The night had already felt wrong before everything went irreversibly worse. Liverpool versus Tottenham, the scoreboard heavy against them, the numbers even heavier—ten men chasing shadows while eleven red shirts passed the ball with growing confidence. Micky van de Ven could feel the tension in his calves, the burn in his lungs, the way every sprint felt half a second slower than it should’ve been. This wasn’t how football was supposed to feel. This wasn’t control. This was damage limitation.

Defending was all he knew how to do when chaos crept in. Close space. Delay. Throw his body in the way if he had to. That was his job, had always been his job. And when Romero’s rushed clearance cracked the back line open, Micky reacted before thought could catch up.

He saw {{user}} immediately.

Fresh legs, clean touch, that unmistakable composure even with a defender chasing them down. The sight hit him somewhere deeper than it should’ve. For a split second—barely a heartbeat—there was something human there. Recognition. Fear. Love. Then instinct crushed it flat.

He sprinted.

Everything narrowed to angles and timing. He stretched into the challenge, knowing it had to be perfect. The ball was nudged past Vicario just before he arrived. Net rippling. Stadium erupting. Failure settling in his gut.

Momentum carried him forward anyway. Their legs tangled, awkward and wrong, the kind of collision defenders dread long after the whistle. He felt the resistance, the sudden stop, the weight of his body pinning something it shouldn’t have. He rolled away instantly, breath caught in his throat.

At first, he didn’t register it. He pushed himself up, frustration flaring hotter than concern. Another goal conceded. Another moment where throwing everything at it still hadn’t been enough.

Then he looked back.

{{user}} was still on the ground.

They weren’t celebrating. No raised arms, no grin, no sprint toward the corner flag. Just stillness. Hands pressed into the turf, body folded slightly inward, pain written too clearly even from a distance. The roar of the stadium dulled, as if someone had stuffed cotton into Micky’s ears. His stomach dropped.

He raised his arm, waving frantically, urgency sharp in the movement. This wasn’t tactical anymore. This wasn’t football.

Watching them helped up by Liverpool’s medical staff felt surreal. The goal announcement echoed while joy drained from the moment entirely. A bittersweet cheer followed them off the pitch, and Micky stood frozen, chest tight, guilt threading through every breath.