The tunnel was thick with the smell of sweat and desperation.
Lyon players bounced on metal studs against the concrete, muscles twitching like live wires. Forty thousand voices bled through the walls, demanding resurrection from their champions.
Monaco walked back with measured steps, one goal up, but acutely aware that Lyon would throw everything forward. Their bodies were loose, but their eyes carried the weight of hostile territory.
D'Alessandro juggled the ball on the touchline—left foot, right foot, thigh, chest—physics bending around the leather sphere. His first competitive appearance was just minutes away.
The second half exploded with hunting intensity.
Lyon pressed in groups of three. Bernardi collected the kickoff and felt immediate breath on his neck—a blue shirt arriving with a challenge that rattled bones through shin pads.
He passed the ball sideways to Giuly, trapped between the touchline and a closing defender. Studs scraped against the grass as he twisted away from contact, passing back to Rodriguez, whose vision blurred under pressure.
The forty-seventh minute brought Lyon's first real scare.
Their midfielder ghosted past Plasil with a touch that made the ball stick to his boot. Space opened like a door swinging wide. He unleashed a shot from twenty-two yards, venomous enough to make spectators lean forward.
Roma dove as if his life depended on it, fingertips brushing the leather as it spun with a wicked curve. The ball crashed against the inside of the post with a sound like breaking bone, rebounding back across the goal line.
A Lyon striker lunged with studs raised, but Roma was somehow there again, sprawled across the turf, gloves clutching the ball against his ribs. It was an impossible double save that belonged in highlight reels.
Away supporters exhaled in relief while the home crowd groaned in collective frustration.
In the forty-ninth minute, Monaco responded with patient buildup.
Seventeen consecutive passes forced Lyon players to chase shadows, the ball moving faster than their legs could follow. Space appeared and disappeared like a magician's trick.
Rothen's cross whipped toward the penalty area with perfect backspin. Morientes rose between two defenders, neck muscles straining, and powered a header downward from ten yards.
Lyon's goalkeeper threw himself sideways, gloves striking leather before it spun wide of the post by mere inches. The Spanish striker held his head in disbelief as away fans whistled their appreciation for the quality save.
A corner kick was earned, with Rodriguez charging forward for the set piece. The ball was delivered with a pace that made defenders nervous. Squillaci's header cleared the defensive wall but crashed against the crossbar, the metallic ring echoing around the stadium like a church bell.
The rebound fell to Giuly, eight yards out. A desperate throw from a Lyon defender blocked the captain's shot, the ball spinning high toward safety.
The fifty-second minute delivered Lyon's breakthrough moment.
A long ball launched from their penalty area defied Monaco's defensive calculations, spinning end over end through the floodlit air.
A home striker battled Rodriguez for possession, bodies colliding with a sound like a car crash—muscle against muscle, determination against desperation. The ball broke loose toward the penalty area, where danger multiplied.
A Lyon midfielder arrived with fresh legs, cushioning a difficult ball with the outside of his boot. His second touch created a shooting angle from eighteen yards, where the goal beckoned.
He curled a shot with the inside of his foot, the ball spinning through the air in a perfect arc against the night sky. Roma dove full stretch, fingertips extended like a desperate prayer reaching for salvation.
The leather brushed his gloves with a whisper of contact before nestling in the bottom corner. The net bulged with precision, igniting forty thousand voices in an explosion of sound.
1-1.
Gerland erupted like a volcano, finding release, sound waves bouncing off concrete until the stadium vibrated. Lyon players celebrated as if they had won a championship instead of merely equalizing.
Blue shirts piled on the goalscorer while the crowd noise reached levels that made coherent thought impossible. Flares ignited in the stands, smoke drifting across the pitch like morning mist over a battlefield.
Monaco gathered in a tight circle near the center line. There was no finger-pointing, no abandonment of principles. Giuly's voice cut through the chaos like a blade through silk.
"Same football. Trust the approach."
The fifty-fifth minute tested that trust during Lyon's most dangerous spell.
Wave after wave of blue shirts poured forward, the home team sensing blood in the water like sharks responding to a feeding frenzy. Overlapping runs created numerical advantages that stretched Monaco's defense.
A low cross whipped across the penalty area, bodies diving everywhere like bombs exploding in sequence. Rodriguez threw himself at the clearance with reckless abandon. The connection was clean, but the leather spun straight to a Lyon striker's feet.
A twelve-yard volley met a gaping goal behind Roma's scrambling figure. The shot powered toward the bottom corner with a certainty that made away supporters close their eyes in anticipation of disaster.
The ball crashed against Rodriguez's spine, the defender in perfect position despite the impossible geometry. Pain shot through his vertebrae as leather struck bone, the clearance spinning high while the striker held his head in disbelief.
"Unlucky," Lyon fans chanted. "So close."
A corner kick was earned through fortune's intervention, another aerial bombardment aimed at Monaco's goal. Bodies charged forward like medieval siege engines, seeking a breach in the defensive wall.
Rodriguez rose highest despite the battering his body had absorbed. His defensive header cleared the penalty area with authority that belonged in coaching manuals—professional defending under maximum pressure.
The fifty-eighth minute brought Lyon a golden opportunity.
A through ball split Monaco's defense like a knife through butter, perfectly weighted for a Lyon striker racing clear with only Roma to beat. The goalkeeper advanced from his line, making himself as large as a mountain.
In this one-on-one situation, confidence was key. The striker's first touch pushed the ball wide of the advancing keeper, opening a shooting angle like a flower blooming in time-lapse photography.
He struck the shot with power from twelve yards. Roma threw himself at the leather with the desperation of a drowning man reaching for a rope. The ball crashed against the keeper's chest before spinning wide of the post by millimeters.
The Lyon striker collapsed to his knees as away supporters breathed a sigh of relief that tasted like salvation. This miss would haunt dreams and define career narratives.
The sixty-second minute delivered Monaco's response through mathematical precision.