The sky over Madrid was overcast, but inside the Santiago Bernabéu, the storm had already begun to rumble.
Maradona Pérez stepped onto the pitch like a god descending to judge the mortals. The weight of the 5–0 Champions League loss still clung to every locker, every corridor, every passing whisper at the training ground. But today, it wasn't a burden. It was fuel.
The La Liga match was supposed to be a formality. Real Madrid against lowly Numancia. A game to forget the horrors of Anfield. But Maradona hadn't come to forget. He'd come to remind. To carve his name into stone.
From the opening minute, the tone was set. He received the ball from Ramos just beyond the halfway line, two midfielders pressing hard. One glance. One feint. They both went the wrong way. A flick with the outside of his left boot—elegant and brutal at the same time—launched him into open space. The crowd, hesitant at first, now rose in waves.
In the 7th minute, he danced through two defenders, slipped the ball through a microscopic gap into the path of Higuaín, who didn't even need a touch—just a finish.
1–0.
But he didn't celebrate.
In the 22nd, he received it from Marcelo on the edge of the box. He lifted his head. Three defenders. Didn't matter. A dip of the shoulder. A pause. And then—boom. A thunderbolt with his left that kissed the underside of the bar and screamed into the net.
2–0.
He jogged back. Calm. Like this was all beneath him.
By halftime, it was 3–0. Two assists. One goal. He was haunting every blade of grass, touching the game with every breath. Fans had gone from cautious optimism to full-blown worship.
The second half was worse for Numancia. He nutmegged their captain in front of the ultras, curled in a second goal from twenty-five yards with terrifying nonchalance, and capped it off with a third in the 86th—after Ramos intentionally flicked the ball toward him inside the box just so he could complete the hat-trick.
3 goals. 3 assists. Man of the Match.
The crowd screamed his name like it was holy scripture.
"MARADONA—MARADONA—MARADONA!"
That night, a quiet restaurant near the Plaza Mayor, hidden from the public, dimly lit and steeped in elegance.
Only four people sat at the private table.
Maradona. Ramos. Marcelo. Iker Casillas.
No media. No cameras. Just real Madridistas, breaking bread, sharing pain and ambition.
Marcelo raised a glass. "To revenge," he said, eyes gleaming. "The kind you serve with hat-tricks and humiliation."
Maradona chuckled. "That wasn't revenge. That was a warning."
Ramos smirked. "You know, I've played with legends. Zidane. Ronaldo. But I've never seen what I saw today."
Casillas nodded. "You don't play like a 16-year-old. You play like you've already won everything, and you're just bored."
"I'm not bored," Maradona said, swirling the glass in his hand. "I'm starving."
They talked long into the night. Marcelo confessed how lonely the fame could get. Ramos opened up about the burden of leadership. Casillas shared his fears of being overtaken, replaced by younger keepers. But through it all, one thread connected them.
This team was broken.
And only Maradona seemed capable of forcing it back together—by dominance, by defiance, or by fire.
The day of the Champions League second leg arrived.
Liverpool. Again.
This time in Madrid.
A fortress. A cathedral. 80,000 fans. And yet, as Maradona walked into the dressing room, lacing his boots with ritualistic precision, something felt off. The energy was wrong. Too quiet. Too sterile.
He looked up.
No fire in the coach's eyes. No trust.
And then it happened.
Schuster walked past him, handed him a folded slip of paper.
"Bench," he said flatly. "It's a decision for the team."
Maradona didn't flinch. Didn't speak. Just stared at him.
It was not the rage of a child denied his toy.
It was the silence of a king watching a clown dance in his throne.
He sat on the bench again.
This time, the Bernabéu didn't hide its displeasure. Chants broke out. Murmurs roared into boos. Even the commentators were shocked.
"I don't understand it," they said. "How can he be left out again?"
From the bench, he watched as Gerrard once again sliced through Madrid's midfield. Torres—like a ghost—haunted the box. Reina made fingertip saves. And by the 55th minute, the scoreboard read:
Real Madrid 0 – 3 Liverpool
Aggregate: 0–8
It was humiliation. On home soil.
Fans began to walk out. Flags were lowered. The white shirts were being shed in disgust.
On the bench, Maradona sat with fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. His jaw was locked. His eyes burned—not just with anger—but with a fury so cold it froze everything else around him.
He didn't speak.
He didn't even blink.
After the game, he didn't go to the locker room.
He disappeared.
They found him hours later—inside one of the unused gym rooms deep in the training facility. The lights were off. Door locked from the inside. He had punched a mirror. Blood on his hand. The room was wrecked. A single quote was carved into the wall with a shard of glass.
"Bury me deep. I'll rise colder."
The board was livid.
Emergency meetings. Screaming matches. Headlines exploded.
"A Genius Silenced: Maradona Benched Again"
"Schuster Must Go?"
"8–0 on Aggregate: Madrid's Worst UCL Campaign"
Florentino Pérez was a volcano barely contained. He summoned the board. He summoned the coach. And then he summoned him.
When Maradona entered the president's office, he didn't sit. He stood.
Florentino looked up at him, slow, eyes tired.
"You broke a mirror," he said.
"I didn't break it," Maradona replied coldly. "I freed it."
There was silence. Then, almost imperceptibly, Florentino smiled.
"I warned them," he said quietly. "I told them if they keep you chained, you'll tear down the cage."
"What now?"
"We're at war."
"Then let me fight."
Another pause.
"Soon."
Schuster's days were numbered.
Even the veterans were turning. Casillas didn't shake his hand. Marcelo skipped training. Ramos walked out of team meetings. The squad was fracturing.
But in the middle of it all, Maradona trained harder than ever.
Faster. Stronger. Colder.
Every drill was violence. Every pass was precision. He didn't speak unless necessary. Didn't joke. Didn't smile. The boy was gone.
Only the machine remained.
The system pinged silently as he worked alone.
[SYSTEM WARNING: Player approaching Overdrive State]
Passive Ability: Cold Revenge — Fully Active
Upcoming Trigger: First El Clásico Goal — Reward Imminent
He looked out at the sunset from the training ground, boot resting on the ball.
"Next," he whispered.