"I don't see a team of champions in here," he sneered.

"I see a group of scared little boys who have forgotten how to fight. Lazio is not just beating you on the scoreboard; they are beating you in your hearts."

He walked over to a devastated-looking Alessandro Bastoni. "You," he said, his voice a sharp crack. "You think you are the only one who has made a mistake this season? You think redemption comes easy? You earn it! You earn it by fighting until you cannot feel your legs!"

He turned to the rest of the team.

"Forty-five minutes," he roared, his voice suddenly exploding with a raw, primal passion that made every player flinch.

"Forty-five minutes to decide your legacy! Do you want to be remembered as the team that choked? Or do you want to be remembered as the team that went into the heart of the Colosseum, wounded and bleeding, and burned it to the ground?! You fight for the man next to you! You fight for your captain, who is in a hospital bed right now! You fight for that badge on your chest! Now get out there and fight!"

Julián Álvarez, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, stood up, a strange, manic grin on his face. "So we're the underdogs now?" he said, a wild look in his eyes.

"I like it. Everyone loves a good underdog story. It has better character development."

A few players let out a choked, desperate laugh.

Inter came out for the second half like a team possessed.

They were a whirlwind of blue and black, their pressing relentless, their tackles ferocious.

In the 52nd minute, they won a corner. Çalhanoğlu, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated focus, whipped in a perfect, curling ball.

It was a sea of bodies, a chaotic scrum of pushing and shoving.

And rising above it all, a man on a mission of redemption, was Stefan de Vrij. H

e met the ball with a thunderous header that flew into the back of the net before the keeper could even react.

1-1! De Vrij roared, pointing to the sky, a season of frustration and near-misses exorcised in a single, powerful moment.

The equalizer turned the game into a beautiful, glorious, ugly brawl.

In the 61st minute, Denzel Dumfries, who had been a non-stop engine of power on the right flank, went up for a high ball with a Lazio defender.

Their heads collided with a sickening CLANG! that echoed around the stadium.

Both players went down in a heap.

Dumfries sat up, shaking his head, a crimson river of blood already pouring from a cut above his eye. The medics rushed on.

"AND NOW WE HAVE BLOOD!" the commentator roared, practically giddy with the drama.

"This isn't a football match; it's a badly-written soap opera, and I am loving every second of it! Shakespeare is taking notes! The drama! The passion! The completely unnecessary head wounds!"

As Dumfries was being patched up on the sideline, a bright red bandage being wrapped around his head, the game was paused.

And in that moment of quiet, the most important tactical change of the match occurred.

A small, ginger cat, with the dignified, unhurried air of a Roman emperor surveying his domain, trotted calmly onto the pitch.

The stadium, which had been a cauldron of hate and tension, erupted in a bizarre, unified cheer. The cat, completely unfazed, began to meticulously clean its paw in the center circle.

"THERE'S A CAT ON THE PITCH! A CAT ON THE PITCH!" the commentator screamed, his voice reaching a new, previously undiscovered octave of pure joy.

"This final has everything! The Lazio security staff are trying to catch it, but the cat is too agile! He's showing more intelligent movement than some of the midfielders! Sign him up! Sign him up!"

As the cat was eventually, and very reluctantly, escorted off the pitch, the Lazio ultras in the Curva Nord lit a series of brilliant red flares, bathing the stadium in a hellish, beautiful, gladiatorial glow.

The game restarted, the atmosphere now completely unhinged.

Dumfries, looking like a wounded gladiator with his blood-soaked bandage, was back on the pitch, playing with a new, furious intensity.

But Lazio responded. In the 68th minute, their legendary striker, Ciro Immobile, produced a moment of pure, world-class genius.

He received the ball with his back to goal, controlled it with one touch, and in a single, fluid motion, he spun away from Bastoni, a move of such speed and grace it was like a magic trick. He took one more touch and then, with the composure of a master, he slotted the ball into the bottom corner of the net.

2-1 to Lazio. The stadium was rocking. The home fans were in paradise.

The Inter players just looked at each other, their faces a mixture of disbelief and pure, unadulterated exhaustion.

They had fought back. They had bled. They had endured a cat invasion. And they were losing again.

This time, it was Cole Palmer who stepped up.

The coolest man in Rome.

He got the ball, and just started to run.

He floated past one player, shimmied past another. He approached the edge of the box, looked up, and with a stroke of pure, artistic brilliance, he curled the ball with the inside of his boot.

A perfect, beautiful, unstoppable arc that flew past the keeper's despairing dive and nestled into the far corner of the net.

2-2.

The clock showed 70:00.

The Inter players didn't even have the energy to celebrate properly.

They just stumbled back to the center circle, their lungs burning, their bodies screaming.

Twenty minutes to go. The score was level. The Scudetto was still, somehow, impossibly, on the line. And not a single person on the planet had any idea what was going to happen next.

"I don't know where they are finding the energy!" the commentator roared, his voice now a ragged, happy mess. "This is not football anymore! This is a public display of stubbornness! And it is glorious!"

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