The Alfredo Di Stéfano Stadium was reaching its boiling point.
The ticket checks had been completed, and the stands were a churning sea of brilliant white. Amidst the continuous stream of Real Madrid supporters, small pockets of Blaugrana jerseys dotted the corners, the brave few who had traveled from Barcelona to support the B-team. In a derby of this magnitude, the air was thick with tension; whenever the two fanbases caught sight of one another, the result was a cacophony of creative insults and rhythmic chanting.
Down by the touchline, a reporter stood ready, her microphone bearing the logo of ESPN Sur.
"Cameraman, over here! Focus on the tunnel entrance!"
Inés Valdes, a rising star in South American sports journalism, adjusted her earpiece. At twenty-four, she was known for her sharp analysis and her relentless pursuit of the "next big thing" in football. Today, she was in Madrid for one reason: to cover the professional debut of the boy who had set the Argentinian media on fire.
"The squad list for today's match has just been finalized, and it has sent shockwaves across the Atlantic," Inés said, her voice projecting clearly over the roar of the crowd.
On the global football community platform where Lucia was live-streaming the pitchside feed, the comment section was moving faster than the eye could track.
[Is she talking about Lorenzo? The 'Ezeiza Thug'?]
[Look at the lineup! Number 99 is starting! Sacristán is actually doing it!]
[Starting in a Clásico for his debut? Either he's a genius or Barcelona has completely given up.]
[Look at the Madrid fans... they're already singing songs about him. 'The Argentinian Coward' is their favorite so far.]
[If he scores today, the AFA is going to look like a joke. If he fails, he'll never be able to show his face in Buenos Aires again.]
Inés Valdes glanced at the player list in her hand. "Lorenzo, the former Boca Juniors prospect and recent 'blacklist' recipient from the AFA, is leading the line for Barcelona B. He is flanked by two of La Masia's most explosive talents: Munir El Haddadi and Adama Traoré. This is a front three built for speed and power, a direct challenge to the tactical discipline of Zidane's Castilla."
She knew the scandal back home was largely a political play by Coordinator Marcos, but as a journalist, she had to remain neutral. "The pressure on this seventeen-year-old is unimaginable. He isn't just playing for three points; he's playing for his reputation."
High above the pitch, in the soundproofed luxury of the VIP boxes, the atmosphere was more refined but no less intense.
"It truly lives up to its name," Arsène Wenger remarked, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips as he watched the fans provoke one another. "A stadium for six thousand that sounds like the Maracanã. This is the essence of Spanish football."
The Arsenal manager sat with his legs crossed, looking every bit the "Professor" he was known as. Beside him sat Gerardo "Tata" Martino and Cesc Fàbregas.
"The fans in Madrid never miss a chance to remind us where we are," Martino said, leaning forward to study the warm-up drills below. "They think our youth output has dried up. They think we're here to be slaughtered."
"Let them think that," Fàbregas said, glancing at Wenger. "The Boss knows better than anyone that a wounded Barcelona is the most dangerous. He's here to see if there's anyone worth taking back to London, after all."
Wenger chuckled softly. "I'm just an admirer of talent, Cesc. But I must admit, the reports on this boy, Lorenzo, are... unusual. To see a boy move like Inzaghi and hit the ball like a veteran? It's a profile I haven't seen in Catalonia since you were a teenager."
In the adjacent box, a different conversation was taking place.
Carlo Ancelotti, the Real Madrid first-team manager, was leaning back with a characteristic raised eyebrow. Beside him sat Julen Lopetegui, the Spain U-21 coach, who looked somewhat uncomfortable being seen in the Real Madrid inner sanctum.
"I didn't expect to see you here, Julen," Ancelotti remarked. "Are you here to watch my boys, or are you secretly checking the eligibility of the boy in the blue bib?"
Lopetegui cleared his throat. "As a national team coach, I have to be thorough, Carlo. The boy has a Spanish passport. If he performs today against a defense like yours, I'd be a fool not to take notice."
"Zidane is convinced he's a star," Ancelotti said, gesturing toward the touchline where Zinedine Zidane was already giving final instructions to his Castilla players. "Zizou wants him. He told me that if we don't poach him now, he'll be worth fifty million by next summer. I told him he was crazy, but... Zidane has an eye for these things."
Down on the field, Zidane, the Castilla head coach was pacing the technical area. He looked toward the Barcelona bench and then at the tall figure of Lorenzo, who was going through his final explosive sprints. Zidane didn't care about the AFA scandal or the "thug" label. He saw the way the boy adjusted his stride. He saw the predatory focus.
Zidane turned back to his players - Jesé, Morata, and Lucas Vázquez. "Listen! The boy in the ninety-nine shirt... do not give him an inch. If he enters the box, I want two men on him. He is the only one who can hurt us today."
The referee blew his whistle, signaling the players to line up in the tunnel. The pre-match ceremony was about to begin, and as Hashimoto Kanna prepared to take her place in the stands, the silence of anticipation fell over the Di Stéfano.
The Mini-Clásico was about to roar to life.