The morning of the final day of the season felt like the day of a final exam for which you've studied all year.

This was it. Ninety minutes stood between them and immortality.

The players gathered for their final pre-match meeting, a light tactical walkthrough and a chance to be together before heading into the lion's den.

The mood was serious, but their unique brand of coping-mechanism-comedy was in full effect.

"Okay, so," Julián Álvarez began, looking at the tactical board with the intensity of a theoretical physicist, "our goal is to win the Scudetto, which is a shield, right? And Lazio's mascot is an eagle, which is a bird of prey. So, from a purely zoological and mythological standpoint, this is a classic battle of 'Avian Aggression versus Defensive Italian Cookware'. Who do you think has the advantage?"

Lautaro Martínez, who was getting his ankle checked one last time by the physio, didn't even open his eyes. "The team that scores more goals, Julián," he said, his voice a weary but affectionate sigh. "The advantage belongs to the team that scores more goals."

"He's not wrong, though," Cole Palmer chimed in from the corner, where he was quietly meditating. "If we win, we should all celebrate by eating a giant, shield-shaped pizza. It's symbolic."

The team chuckled, the simple, ridiculous image a perfect antidote to the crushing weight of the day.

They were a team that faced down the apocalypse with a shrug and a terrible joke.

The bus journey from Milan to Rome was a study in contrasts.

Inside, the bus was a quiet sanctuary of focus. Players listened to music, their eyes closed, visualizing the game.

Outside, the world was a blur of motion and color.

As they got closer to the capital, they saw cars on the motorway flying Lazio flags, the pale blue a stark, hostile presence.

Fans in other cars would see the iconic Inter bus and honk their horns, some with a thumbs-up of respect, others with a gesture that was significantly less friendly.

Leon sat by the window, the 'Unshakeable Heart' bracelet from Sofia a cool, calming presence on his wrist.

He watched the world fly by, the ordinary lives of people on their way to work, to see family, completely oblivious to the war his team was about to enter.

It was a strange, grounding thought. To the world, this was a football match.

To them, it was everything.

As they entered the city limits of Rome, the atmosphere shifted.

The quiet hostility of the motorway was replaced by a loud, passionate, and overwhelmingly blue-and-white sea of Lazio fans heading towards the stadium.

The bus was their ark, navigating through a flood of their rivals.

Finally, the iconic, colossal structure of the Stadio Olimpico came into view.

As the bus made its slow, final approach, it was engulfed.

A wall of fans, held back by a line of police, pressed in on all sides, their faces a mixture of passion and pure, unadulterated hatred.

They screamed, they chanted, they banged on the sides of the bus.

And then came the cameras, a blinding, flashing galaxy of lights, capturing their arrival, their every expression, for the world to see.

Inside, the players were statues.

Their faces were grim, their eyes fixed forward.

The away dressing room was a small, stark, functional space, a complete contrast to the grandeur of the stadium outside.

They changed in a practiced, professional silence, the only sounds the rustle of fabric, the click of studs on the tiled floor, and the low, intense murmur of players giving each other final words of encouragement.

"Stay tight," Bastoni said to de Vrij. "No gaps today."

"You got it," the Dutchman replied with a firm nod.

Leon looked around at his teammates. He saw the fire in Lautaro's eyes, the cool calm in Palmer's, the defiant grit in Barella's.

The ten-minute bell rang. The door opened. Coach Cristian Chivu walked in.

He looked at each of his players, a silent, powerful communion that said more than words ever could. He had given them the tactics. He had given them the motivation. There was nothing left to say.

"You know what you have to do," he said, his voice a low, gravelly growl. "Go and take it."

They stood in the tunnel, the noise a physical, vibrating force that seemed to shake the very foundations of the stadium.

Opposite them stood the men in sky blue, their faces equally determined. This was for everything.

The commentator, his voice already at a crescendo, was ready to narrate the final chapter.

"THE FINAL DAY! THE FINAL BATTLE! THE SCUDETTO HANGS IN THE BALANCE in the eternal city of Rome! Inter Milan, the visitors, need just one point to be crowned champions! But Lazio, in front of their fanatical home support, will fight to the death to play the ultimate spoiler! Ninety minutes of destiny! Ninety minutes of history! The final act of a magnificent season begins... NOW!"

The teams walked out into a deafening wall of sound, the air thick with smoke, passion, and the weight of history.

The whistle blew. The final match of the season was underway.

The first ten minutes were a tense, tactical chess match played at a hundred miles an hour.

Lazio, feeding off the energy of their crowd, were a whirlwind of aggressive pressing. T

heir captain, the legendary Ciro Immobile, was a constant menace, his intelligent movement pulling Inter's defenders out of position.

Inter responded with the cold, hard composure of a team that had been through the fire.

They absorbed the pressure, their passing crisp and confident.

In the 6th minute, a beautiful, flowing move saw Palmer slide a perfect pass to Leon, whose first-time shot was bravely blocked.

The game was a deadlock, two prize fighters feeling each other out, neither willing to give an inch. The tension was almost unbearable.

The clock ticked over to 10:00.

And then, as a Lazio attack broke down, the ball was cleared high into the air.

Lautaro Martínez, his ankle still heavily strapped but his heart as big as ever, went up for the header against a Lazio defender. He won it, flicking the ball on.

But as he landed, his ankle twisted awkwardly under the weight of the other player.

He went down in a heap, his face contorted in a silent scream of agony.

The entire Inter bench was on its feet.

The players on the pitch froze, a collective, horrified gasp echoing in the silent stadium.

Their captain, their lion, was down. And this time, it looked serious.

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