch setting up his next move. The Croatian looked up, Bellingham made the follow up run, and Luka played a quick one-two. The return pass was exquisite, weighted perfectly into Luka's path as he continued his forward momentum.

"Lovely combination play from the two Dortmund players," Drury commented, appreciation evident in his voice.

Twenty-five yards out, Luka had a decision to make. Hakimi was closing fast from the right, Paredes moving to block the passing lane to Haaland. The space was closing, but there was a window—a brief moment when shooting seemed the logical option.

He didn't hesitate.

Luka's right foot connected cleanly, the ball fizzing toward goal, curling away from Donnarumma before bending back toward the top corner. The goalkeeper launched himself skyward, extending fully, his fingertips just brushing the ball enough to redirect it. A spectacular save that denied a spectacular effort.

"Brilliant from Donnarumma! Absolutely brilliant!"

But there was no time to admire the save. Donnarumma was already on his feet, the ball in his hands, his eyes scanning for options. He spotted Mbappé breaking free and launched the counterattack with a precise throw that landed perfectly at the Frenchman's feet.

The transition from defense to attack was devastating in its efficiency. One moment Dortmund threatened, the next they were scrambling to recover.

Mbappé received the ball near the halfway line, already at full speed. Ryerson moved to intercept, setting his body to cut off the angle, but Mbappé's pace was otherworldly. The Norwegian barely had time to set his feet before the Frenchman was upon him.

"Here comes Mbappé!"

A slight feint to the right, then a devastating burst to the left. Mbappé's shoulder brushed against Ryerson, sending the defender stumbling as the PSG forward accelerated into space.

The crowd rose as one, sensing blood.

Akanji read the danger, moving across to close down the space, but Mbappé's change of pace was lethal. A touch with the outside of his boot took him past the Swiss defender, leaving him one-on-one with Kobel.

But instead of shooting, Mbappé lifted his head and spotted Messi free at the far post.

The pass was perfect, rolling across the turf with just enough pace to evade Hummels' desperate lunge. Messi took one touch to control, another to set himself up as Hummels scrambled to recover. The Argentine's feint left the German defender off-balance, creating just enough space for the shot.

Messi's left foot connected, sending the ball curling toward the far corner. Kobel was beaten, the ball destined for the net—until it struck the inside of the post with a hollow thud that echoed through the stadium.

"Off the woodwork!"

The rebound fell perfectly for Verratti, who had continued his run into the box. The Italian controlled it instantly, looking up to assess his options as Dortmund's defense scrambled to reorganize.

In the chaos, Can had lost his footing, stumbling backward as he tried to close down space. Verratti saw him, saw the opportunity, and swept the ball toward Neymar on the edge of the box.

But as he released the pass, Verratti's elbow caught Can in the face—sending the German midfielder crashing to the turf. The referee, his view obstructed by Marquinhos' run, missed it completely.

"Can is down!"

The ball reached Neymar as Can lay sprawled on the ground. The Brazilian took one touch to control, another to cut inside Akanji, creating a pocket of space at the edge of the box.

"Neymar with a chance..."

The shot was sublime—a curling effort that started outside the far post before bending back in, kissing the underside of the crossbar before nestling in the top corner. A goal of breathtaking quality.

"MAGNIFIQUE!" Drury exclaimed. "Neymar with a moment of pure Brazilian magic!"

The Parc des Princes erupted, a wall of sound crashing down from the stands as the PSG players converged on Neymar. But the celebrations were tempered, uncertain. Can was still down, protesting vehemently even as he clutched his face. The referee's hand was at his ear—VAR was checking.

"Wait, there's a VAR check here..."

The Dortmund players rushed toward the referee en masse, a yellow and black swarm of righteous indignation. Reus was at the front, arm extended, pointing furiously at Can who was now sitting up, a trickle of blood visible from his nose.

"That's a foul!" Bellingham shouted, his face contorted with anger. "He elbowed him! Clear as day!"

The referee raised his hand, signaling for calm, but the Dortmund players were having none of it. The protests intensified, a cacophony of multilingual outrage washing over the official as he tried to communicate with the VAR team.

On the sideline, Rose was livid, his normally composed demeanor shattered as he gesticulated wildly toward the fourth official.

"This is precisely why we have VAR," Tyler commented. "A clear incident that the on-field officials missed. The question is: will they overturn the goal?"