Nightmare Came True

The transition from tunnel darkness to stadium brilliance was like stepping through a membrane between dimensions. The moment Wyatt's boots touched the perfectly manicured grass of the Red Bull Arena, the wall of sound hit him with physical force - fifty-seven thousand voices creating a symphony of anticipation, hostility, and pure footballing passion.

The Leipzig supporters' choreography was immediately apparent - a sea of red and white banners creating waves of color across the stadium's steep stands. Flares sent columns of crimson smoke into the evening air, and the coordinated chanting created a rhythm that seemed to pulse through the ground itself.

"*Leipzig! Leipzig! Leipzig!*" thundered across the arena, punctuated by air horns and the deep, tribal drumming that had become synonymous with German football culture.

The away section - three thousand Köln supporters who had made the journey east - responded with fierce defiance, their voices somehow cutting through the home crowd's overwhelming numerical advantage.

"*Mer stonn zo dir, FC Kölle!*" The traditional song of support rang out in proud Kölsch dialect, red and white scarves swaying in unison.

The teams lined up in the center circle, facing each other with the formal precision that marked every top-level fixture. The handshakes were brief and professional - quick clasps of acknowledgment between athletes who understood that pleasantries would be forgotten the moment the whistle blew.

Wyatt found himself face-to-face with Benjamin Šeško, the Slovenian striker's grip firm and his eyes carrying the quiet confidence of someone completely at ease in this environment. The exchange lasted perhaps two seconds, but it felt loaded with significance - a preview of the ninety-minute battle that lay ahead.

As the handshakes concluded and the teams moved to their respective halves, the stadium's giant screens flickered to life, displaying the formations and starting lineups with the crisp professionalism that characterized every aspect of Bundesliga presentation.

**FC KÖLN - 4-2-3-1**

*Schwäbe; Schmitz, Fischer, Lincoln, Hector; Skhiri, Martel; Kainz, Ljubicic, Maina; Modeste*

**RB LEIPZIG - 4-4-2**

*Gulácsi; Openda, Simmons, Vermeeren, Baumgartner; Lukeba, Bitshiabu, Klostermann, Nedeljković; Šeško, Seiwald*

The sight of his name on the screen, projected in massive letters across the Red Bull Arena for fifty-seven thousand people to see, sent a jolt of reality through Wyatt's system. Three months ago, his name had appeared on team sheets read by perhaps three hundred people at Blundell Park. Now it was displayed in a stadium that represented the pinnacle of German football.

The players took their positions across the pitch, each finding their designated spot in the tactical formations that would define the next ninety minutes. Wyatt jogged to his position in Köln's defensive line, the grass beneath his feet perfectly maintained, the floodlights casting everything in brilliant white clarity.

From his goal line, Timo Horn - despite being on the bench tonight - had made his way toward the center circle. As Köln's captain, the veteran goalkeeper's authority was unquestioned, even when not playing. His movement was unhurried but purposeful, carrying the weight of someone who'd led the club through countless battles.

From Leipzig's half, their captain mirrored the movement, striding forward with the same professional calm. The two leaders met at the center circle where the referee waited with the coin that would determine which team would have the honor of beginning the season's first fixture.

The stadium noise reached a crescendo as the coin toss approached, both sets of supporters trying to influence fate through sheer volume. The referee raised his hand for silence, a gesture that had minimal effect on fifty-seven thousand vocal Germans but satisfied the formal requirements of the moment.

The coin spun in the air, catching the floodlights as it rotated. It fell, the referee made his decision, and the captains shook hands before returning to their respective areas.

Leipzig had won the toss. They would kick off.

---

**KICKOFF - RB LEIPZIG 0-0 FC KÖLN**

"*And we're underway here at the Red Bull Arena! Leipzig, in their traditional red and white stripes, get the 2024-25 Bundesliga season started with a pass back to Gulácsi...*"

The Hungarian goalkeeper collected the ball with the calm efficiency of someone who'd done this thousands of times before, his first touch setting the tempo for what Leipzig hoped would be a dominant performance.

"*Leipzig immediately looking to build from the back, Gulácsi finding Simmons on the right side of defense...*"

The ball moved with crisp precision through Leipzig's defensive line, each pass delivered with the kind of technical quality that had made them one of Germany's most consistent teams over the past decade.

"*Simmons to Vermeeren in the center circle, and already you can see Leipzig's intent to control the tempo of this match...*"

Vermeeren's first touch was sublime, the ball sticking to his foot as if magnetized before he looked up to assess his options. The Leipzig midfield was already creating space, pulling Köln's defensive shape across the pitch.

"*Now Klostermann gets involved, Leipzig patient in their build-up... they're in no hurry here, content to probe for weaknesses in Köln's defensive structure...*"

The ball cycled back to Bitshiabu, who immediately looked forward, scanning for the kind of penetrating pass that could unlock a defense. His vision found Šeško, who had dropped deep to receive possession.

"*Šeško with his back to goal, showing good strength to hold off Fischer... and he's got Seiwald making a run off his shoulder...*"

The Slovenian striker's first touch was perfect, cushioning the ball and immediately laying it off to his strike partner. The movement was fluid, practiced, the kind of combination play that came from months of working together.

"*Seiwald now, driving forward into the final third... Köln's defense starting to drop deeper...*"

Wyatt found himself backpedaling, his eyes locked on Šeško's movement as the striker began to make his presence felt in the penalty area. The noise from the Leipzig supporters intensified, sensing their team's early dominance.

"*And that's a lovely ball from Seiwald! Šeško gets in behind the defense... LINCOLN HAS TO DEAL WITH THIS!*"

The pass was weighted to perfection, splitting the gap between Wyatt and Fischer with surgical precision. Šeško's run was timed flawlessly, his acceleration taking him clear of the defensive line as the ball bounced once in the penalty area.

Wyatt scrambled, his body turning as he desperately tried to recover his position. But Šeško was already there, his right foot meeting the bouncing ball with clinical precision.

"*ŠEŠKO! OH MY WORD, WHAT A CHANCE!*"

The striker's volley was struck with venom, the ball flying toward the bottom corner with the kind of pace that gave goalkeepers nightmares. Schwäbe threw himself to his right, fingertips extended, but the shot was rising just enough to clear his desperate dive.

The ball cannoned off the crossbar with a sound like a gunshot, the metallic *CLANG* audible even above the roar of fifty-seven thousand Leipzig supporters who thought they'd witnessed the perfect start to their season.

"*OFF THE CROSSBAR! How did that stay out? Brilliant strike from Šeško, but the woodwork saves Köln in the opening minute!*"

The rebound fell kindly for Schwäbe, who gathered the ball with hands that trembled slightly from the adrenaline rush. The Leipzig supporters groaned in collective disappointment, while the away section exhaled in relief.

"*That's a warning shot from Leipzig, and young Lincoln will know he's got a real battle on his hands tonight. Šeško showed exactly the kind of movement and finishing ability that makes him so dangerous - Lincoln was caught out by the pace of that run.*"

As play resumed with Schwäbe's goal kick, Wyatt felt his heart hammering against his ribs. Thirty seconds into his Bundesliga debut, and he'd already been exposed by one of Europe's most promising strikers.

The Leipzig supporters were already back in full voice, sensing blood in the water.

This was going to be a very long ninety minutes.

The metallic *CLANG* of the ball hitting the crossbar still echoed in Wyatt's ears as he tried to regain his composure. His heart was hammering against his ribs with such violence that he was genuinely concerned it might burst through his chest wall. The adrenaline coursing through his system made everything feel hyperreal - the grass beneath his feet, the floodlights overhead, the wall of noise from the Leipzig supporters who had just witnessed their striker come within inches of the perfect opening goal.

Thirty seconds. Thirty fucking seconds into his Bundesliga debut, and Benjamin Šeško had already made him look like exactly what he was - a nineteen-year-old from League Two who had no business being on the same pitch as one of Europe's most promising strikers.

Wyatt's legs felt strange beneath him, not weak exactly, but disconnected somehow, as if his nervous system was operating on a slight delay. He'd been caught completely off guard by the pace and precision of Šeško's run, the striker's movement so fluid and practiced that Wyatt had found himself watching rather than reacting.

A gentle touch on his shoulder made him turn. Jonas Hector was there, the veteran left-back's face calm and reassuring despite the chaos of the opening minute.

"*Alles gut,*" Hector said quietly, his thumb raised in a small gesture of encouragement. "*Kopf hoch.*"

The simple words - *everything's good, head up* - provided a momentary anchor in the storm of nervous energy that was threatening to overwhelm Wyatt's system. Hector had been through this hundreds of times, had faced down the best attackers in European football, and his presence offered a brief respite from the crushing weight of expectation.

But even as Wyatt nodded his acknowledgment, he could feel Šeško's eyes on him from across the pitch. The striker was jogging back toward the center circle with the casual confidence of someone who had just announced his intentions for the evening. He'd found his mark, identified the weakness in Köln's defensive line, and now it was simply a matter of exploiting it.

The match resumed with Schwäbe's goal kick, but the tempo never truly settled. Leipzig pressed forward with the relentless efficiency that had made them one of Germany's most consistent teams, their passing crisp and purposeful, their movement creating constant problems for Köln's defensive structure.

Wave after wave of red and white shirts poured forward, each attack carrying the threat of genuine danger. Wyatt found himself constantly repositioning, trying to anticipate Šeško's movement while simultaneously keeping track of the other Leipzig attackers who seemed to appear from nowhere with alarming regularity.

The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness. Every time Leipzig won possession, Wyatt felt his stomach clench with anticipation. Every through ball, every cross, every moment of hesitation in Köln's defensive line felt like it might be the one that exposed him completely.

By the twentieth minute, sweat was already beading on his forehead despite the cool evening air. The constant mental pressure of tracking Šeško's movement while trying to maintain his position in the defensive line was exhausting in a way that no amount of physical training could have prepared him for.

The Leipzig supporters sensed their team's dominance, their chanting growing more confident and sustained. The away section tried to respond, but three thousand voices could only do so much against fifty-seven thousand home supporters who were watching their team systematically dismantle the opposition.

"*Der RBL! Der RBL!*" echoed around the arena, punctuated by drums and air horns that seemed to sync with Leipzig's attacking rhythm.

Wyatt glanced at the stadium clock: 32 minutes played. He'd survived the opening half-hour, but each minute felt like it had lasted ten. His legs were beginning to feel heavy, not from physical exhaustion but from the constant tension of being hunted by one of Europe's most clinical strikers.

Šeško hadn't scored yet, but Wyatt could sense the inevitability building. The striker was getting closer with each attack, his timing becoming more precise, his movement more threatening. It wasn't a matter of if, but when.

The thirty-fourth minute arrived like a death sentence.

Leipzig won possession in midfield, Klostermann intercepting a loose pass from Martel with the kind of defensive awareness that came from years of playing at the highest level. The ball was immediately recycled to Seiwald, who looked up and saw space opening in front of him.

"*Leipzig building again,*" the commentator's voice carried across the stadium, "*Seiwald with time and space in the center circle...*"

Wyatt's heart rate spiked as he saw Šeško beginning his run. The striker's initial movement was subtle, almost casual, but there was something in his body language that suggested predatory intent. He was reading the play, timing his acceleration, waiting for the perfect moment to exploit the gap that was inevitably going to appear in Köln's defensive line.

"*Now Simmons gets involved down the right flank,*" the commentary continued, "*excellent ball into the box...*"

The cross came in with perfect weight and trajectory, hanging in the air just long enough for Šeško to time his run to perfection. Wyatt launched himself toward the ball, but he was already too late. The striker had anticipated the delivery, his movement starting a fraction of a second before Wyatt's, and that small advantage was enough to create the space he needed.

Šeško's header was clinical, directed with precision toward the bottom corner where Schwäbe had no chance of reaching it. The ball nestled in the back of the net with the kind of inevitability that made great strikers so dangerous.

**GOAL: RB Leipzig 1-0 FC Köln (Šeško 34')**

The roar from the Leipzig supporters was deafening, a wall of sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the Red Bull Arena. Flares were lit in the stands, red smoke billowing across the crowd as fifty-seven thousand voices celebrated their team's breakthrough.

Wyatt stood frozen in the penalty area, his arms hanging at his sides as the reality of what had just happened crashed over him. He'd been beaten. Completely, utterly beaten by a striker who had made scoring look effortless.

Šeško was already celebrating with his teammates, his face lit up with the joy of a job well done. The goal had been coming, everyone in the stadium had sensed it, and now it had arrived with the crushing inevitability of gravity.

As the Leipzig players embraced near the corner flag, Wyatt caught sight of the giant screen displaying the goal replay. He watched himself attempt to challenge for the header, his timing just fractionally off, his positioning just slightly wrong. Small margins, but at this level, small margins were everything.

The scoreboard now read: **RB Leipzig 1 - FC Köln 0**

Wyatt Lincoln's Bundesliga debut was rapidly becoming a nightmare, and there were still fifty-six minutes left to play.

The goal seemed to release something primal in the Leipzig supporters, their celebration echoing around the Red Bull Arena for what felt like an eternity. Wyatt stood in the penalty area, watching Šeško embrace his teammates near the corner flag, the Slovenian's face lit up with the satisfaction of a predator who had successfully completed his hunt.

The scoreboard's harsh white numbers burned into Wyatt's consciousness: **RB Leipzig 1 - FC Köln 0 (Šeško 34')**

As the celebration finally died down and Leipzig prepared to restart from the center circle, Wyatt felt the weight of eleven more minutes pressing down on him like atmospheric pressure. Eleven minutes to reach the sanctuary of the dressing room, where he could regroup and try to process what was rapidly becoming a catastrophic debut.

Fischer jogged over, the veteran center-back's face grim but not unsympathetic.

"*Konzentration jetzt,*" he said quietly, his hand briefly touching Wyatt's shoulder. "*Bis zur Pause durchhalten.*"

*Concentration now. Hold on until the break.*

The words were meant as encouragement, but they carried an undertone of resignation that made Wyatt's stomach clench. Even his defensive partner could sense the inevitable - they weren't trying to win anymore, just trying to survive until half-time without further damage.

Leipzig smelled blood. The goal had given them confidence, and they pressed forward with renewed intensity, their passing becoming even more incisive, their movement more threatening. Every attack felt like it might be the one that broke Köln's increasingly fragile defensive structure.

In the thirty-seventh minute, Seiwald found space on the edge of the penalty area, his shot deflecting off Martel and spinning just wide of the post. The Leipzig supporters groaned in disappointment while Wyatt felt his heart skip a beat at how close they'd come to doubling their lead.

Two minutes later, it was Openda's turn to terrorize Köln's defense, the winger cutting inside from the right flank and forcing Schwäbe into a low save that he probably should have held. The rebound fell kindly for Köln, but the message was clear - Leipzig were in complete control.

Wyatt found himself constantly backpedaling, his confidence eroding with each Leipzig attack. Every time Šeško made a run, every time the striker dropped deep to collect the ball, Wyatt felt his positioning become more tentative, more reactive rather than proactive.

The crowd sensed it too. The Leipzig supporters had moved beyond mere encouragement into something approaching bloodlust, their chanting taking on a predatory quality as they sensed their team closing in on more goals.

"*Tor! Tor! Tor!*" they chanted in unison, the word echoing around the arena like a battle cry.

In the forty-second minute, disaster nearly struck again. A corner kick from the right found Simmons rising unmarked at the back post, his header crashing against the crossbar with the same metallic *CLANG* that had announced Leipzig's dominance in the opening minute. The ball bounced down and was cleared off the line by Hector, but not before Wyatt had experienced another moment of pure terror.

The fourth official held up his board: four minutes of additional time. Four minutes that felt like four hours as Wyatt tried to maintain his concentration while his confidence continued to hemorrhage.

Leipzig pressed forward with the relentless efficiency of a machine, each attack more threatening than the last. Klostermann nearly scored from thirty yards, his drive deflecting off Fischer and whistling past the post. Šeško came close to his second goal when he turned Wyatt inside the penalty area, only for his shot to be blocked by a desperate sliding tackle from Skhiri.

The tackles were getting more desperate, Köln's defensive actions becoming increasingly frantic as they tried to prevent the floodgates from opening. Wyatt could feel the panic setting in around him, his teammates' communication becoming more urgent, their positioning more chaotic.

With two minutes of stoppage time remaining, Šeško nearly completed his double. A through ball from Bitshiabu sent the striker clear of the defensive line, his first touch taking him into the penalty area with only Schwäbe to beat. The goalkeeper spread himself well, forcing Šeško to shoot from a tight angle, the ball cannoning off the outside of the post and away to safety.

Wyatt watched from twenty yards away, having been completely bypassed by the move, his positioning so poor that he might as well not have been on the pitch. The miss was more luck than judgment, and everyone in the stadium knew it.

Finally, mercifully, the referee's whistle pierced the evening air with three sharp blasts that signaled the end of the first half.

**Half-time: RB Leipzig 1 - FC Köln 0**

The walk toward the tunnel felt like a march toward execution. The Leipzig supporters were in full voice, their chanting following the players as they left the pitch, while the away section tried to offer some encouragement to their beleaguered team.

Wyatt's legs felt like lead as he trudged toward the dressing room, his shirt soaked with sweat despite the cool evening air. Forty-five minutes of Bundesliga football had aged him years, and the prospect of another forty-five minutes felt almost unbearable.

As he reached the tunnel mouth, he caught sight of the half-time statistics being displayed on the giant screen:

**Shots: Leipzig 8 - Köln 1**

**Possession: Leipzig 67% - Köln 33%**

**Pass Accuracy: Leipzig 89% - Köln 72%**

The numbers told the story of complete domination, and Wyatt knew he was a significant part of the reason why. His positioning had been poor, his decision-making reactive, his confidence visibly evaporating with each Leipzig attack.

Somewhere in the depths of the Red Bull Arena, Hans Mueller was waiting with tactical adjustments and motivational words. But as Wyatt disappeared into the tunnel, he couldn't shake the feeling that the worst was yet to come.

The second half loomed ahead like a storm cloud, and Benjamin Šeško would be waiting.