The San Siro lights buzzed overhead as Noah Okafor adjusted the tape around his wrist, the roar of the crowd swelling like a tide before kickoff.

“Big night,” murmured Theo Hernández beside him, tightening his boots. “You ready?”

Okafor’s reply was a grin — half mischief, half fire.

“Born ready.”

The whistle blew, and within minutes, Okafor was off. A blur of red and black streaked down the flank, skipping past the full-back like he wasn’t even there. The ball stayed magnetized to his feet, his every touch sharp, instinctive.

Then came the moment.

A diagonal pass split the defense. Okafor darted in from the left, the defender half a step behind. One touch to control. Another to shift. And then — the finish: low, precise, deadly.

He didn’t celebrate wildly. Just raised a fist and nodded toward the Milan ultras, eyes burning.

After the match, a reporter cornered him in the tunnel. “Did you feel the pressure tonight? First Champions League goal for Milan?”

Okafor shrugged, still catching his breath. “There’s pressure every time you wear this shirt,” he said. “But pressure makes diamonds, doesn’t it?”