The goal didn’t just change the scoreline.

It changed the air.

For a few seconds after the ball dropped into the net, the Allianz Arena existed in that strange space between disbelief and eruption. Then the noise came crashing back—louder than before, heavier, final.

Germany 3–1 Portugal.

And now—

time was against Portugal.

They restarted quickly.

No hesitation.

No regrouping.

The ball went straight back into midfield, Bruno Fernandes demanding it immediately, his arms already gesturing, already urging his teammates forward.

"Portugal have to go now," Matthäus said. "There’s no time left to manage the game. It’s all or nothing."

And they went.

Vitinha dropped deeper to collect, turning sharply under pressure before driving forward again. Bernardo Silva drifted centrally, trying to overload the middle, while Jota positioned himself between the lines, constantly moving, constantly looking for space.

Germany, on the other hand, shifted into control mode.

Not passive.

But disciplined.

The back line held firm, Kimmich dropping deeper to shield, Pavlović tracking runners, Goretzka closing spaces aggressively. They weren’t chasing the ball anymore—they were managing it.

Portugal still found moments.

Still pushed.

Still believed.

Bruno Fernandes picked up the ball again just outside the box, cutting inside onto his right foot before unleashing a driven shot. It flew low, skidding across the turf—but Ter Stegen was there again, diving sharply to his left and pushing it wide.

"Another save," Quaresma muttered. "He’s been everywhere tonight."

The corner came in.

Cleared.

Recycled.

Back again.

Wave after wave.

Portugal didn’t stop.

Then—

one last chance.

The clock ticked into stoppage time.

Four minutes added.

The stadium buzzed with tension, every second stretched, every pass magnified.

Portugal worked the ball down the right this time. Bernardo Silva slipped it inside to Bruno, who took one touch before threading a quick pass forward into Jota’s feet.

Jota turned.

Sharp.

Quick.

He had space.

For the first time since coming on, he had a clear sight of goal.

The defenders were just a step late.

The moment was there.

He shifted the ball onto his stronger foot and struck it—

Clean.

Powerful.

Rising.

The crowd held its breath.

The ball flew—

Over.

Just over.

It sailed past the bar, dipping too late, crashing into the netting behind the goal.

Quaresma let out a breath. "That was the chance."

Matthäus nodded. "That had to be on target."

Jota stood there for a second, hands on his hips, staring at where the ball had gone. He knew it.

That was it.

The whistle came soon after.

Long.

Final.

Germany had done it.

The Allianz Arena erupted once more, but this time it wasn’t tension—it was release. Players dropped to their knees, others threw their arms into the air, the bench emptying as staff and substitutes ran onto the pitch.

3–1.

Germany were through.

The post-match moments unfolded in waves.

Handshakes.

Jerseys soaked in sweat.

Heavy breathing.

Respect.

Lukas walked slowly toward the centre of the pitch, his chest still rising and falling, the noise of the stadium fading slightly into the background as the adrenaline began to settle.

Then—

a touch on his back.

He turned.

Bernardo Silva stood there, a faint smile on his face despite the result.

"Hey," Bernardo said, extending his hand.

Lukas took it.

"Good game," Bernardo added. "That goal... crazy."

Lukas smiled lightly. "Thanks."

Bernardo nodded, then tilted his head slightly. "You know," he said, "City would be a great place for you."

Lukas didn’t react immediately.

Bernardo continued, calm, matter-of-fact. "Pep. The way we play. The way we build players. We’re not where we want to be right now—but we will be again. Very soon."

He held Lukas’ gaze.

"We’re planning to win again."

Lukas let out a small breath, a hint of a smile forming.

"I’ll think about it," he said.

Bernardo nodded once, satisfied with that.

Then Lukas gestured lightly. "Shirts?"

Bernardo smiled properly this time. "Of course."

They swapped, quick and easy, the exchange smooth, almost routine.

Lukas moved on.

Toward the middle.

Bruno Fernandes was there first. They shook hands, a brief exchange, a nod of respect.

Then—

Cristiano Ronaldo.

Ronaldo stepped forward, his presence still commanding even in defeat. He reached out, pulled Lukas slightly closer, one arm wrapping around his shoulder.

He tapped his chest twice.

Firm.

Then leaned in and said something quietly.

Too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Lukas listened.

Then nodded.

A small smile on his face.

Whatever it was—

it stayed between them.

Then Lukas turned.

And found him.

Jota.

For a brief second, Lukas just looked at him.

Then he stepped forward and extended his hand.

Jota took it.

But before he could say anything, Lukas pulled him into a hug.

A full one.

Unexpected.

Jota froze for half a moment, clearly surprised.

Then he returned it.

They separated.

Lukas looked at him and said, simply, "Stay safe."

Jota blinked, slightly confused, but nodded anyway. "Yeah... you too."

Lukas gave a small nod, then turned away.

No explanation.

No elaboration.

Just that.

As he walked off, the noise of the stadium came back fully, the weight of the moment settling in again. His teammates were gathering near the stands now, clapping, raising their hands, acknowledging the fans who had carried them through the night.

Lukas joined them.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the squad, applauding the crowd as the Allianz Arena roared back at them.

Flags waving.

Voices chanting.

A night to remember.

But beneath it all—

a quieter thought lingered.

A hope.

That what he had done—

The changes.

The decisions.

The path he was forcing into existence—

Would be enough.

Enough to shift things.

Enough to rewrite something that once felt inevitable.

As he looked out into the sea of people, clapping, smiling, breathing it all in—

Lukas held onto that thought.

And for the first time since the memory had returned—

he allowed himself to believe it might actually be enough.

* * *

The next day felt quieter.

Not outside—because the noise around the Nations League was only getting louder—but inside the German camp, there was a different kind of calm. The job was done. Portugal had been beaten. The final was waiting.

Now—

they watched.

The players gathered in one of the larger media rooms inside the Bayern campus, the lights dimmed slightly as the big screen flickered to life. Snacks scattered across the tables, recovery drinks in hands, boots swapped for slides, tape still wrapped around ankles.

Spain vs France.

The second semi-final.

"Let’s see who we’re playing," Adeyemi muttered as he dropped into a seat, leaning back with his arms stretched behind his head.

Wirtz sat forward, elbows on his knees, already locked in. "Spain," he said simply. "I’m telling you now."

"France have Mbappé," someone from the back replied.

"And Spain have..." Wirtz gestured vaguely toward the screen. "Everyone."

A few chuckles went around.

Lukas sat slightly to the side, relaxed, legs stretched out, eyes on the screen but not as intense as the others. There was still something lingering in him—something quieter—but for now, he let the moment settle.

The game kicked off.

It didn’t take long.

Spain started like a storm.

Quick passes.

Sharp movement.

Relentless pressure.

"They move the ball so fast," Pavlović said under his breath.

"Not just fast," Kimmich added from behind. "Clean. Every touch has purpose."

Then—

the first goal.

Williams.