The Bernabéu was quiet.
Not the usual quiet of a post-training lull or the peaceful hum of early morning preparations—this silence was heavy. Tense. The kind that settles before a storm or after a betrayal. Whispers moved between walls. Assistant coaches lowered their voices when they passed him. Even the janitor, the old man who usually nodded and said "¡Vamos, chaval!" as Maradona walked by, only looked down this time, sweeping with exaggerated focus.
He could feel it.
Something was off.
Training had been normal. He'd been his usual ruthless self—dictating tempo, embarrassing veterans, forcing Schuster to blow the whistle more than once just to calm the chaos his brilliance created. Ramos had clapped him on the back after one of his no-look assists in a practice drill and said, "Keep this up and Liverpool won't know what hit them."
That was the plan. Or so he thought.
When the matchday squad was posted, the paper was slapped on the board like any other day. Just a white sheet with names and numbers. But there it was.
Maradona Pérez — Bench.
His name, circled in red pen like an afterthought.
He stared at it.
At first, he thought it was a mistake. A joke. He looked around. Ramos was frozen, his mouth slightly open. Marcelo glanced over, eyebrows raised. Even Higuaín, who never got involved in locker room politics, muttered something under his breath.
It wasn't a joke.
Schuster had benched him.
In the press conference hours before the Champions League Round of 16 clash against Liverpool, Schuster looked smug.
"We have to be careful not to place too much pressure on the younger players," he said, brushing the microphone gently. "This is Europe. It's different."
"Why isn't Maradona starting?" a reporter asked, direct.
"He's a phenomenal talent. But talent must be guided. We have experience in the squad. Players who've been here before."
Lies dressed in diplomacy.
Inside the tunnel, just before kickoff, Ramos found him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable.
"You good?" Ramos asked.
Maradona didn't look at him. "I'm perfect."
Ramos sighed. "This isn't on you. This is Schuster being a coward. You're too bright. You make the old guard nervous."
"I don't care," Maradona said, still not meeting his eyes. "But I'll remember."
Anfield roared.
From the opening whistle, it was clear something was wrong. The midfield was slow. Guti looked like a pensioner. Diarra was two steps behind Gerrard. Robben kept trying the same cut-in, only to get shut down by a 20-year-old English fullback. Torres tore through Real's defense like a man possessed.
By halftime, it was 3–0.
Maradona sat on the bench, completely still. Not nervous. Not disappointed. Just… silent. His fingers were laced together, elbows on his knees, staring straight ahead like he was trying to burn a hole through the grass.
Schuster didn't look at him once.
By the 70th minute, it was 5–0.
The camera panned to Maradona on the bench. Commentators didn't know what to say. A teenage prodigy, the crown jewel of Madrid's academy, left to rot while the team burned.
"You have to wonder," one said on Sky Sports, "what would've happened if the boy had started tonight."
After the final whistle, Ramos walked straight off the pitch, ignoring everyone. He didn't shake hands. He didn't look at the scoreboard.
He stormed into the locker room.
Schuster was already there, flipping through a clipboard like the numbers could save him.
"You benched him," Ramos said.
"Excuse me?"
"You benched him," Ramos repeated, voice rising. "For this?"
Schuster stood, defensive. "He's sixteen, Sergio. I made a tactical choice."
"No, you made a political one," Ramos snapped. "You benched the only midfielder who's been running the game for us the past month because you're afraid of being made irrelevant. You think you're protecting the team? Look at the scoreboard."
The room was still. Players stopped moving. No one had ever challenged Schuster like that. Not here. Not like this.
Maradona entered quietly, towel over his shoulder.
Schuster turned to him. "Don't think you're untouchable, boy. This is Real Madrid."
Maradona stared at him.
"Untouchable?" he said softly, stepping forward. "No. But from now on, I'm unbenchable."
Ramos let out a breath. The locker room was ice.
That night, while Madrid mourned, and fans tore into the club on talk shows and newspapers exploded with headlines like:
"The Night Madrid Died"
"Benching Brilliance: Schuster's Biggest Mistake?"
"Where Was Maradona?"
…the boy was already on the training ground.
It was 2 a.m.
No lights, no music. Just a single cone, a ball, and the cold. He dribbled in silence. Ran drills. Practiced turns, long passes, one-touch releases—each movement fueled by quiet rage. Sweat soaked through his shirt. His eyes were glazed over—not from fatigue, but from something deeper. Something burning beneath the surface.
System pinged in the silence.
[SYSTEM TRIGGER – "Unleashed Vow"]
Player has activated the "Cold Revenge" path. All stat progression gains doubled for 1 week.
Ronaldinho's Flair: +5%
Trait Unlocked: "Cold Revenge" — When betrayed or disrespected, increases drive, focus, and performance under pressure by 20%
Warning: Emotional suppression levels critical.
Still, he didn't stop.
Until footsteps echoed behind him.
"Can't sleep either?" Ramos asked.
Maradona didn't turn. "You came to train or talk?"
Ramos walked up beside him, placed a ball under his foot. "Both."
They trained in silence for twenty minutes. Then Ramos finally spoke again.
"You were right, you know. About not needing to scream. What you did in there—how you looked at him… that was worse than a thousand words."
Maradona stopped, chest rising and falling.
"I'll make them regret it," he said.
"You already have."
The next day, Florentino called him to his office.
The room was as pristine as ever. Clean lines. White marble desk. Everything cold and powerful.
Florentino didn't speak for the first few seconds. Just looked at him.
Finally: "You know, when we lost to Liverpool last year, I didn't think it could get worse."
"It did," Maradona said.
Florentino nodded. "You handled it like a man. That matters."
He stood, walked over to the window.
"The media's circling. The fans are furious. They want blood."
"They'll have it," Maradona said.
Florentino turned. "Not yours."
A pause.
Then he smiled, very faintly.
"I can't fire Schuster. Not yet. Politics. Optics. But I can start shifting the power."
Another pause.
"You ready to carry it all?"
Maradona looked him in the eye.
"I was born to."
The week after, something changed in the training ground.
Schuster didn't look him in the eye anymore. The veterans stopped mocking. The young players started watching him like disciples. Robben still kept his distance, but the respect was there. Unspoken. Heavy.
Ramos and Maradona trained together every day. They didn't talk about Liverpool again. They didn't need to. That scar was permanent, branded into both of them.
They just worked.
And the next game?
He started.
Of course he did.
[SYSTEM PANEL – UPDATE]
GOAT-Level Talent (Maradona): 74%
Pinpoint Passing (Kroos): 95%
Defensive Elegance (Redondo): 70%
Ronaldinho's Flair: 55%
Modrić's Agility & Game Intelligence: 58%
Trait Unlocked: "Cold Revenge"
New Passive Developing: "Undisputed" — Influence within team rising. Leadership stat +5%
Player Emotion: Contained Fury
Next Trigger: First UCL Match Played – Major Ability Unlock Imminent
As he laced his boots for the next La Liga game, Ramos leaned over.
"You gonna make a statement?"
Maradona smiled, eyes sharp like steel.
"I'm gonna write a manifesto."