A Foretold Battle

Paris Saint German VS Borussia Dortmund

March 09 | 2022

History remembers that the Rhine had once divided enemies—French and German soldiers staring across its waters with hands on their rifles—but tonight, that ancient border was merely a river that football fans had crossed, bringing their passions and prejudices to Dortmund's doorstep. Tonight, the Signal Iduna Park wasn't just a stadium; it was a fortress under siege, its yellow walls prepared to both protect and intimidate.

A blood-orange sunset had given way to darkness hours ago, but Dortmund burned regardless—yellow flames and red flares painting the night in violent brushstrokes. The rematch that all of Europe had waited for since that Valentine's Day massacre in Paris was finally here, and the city had transformed into something primal and unrecognizable.

On Hohe Straße, three kilometers from the stadium, Lars Müller stood atop an overturned trash bin, shirtless despite the March chill, his torso painted yellow and black. The beer in his hand—his fifth since noon—sloshed over the rim as he conducted a group of thirty fans in a chant that had become Dortmund's battle cry over the past three weeks.

"LUKA ZORIĆ! LUKA ZORIĆ! HAALAND! HAALAND! DORTMUND! DORTMUND…"

Around him, the crowd swelled, their voices rising in unison, scarves twirling above their heads. Teenage boys with fresh buzzcuts and men old enough to remember Dortmund's 1997 Champions League victory twenty five years ago stood shoulder to shoulder, brothers in yellow, their differences erased by shared devotion.

"They think they can come here and intimidate us?" Lars shouted, his voice hoarse from hours of singing. "This is Dortmund! This is our home! Tonight, we show those oil-money bastards what real football is!"

The roar that followed was deafening, loud enough to momentarily drown out the police helicopter that hovered overhead, its searchlight sweeping across the sea of bodies that flowed toward the stadium like a river of molten gold.

Two streets away, Jonas Weber, a police captain with seventeen years of experience, watched the monitors inside the mobile command center with growing unease. Twenty-seven separate incidents had already been reported—broken windows, overturned cars, three hospitalizations. And kickoff was still two hours away.

"We need to close Remigiusstraße completely," he said into his radio, watching as another flare ignited on one of the monitors. "And get two more units to the Hauptbahnhof. The Paris train just arrived."

His second-in-command, Schmidt, looked up from his clipboard. "Sir, we've already deployed everything we have. The Bundespolizei sent reinforcements, but—"

"Then call the fucking army if you have to," Weber snapped, pointing at a new disturbance forming on Monitor 4. "Look there. PSG ultras, at least forty of them, moving toward Sector C. If they collide with our ultras..." He didn't need to finish the sentence.

"I've never seen it like this," Schmidt murmured. "Not even Bayern-Dortmund gets this heated."

Weber's response was cut short by the crackle of his radio.

"Captain, the team buses are approaching checkpoint Alpha. Military escort is in position, but the route is... problematic."

Weber leaned forward, squinting at Monitor 1, which showed the designated route. Where there should have been a clear corridor, there was instead a seething mass of people, flares burning so brightly that the camera struggled to adjust, rendering the scene in apocalyptic contrast.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "It looks like hell out there."

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In the broadcasting booth high above the still-empty pitch, Peter Drury adjusted his headset, his eyes fixed on the scenes unfolding outside the stadium. Through the glass, the flares looked like fireflies—beautiful from a distance, but he knew better.

"We're witnessing something extraordinary tonight, Martin," he said, his voice carrying that distinctive cadence that had made him a legend among football commentators. "Not just a football match, but a collision of forces that transcends sport. Three weeks ago in Paris, young Luka Zorić delivered what some have called a Valentine's Day kiss of death—a hat-trick that broke Parisian hearts and ignited this powder keg of emotion."

Martin Tyler nodded, his eyes scanning the notes in front of him. "The numbers are staggering, Peter. The first leg peaked at 1.1 billion viewers worldwide—unprecedented for a round of 16 match. Tonight, they're predicting figures approaching the last World Cup final. This isn't just football anymore; it's become a global event."

"And look at what's happening outside," Drury continued, gesturing toward the window. "The German authorities have deployed what amounts to a small army. Police from three states, border patrol units, even elements of what I'm told is their equivalent of the National Guard. All for ninety minutes of football."

"Ninety minutes that will determine who faces Chelsea or Lille in the quarter-finals," Tyler added. But frankly, Peter, I'm not sure either of these teams is thinking that far ahead. There's too much at stake tonight, too much emotion."

Drury leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "You know, Martin, in all my years covering this beautiful game, I've rarely felt an atmosphere quite like this. There's a darkness to it, a weight. It reminds me of those old European nights at Galatasaray or Red Star Belgrade—places where football isn't just watched, it's lived and breathed and fought for."

Outside, another flare erupted, bathing the approaching fans in hellish light.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

On the outskirts of Dortmund, the PSG team bus inched forward at a crawl, flanked by police motorcycles and armored vehicles.

Lionel Messi stared out the window at the chaos. In his twenty years of professional football, he had seen hostility—the fierce derbies in Spain, the pressure cookers of South American qualifiers—but this had a different quality. This wasn't just passion; it was hatred, raw and unfiltered.

A beer bottle smashed against the reinforced window next to his head, the liquid spreading in a spiderweb pattern across the glass. Messi didn't flinch. He had learned long ago that fear was a luxury he couldn't afford.

At the front of the bus, Coach Pochettino consulted quietly with his assistants, making last-minute adjustments to the game plan. The 3-3 draw in Paris had been a tactical failure—they had allowed Zorić too much space, underestimated his ability to change the game single-handedly. That wouldn't happen again. Tonight, the teenager would find himself suffocated, denied the oxygen of space that his talent required.

The bus lurched to a halt as a fresh wave of fans surged against the police cordon. Through the tinted windows, all that was visible was a sea of flares—red for the brave PSG supporters who had made the journey into hostile territory, yellow for the Dortmund faithful determined to defend their home.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

In Manchester, in a house that still felt too new and too large, the Zorić family gathered around a television that dominated one wall of the living room. The extended Croatian contingent from Luka's mother's side had arrived two days earlier, bringing with them the smells and sounds of home—paprika-heavy stews, rapid-fire conversations in Croatian, and the particular brand of intense familial love that had shaped Luka from childhood.

Today, they had been joined by David's family—the English side that had contributed the calm pragmatism to Luka's temperament. His uncle James, a solicitor from Sheffield with three university-aged sons who had grown up playing Sunday league with Luka during summer visits. His aunt Margaret, who had once been skeptical of her brother's decision to "run off with that Croatian girl" but who now wore a yellow and black scarf draped around her neck, a convert to both the marriage and the football club that her nephew plays for.

"He seems so calm in the interviews," Nina remarked, curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine. She was watching a pre-match segment where footage from yesterday's press conference showed Luka answering questions with the composed demeanor that had become his trademark. "How does he do that? I'd be throwing up from nerves."

"He's always been like that," Emma chimed in, protective of her brother even in his absence. "When we were little, and the other kids would get all worked up before games, Luka would just sit there, like, super quiet."

David Zorić—born David Bobby before he'd taken his wife's surname in a decision that had scandalized his traditional Yorkshire family at the time—emerged from the kitchen with a tray of drinks.

"The name change was the best decision I ever made," he said, having overheard his brother James explaining the family history to Uncle Stefan. "Bobby is a fine name, but Zorić? That's a footballer's name. Has a ring to it, doesn't it? David Bobby sounds like an accountant. David Zorić sounds like someone who might have an interesting story to tell."

"Still the most unconventional thing you've ever done," James replied with a good-natured smile. "Until you decided to let your son sign with Dortmund instead of staying at United, that is. he better sign here next season."

"That's Luka's decision," David corrected him.

On the television, the camera panned across the Signal Iduna Park as it began to fill with fans. The Yellow Wall—the famous southern terrace that held 25,000 standing supporters—was already a solid mass of color and motion, even with kickoff still an hour away.

"It looks terrifying," Aunt Margaret remarked, peering at the screen through her reading glasses. "Are they always like that?"

"This is different," Nina replied, her medical training giving weight to her analysis. "Look at their faces. This isn't just excitement; it's something darker. They want blood."

The camera cut to footage from outside the stadium, where police in riot gear formed a human barrier between groups of opposing fans. A flare arced through the air, trailing sparks, before landing in the no-man's-land between the two factions.

"My God," James murmured. "It's a war zone."

David said nothing, but his hand found his wife's, squeezing it gently. They had both seen the changes in their son over the past three weeks—the way fame had descended on him like a hawk, talons sinking deep. The quiet dinners interrupted by fans. The social media explosion. The endless calls from Mendes about potential transfers, endorsement deals, appearance fees.

Through it all, Luka had maintained that same composure he'd shown since childhood. But David, who knew his son better than anyone, over the phone he noticed the subtle signs of strain—the tightness around his eyes, the way his smile sometimes took a fraction too long to appear.

Tonight would change everything again, one way or another. A win would catapult Luka further into the stratosphere of sporting celebrity. A loss would bring its own kind of pressure, its own questions and doubts.

David took a long sip of his beer, eyes fixed on the television where the stadium continued to fill, yellow and black dominating with patches of PSG's blue and red scattered throughout like bruises on golden skin.

In less than an hour, his son would walk out into that cauldron—seventeen years old and carrying the hopes of a city, the expectations of a continent. David had never felt more proud or more terrified in his life.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Back in Dortmund, the final preparations were underway in the referee's room. Michael Oliver, the English official assigned to the match, studied the teamsheets that had just been delivered.

PSG had made one significant change—an extra defensive midfielder, sacrificing an attacker in what was clearly a strategy designed to neutralize Zorić. Dortmund's lineup changed as well from the first leg.

"It's going to be hostile out there," Oliver said to his assistants. "We need to set the tone early. First sign of trouble—first bad tackle, first confrontation—we stamp it out immediately. This match is being watched by half the planet. We cannot lose control."

The others nodded, their expressions serious. They had all been briefed about the situation outside the stadium, the tension that had been building for weeks, fueled by social media exchanges between players and inflammatory comments from both camps.

A knock at the door signaled it was time. Oliver took a deep breath, centering himself. In his fifteen years of officiating, he had handled derby matches, cup finals, games where the stakes were enormous and the pressure immense.

Outside, the stadium had filled to capacity—81,365 souls crammed into a space designed to amplify sound, to turn individual voices into a collective roar. The Yellow Wall was in full voice, a relentless wave of noise that seemed to have physical mass, pressing down on anyone who dared oppose it.

As the clock ticked toward kickoff, the giant screen showed the teams in their respective tunnels, separated by fifty meters of concrete but united in purpose. The camera lingered on key players—Mbappé adjusting his armband, Bellingham sharing a joke with Reyna, Messi with that familiar blank expression that betrayed nothing of the competitive fire within.

And then, just for a moment, it found Luka Zorić, standing slightly apart from his teammates, eyes closed, lips moving in what might have been a prayer or a personal mantra.

The clock struck 8:00 PM Central European Time. In living rooms and bars and public squares across the world, televisions tuned to the match. In the stadium, the roar reached a new crescendo as the referee and his assistants emerged from the tunnel, followed moments later by the teams.

The second leg of the most anticipated Champions League round of 16 tie in history was about to begin.