The Philips Stadion lights burned clean overhead, humming low like something mechanical breathing. Flags waved behind the far goal, red and white stripes bending over drums that didn't stop even when the teams lined up. PSV's tunnel was narrow. The kind that forced players to brush shoulders whether they meant to or not.
Demien stood still as Monaco came out, coat folded over his arm. He didn't walk behind them. Just waited, eyes on the first three steps of the turf like they might give away what was coming.
They wouldn't. He already knew.
Giuly trotted out first, armband tight. Rothen tapped his wrist three times as he ran past. Xabi scanned the sky like he was checking for cloud cover, not pressure. D'Alessandro bounced on his toes, exhaled hard through his nose, then turned once to glance at Demien.
Demien didn't nod. Didn't wink.
Just watched.
The whistle blew sharp. And Monaco touched the ball first.
