The next fifteen minutes were a testament to Dortmund's resilience, but also to Napoli's tactical discipline. The blue wall was impenetrable. Every Dortmund attack was repelled, every pass intercepted.

Mateo was still the target, the one player Napoli was determined to neutralize. He was fouled three more times in quick succession, each one a cynical, tactical trip designed to break his rhythm and his spirit.

The rising frustration in the stands was palpable. Low, guttural murmurs of discontent directed at the referee and the Napoli defense filled the air. The Yellow Wall was a sea of worried faces, their cheers replaced by sharp, collective intakes of breath every time Mateo was brought down.

The mental toll of being constantly relied upon, of being the sole focus of the opposition's aggression, was etched on Mateo's face. He was only 16, and the weight of the entire stadium, the entire Champions League campaign, felt like it was resting on his slender shoulders.

He knew he couldn't let the frustration show. He took a deep breath, the cold December air stinging his lungs. He looked down at the ball, the leather worn and familiar, and let the System take over.

Physical Strain: Critical.

Emotional State: Suppress. Objective: Create Clear Chance.

He began to move deeper, pulling the Napoli midfield out of position. He received the ball from the defense, his back to the goal, and felt the immediate, hot breath of the defender on his neck. He feigned a pass to the right, drawing the defender in, then, with a lightning-fast Cruyff Turn, he spun to his left, leaving the defender stranded.

The space was there, a narrow, fleeting corridor of opportunity. He accelerated, his legs pumping, the ball glued to his foot. He beat a second man with a quick shimmy, and now he was in the final third, the Napoli defense scrambling.

He saw the run. It wasn't the obvious one. Aubameyang, with his blistering pace, was making a decoy run to the far post, pulling the center-back wide. This created a sliver of space in the center. Lewandowski, sensing the opportunity, checked his run, creating a pocket of space just inside the box.

Mateo didn't look at Lewandowski.

He looked at the defender covering the center, and with a subtle, almost imperceptible flick of his right foot, he threaded the ball through the eye of the needle.

It was a pass of impossible precision, weighted perfectly to bypass the last defender and land directly in Lewandowski's path. It wasn't an assist in the record books, but it was the key that unlocked the defense.

Lewandowski, with the clinical efficiency of a master assassin, took one touch to control and another to smash the ball past the keeper.

GOAL!

The explosion of sound was immediate, deafening, and utterly cathartic. The Yellow Wall erupted in a unified, primal roar, a sound that shook the very foundations of the stadium.

It was the Roar of Relief, the collective release of 30 minutes of pent-up anxiety and frustration. The noise was so loud it physically hurt, a beautiful, painful sound that washed over Mateo.

Lewandowski, instead of running to the corner flag, ran straight to Mateo. He didn't speak, but he grabbed the boy's head in both hands, his eyes conveying a message of profound gratitude and respect. He then pointed to the crowd, urging them to cheer louder for the architect of the goal.

Aubameyang, whose decoy run had been crucial, rushed over, his grin wide. He gave Mateo a quick, firm pat on the back, his eyes sparkling with the shared understanding of a perfectly executed plan.

The score was 1-1. The tension had been momentarily broken, replaced by a fierce, renewed hope.

The final five minutes of the half were a frantic, chaotic spectacle. Dortmund, energized by the equalizer, surged forward like a yellow and black tide, pressing for a second goal with a relentless intensity.

The roar of their home crowd was a physical force, pushing them on, while Napoli, once so composed, held firm by a thread.

Their defense, which had been a model of Italian discipline, was now a desperate, organized unit, throwing bodies in front of shots and scrambling to clear lines. The game became stretched, a breathless, end-to-end sprint towards the break as possession was won and lost in a flurry of tackles and lung-bursting runs.

Mateo, despite the throbbing pain in his shin, was everywhere. The ache was a dull, constant reminder of the earlier challenge, but he forced it to the back of his mind, his focus narrowed to the chaos unfolding around him.

His role had shifted; his offensive vision was now secondary to his defensive duties. He became a shadow, tracking runners, plugging gaps, his mind a step ahead of the play. He intercepted a dangerous, low cross aimed at the near post, his body a blur of motion as he slid in, hooking the ball away from an onrushing striker.

Without a moment's hesitation, he was back on his feet and instantly launched a counter-attack. He drove forward, the ball seemingly glued to his boot, and bypassed one midfielder with a quick feint.

He spotted a teammate making a darting run down the wing and played a perfectly weighted pass into his path. The attack surged into the final third, hope rising in the Napoli ranks, but it fizzled out as a Dortmund defender made a last-ditch tackle just before the referee's whistle blew, signaling the end of a breathless first half.

1-1

Mateo stood for a moment, his hands on his hips, his chest heaving. He was exhausted, physically and mentally drained. He had been targeted, fouled, and pushed to his limit. The System's read was stark: Physical Strain: Critical. Recovery Required: Immediate.

As he began to walk towards the tunnel, a shadow fell over him. It was Reus. Without a word, Reus put a protective arm around Mateo's shoulder, shielding him from the lingering glares of the Napoli players. He didn't speak, but the gesture was a clear message: You are safe. I have you.

The crowd, still buzzing from the equalizer, offered a Tense Applause. It was a sound of appreciation for the effort, but the underlying tension remained. The Yellow Wall was a sea of worried faces, knowing that a draw was not enough.

As they entered the tunnel, Mateo's eyes met those of Jürgen Klopp, who was waiting at the entrance. Klopp didn't speak, didn't need to.

His intense, burning stare was a question, a challenge, and a promise all at once. It was a non-verbal communication that bypassed the need for words: I know you are hurt. I know they are targeting you. But I need more. Show me the freedom I saw in the streets.

Mateo met the stare, his own eyes dark and resolute. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. He would find the freedom. He would give them more. The tactical grind of the first half was over. The second half would be different. It had to be.

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