The away dressing room at Hillsborough was not a place of quiet focus. It was a carnival.

"He scored from a corner!" Jonathan Rowe was yelling, re-enacting Emre's 'Olimpico' with a water bottle and a bin. "He actually bent the ball around the space-time continuum! That's not a goal; that's a science experiment!"

"And the penalty!" David Kerrigan was preening in front of a mirror, admiring his own reflection. "Did you see the fear in his eyes? The captain? The big, scary Premier League legend? He was terrified of my raw, unpredictable talent. I broke him. Mentally."

"He fouled you because you were playing like a five-year-old who'd had too much sugar," Grant Hanley grunted, but he was grinning, a huge, rare, and beautiful sight.

"But I'll admit, it was effective."

Ethan stood in the middle of it all, a feeling of deep, profound, and slightly hysterical joy washing over him.

Liam's blueprint had given them the key, and his team of chaotic lunatics had used it to kick the door off its hinges.

"Alright, you beautiful maniacs, listen up!" he called out, and the room, buzzing with adrenaline, slowly quieted down.

"That was the most perfect thirty minutes of football we have ever played. We were smart, we were brave, and we were absolutely ruthless. I am unbelievably proud of you."

He paused, a new, serious focus in his eyes.

"But," he continued, "the next forty-five minutes will be a war. They are a team of proud, professional players who have just been humiliated in their own backyard. They are going to come out of that tunnel like a wounded animal. They will kick, they will scratch, they will fight for every single inch. We cannot give them an inch. We stay compact, we stay disciplined, and we weather the storm. And when we get our chance, we will be clinical and we will finish this. Let's go make it to a final."

The second half began, and the atmosphere in the stadium was a powder keg.

The tackles were flying in, hard and fast. It was a gritty, attritional battle.

Then, in the 55th minute, the game was turned on its head by a moment of pure, route-one simplicity that was so unexpected it was almost genius.

Sheffield Wednesday won a corner. It was whipped in, a dangerous, curling delivery that Angus Gunn, under immense pressure, just managed to punch clear.

The ball flew high and long, a looping, hopeful clearance towards the halfway line.

The Wednesday team, having thrown everyone forward, was completely exposed.

Viktor Kristensen, who had been a tireless runner all game, saw his chance.

He was in a footrace with the last defender.

But from his goal, Angus Gunn saw something else. He saw the Wednesday goalkeeper, who had come to the edge of his box to organize his defense, now frantically scrambling back towards his line.

Gunn's kick was not a clearance. It was a pass.

A perfect, 80-yard, laser-guided missile of a pass. It flew over the head of the last defender, bounced once on the turf, and sat up perfectly for the onrushing Viktor Kristensen.

The young Danish striker didn't even break his stride. He let the ball bounce once more, and then, with a technique of pure, unadulterated power, he smashed the ball on the half-volley.

The ball flew like a tracer bullet, a blur of white against the green, and nearly ripped the net off its moorings.

3-1 to Apex United.

It was a goal of such brutal, stunning, and beautifully simple efficiency that the entire stadium, for the second time, was stunned into absolute silence.

"A GOALKEEPER ASSIST! I DON'T BELIEVE IT!" Tactics Tim was screaming, his professional decorum completely gone. "ANGUS GUNN! FROM HIS OWN PENALTY BOX! HAS JUST ASSISTED A GOAL IN A CUP SEMI-FINAL! A goal of glorious, agricultural, and absolutely breathtaking simplicity! Route one is back, baby! And it is beautiful!"

The goal broke Sheffield Wednesday's spirit. The fight went out of them. But the game had one last, tragicomic act to deliver.

In the 68th minute, a hopeful cross was swung into the Apex box.

It was a poor delivery, sailing harmlessly towards the back post.

But in their desperation, two Wednesday players went for the same ball. They collided in a heap, a comical tangle of limbs. One of them, their star striker, stayed down, clutching his ankle.

The referee blew his whistle. The game stopped. The Wednesday physios rushed on. And then, from the home dugout, a furious roar.

The Wednesday manager was screaming, not at his players, but at his own physio.

He had used all his substitutes. They were down to ten men.

"And it goes from bad to worse for the home side!" Gary 'The Gaffer' Stone announced, a note of almost sympathetic pity in his voice.

"An injury, with no substitutes left to make! They're not just losing; they're imploding!"

But the implosion wasn't over. The injured player, a fiery, hot-headed striker, was being helped off the pitch.

As he hobbled past the Apex dugout, he saw David Kerrigan, who was now on the bench, laughing at his misfortune.

The striker snapped. He shoved Kerrigan, a blatant, childish act of petulance.

A scuffle broke out on the sideline, a ridiculous, comical pushing match between a one-legged striker and a benched substitute.

The referee, his patience finally gone, marched over. He brandished a yellow card at a protesting Kerrigan. Then, he brandished a straight red card at the injured, already-substituted striker.

The home side was now, technically, down to nine men, with one of them already on a stretcher.

The final twenty minutes were a joyous, celebratory procession for Apex United.

They passed the ball around, the "olés" from their small corner of fans a triumphant, mocking soundtrack to a famous victory.

But just as the game was winding down, in the 70th minute, the ten men of Wednesday won a corner. They sent everyone forward, a final, hopeless gesture of defiance.

The ball was swung in. It was headed clear, but only to the edge of the box.

A Wednesday player hit a blistering volley.

It was a perfect strike, destined for the top corner.

But from out of nowhere, a body in a black shirt launched itself in front of the shot.

It was the S-Rank defender, James McCarthy.

The ball smashed into his chest, knocking the wind out of him, but deflecting the shot just wide.

But as the ball went out of play, McCarthy stayed down, clutching his shoulder, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated agony.

The Apex players rushed to him, their celebrations forgotten, a new, cold, and terrible silence descending over their corner of the stadium.

The final whistle blew, but no one was celebrating.

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