"Holy shit! Watch out!"
"Do not mess around anywhere near that psycho."
"Wait, didn't the 'Murder Machine' transfer to Turkey? Why the hell is he back in the top five leagues?!"
"I mean, he's only twenty-eight. It's not like he's washed up."
"Please, God, do not let him injure Shane."
On American soccer forums, the fans were frantically expressing their anxiety.
Lorik Cana's terrifying reputation as the "Murder Machine" preceded him.
Everyone was suddenly extremely worried for Shane's physical safety.
"Cana's style of play is notoriously violent. During his long tenure at Olympique de Marseille, he earned the moniker 'The Most Ruthless Murder Machine in Ligue 1.' After leaving France, the geographical prefix was entirely dropped; he became universally known simply as 'The Murder Machine.' They say nicknames in football are never truly wrong, and the sheer brutality of this Albanian enforcer perfectly validates that phrase."
Up in the Fox Sports broadcast booth, the commentator's tone was filled with genuine concern.
"Given that Carter is operating as a pure Number 10 tonight, he is positioned directly opposite Cana in the tactical setup. Carter is going to have to learn how to physically protect himself tonight, or this could get incredibly ugly..."
Down on the pitch.
The referee was currently delivering a stern verbal warning to Cana.
Meanwhile, Atlético captain Gabi leaned in close to Shane, covering his mouth. "Keep your distance from that lunatic. He is out of his goddamn mind."
"Don't worry, Cap. I can handle it," Shane replied calmly.
He turned his head to observe Cana, who was still casually arguing with the official.
Honestly, the guy had rather delicate, almost refined facial features, framed by flowing, elegant long hair.
His skin was surprisingly pale.
If you judged him purely on aesthetics...
Without knowing his reputation as a bloodthirsty defensive destroyer...
You would easily mistake him for an elegant, slow-moving Argentine playmaker in the mold of Juan Román Riquelme.
Clearly, you could never judge a book by its cover.
Shane withdrew his gaze and muttered, "You know, Cap... back when I was in the academy, my tactical role was actually exactly the same as his."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Gabi snorted, clearly not believing a single word of it.
Shane knew nobody would believe him.
But he knew the absolute truth about his own profile.
If the System had never intervened...
He would have undeniably followed the exact same evolutionary path as Cana, mutating into a pure, butcher-tier midfield sweeper. After all, his foundational athletic template possessed a terrifyingly high innate "Aggression" rating of 90.
Honestly... I might actually be more violent than him.
...
Cana absorbed the referee's verbal warning without a shred of remorse.
He possessed absolutely no intention of dialing back his aggression.
He was, of course, fully aware of Shane Carter's rapidly expanding reputation.
The rising maestro of La Liga.The teenage prodigy.
Throughout his career, Cana had violently snapped the ankles of more "teenage prodigies" than he could even count.
Ironically, during his own youth academy days, Cana had actually been an offensive playmaker.
But as he matured, he realized that his creative vision simply wasn't elite enough to guarantee him a starting spot in a top-tier European league.
Conversely, his defensive instincts and sheer appetite for violence were world-class.
Therefore, he fully embraced the dark side, mutating into a pure defensive midfielder.
And eventually...
He began to genuinely love his new identity.
He actively enjoyed watching globally renowned superstars and pampered attacking prodigies screaming in agony beneath his cleats.
Years ago, during an internal training match at Paris Saint-Germain...
He had ruthlessly lunged into Ronaldinho with a two-footed tackle.
The Brazilian icon had been so traumatized by the experience that even after leaving Paris, he still spoke of his former teammate with a lingering sense of dread.
Cana slowly jogged back toward the edge of his own penalty area.
The foul had occurred just outside the right corner of the 18-yard box, right against the touchline.
Lazio now had to successfully defend a highly dangerous set piece.
Miroslav Klose grabbed Cana's arm as he jogged past. "Try to avoid giving away free kicks in these specific zones."
Klose had departed Bayern Munich the previous summer, transferring to Lazio on a free.
He had instantly rediscovered his lethal scoring touch in Serie A, maintaining an incredibly high conversion rate.
He had already netted nine league goals for Lazio this season.
Assuming he remained healthy, a double-digit goal tally was an absolute certainty.
"Relax. I was just establishing dominance," Cana replied coldly. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
Klose nodded slowly. "That kid's set-piece delivery is lethal. Do not underestimate him."
Cana simply nodded, but internally, he remained entirely dismissive.
He openly acknowledged that Shane possessed immense talent.
But so what?
He was just an eighteen-year-old kid.
No matter how great he might become in the future, right now, he was just a kid.
And kids...
Always panicked and lost their discipline when they were repeatedly subjected to extreme, uncompromising physical violence.
...
Shane stood calmly over the ball.
He now possessed an absolute monopoly over every single attacking set piece for Atlético Madrid.
He surveyed the densely packed penalty area, raised his right arm, and held up a single index finger.
It was a pre-rehearsed signal indicating an in-swinging delivery toward the near post.
The Atlético players stationed inside the box immediately began executing their synchronized, decoy runs based on that specific directive.
Shane took a two-step run-up and whipped the ball cleanly into the air.
He intentionally generated a sharp, dipping trajectory aimed precisely at the near-post zone.
Radamel Falcao was the intended target making the near-post sprint, but Lazio's center-back, André Dias, clearly anticipated the danger. Dias engaged Falcao in a brutal aerial duel, utilizing his superior positioning to launch a powerful clearing header.
The ball rocketed diagonally out of the penalty area, flying back toward Shane's position near the touchline.
Simultaneously...
The Murder Machine was perfectly positioned just outside the box, tracking the flight of the clearance. He immediately sprinted aggressively toward the drop zone.
Shane instantly processed the spatial geometry.
Cana was closer. The Albanian would undeniably reach the ball first.
But recognizing this disadvantage didn't deter Shane; instead, it visibly excited him.
A terrifyingly cold glint flashed in Shane's eyes. He exploded forward, his closing speed noticeably faster than it was when he usually initiated offensive transitions.
The Murder Machine, huh?
Let's see exactly how much violence you can handle!
Cana's eyes were locked entirely on the descending ball. He raised his boot, intending to trap it softly, when he suddenly felt a violent rush of air.
A purely reflexive instinct screamed at him to poke the ball away immediately.
But at that exact millisecond...
A boot, with studs fully exposed, came flying in at terrifying speed.
Shane's studs crunched violently into the top of the leather.
The ball instantly compressed against Cana's ankle, and the sheer, transferred momentum of the tackle violently catapulted Cana off the ground.
"OHHH...."
A collective gasp echoed across the Stadio Olimpico.
Cana was literally launched into the air, crashing heavily into the turf and violently barrel-rolling several times before friction finally killed his momentum.
Simultaneously, Shane instantly popped back to his feet, tapped the loose ball forward, and prepared to launch a lethal counter-attack.
But the referee's whistle shrieked aggressively.
Shane instantly whipped his head toward the official, throwing his arms wide in pure exasperation. "I clearly won the ball!"
The referee first jogged over to check on Cana, ensuring the Albanian hadn't sustained a serious injury. Once satisfied, he turned back to Shane to explain the foul. "Your challenge was excessively aggressive. Dial it back immediately."
"Okay, okay. So that constitutes 'excessively aggressive' here, does it?"
Shane rolled his eyes.
"Carter concedes the foul! His challenge was undeniably robust," Fox Sports commentator Ian Darke noted. "However, he successfully neutralized a highly dangerous potential transition for Lazio."
Down on the touchline.
Diego Simeone was absolutely furious, screaming wildly at the fourth official. "HE WON THE DAMN BALL! HE WON THE BALL!"
After sufficiently venting his rage...
Simeone strutted back to the bench.
"Hahahaha! Attaboy! Do you remember the very first time we scouted him?" Simeone laughed, turning to Germán Burgos.
Burgos nodded. "Yeah. At the time, he played exactly like a pure defensive destroyer."
Simeone sighed, a deeply nostalgic expression crossing his face. "Honestly... watching his tape from that specific match, I genuinely believed I was looking at a younger version of myself. Who the hell could have predicted he would randomly mutate into a player with the elegance of Zinedine Zidane? Oh, and by the way, I swear his crossing technique has recently become identical to David Beckham's. Am I hallucinating that?"
Burgos looked at Simeone's genuinely regretful expression and scoffed internally.
Thank God he doesn't play like you. Who the hell would willingly trade a Zinedine Zidane for a Diego Simeone?
"Honestly, I'm beginning to wonder if we are burdening him with far too many defensive responsibilities," Burgos countered, directly opposing Simeone's philosophy. Burgos firmly believed that every single ounce of Shane's stamina should be meticulously conserved purely for orchestrating the attack.
"No, no, no. He is biologically engineered to be an elite, complete box-to-box midfielder. Confining his phenomenal talent exclusively to the offensive phase would be a criminal waste of his potential. Do you understand?" Simeone argued passionately. "He is an absolute genius defensively as well. Even if his defensive brilliance isn't as flashy or universally recognized, I see it."
Simeone leaned back comfortably into his seat, crossing his legs.
"Originally, I harbored slight concerns that he might lack the raw, physical hostility required for a European away fixture. But now... let's just sit back and enjoy the show."
"Because that Albanian thug is about to realize he brought a knife to a gunfight."
Burgos shot Simeone a deeply skeptical look.
Perhaps this was the fundamental difference between a manager and an assistant. Simeone possessed a seemingly irrational, boundless faith in his players.
But historically, whenever they reviewed the tape post-match, Simeone's instincts were almost always validated.
Perhaps that, in itself, was a form of genius.
...
Cana eventually stopped rolling across the grass.
He lay there, completely stunned.
When that kid had come flying in...
For a brief, disorienting second, Cana felt as if he were staring into a mirror.
Isn't that kid supposed to be an elegant, technical playmaker?
What kind of elite playmaker tackles with the ferocity of a serial killer?!
As Cana processed the shock, Klose jogged over and hauled him to his feet.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine..." Cana muttered, shaking out his leg. "That kid... he's a bit more aggressive than advertised."
"I warned you not to underestimate him."
Cana turned his head and glared directly at Shane.
Shane was already looking right back at him.
Their eyes locked.
To alleviate the lingering tension of the moment...
Shane offered a polite, casual smile.
Cana's expression instantly darkened into pure, murderous rage.
He interpreted Shane's smile as an act of blatant, humiliating provocation.
...
One was an attacking midfielder. One was a defensive midfielder.
They were tactically tethered to one another.
But given their respective aggression levels, it was occasionally very difficult for a neutral observer to discern who was actually defending whom.
In the fifteenth minute.
Lazio successfully regained possession and immediately attempted to trigger a rapid transition. The exact moment Cana received the outlet pass, Shane materialized from his blind spot, initiating a violent, shoulder-to-shoulder impact that completely detached Cana from the ball.
The referee didn't blow his whistle.
The physical threshold for the match had been permanently established by Cana's initial, two-footed lunge in the first minute.
The referee was allowing the game to flow, waving play on and classifying it as a fair shoulder charge.
Amidst a chorus of furious boos from the home supporters...
Shane poked the loose ball forward, preparing to accelerate.
Cana, having been violently dispossessed, instantly wrapped both arms entirely around Shane's waist and drove his legs forward into the turf.
It was a picture-perfect, fundamentally sound NFL-style tackle.
Both men crashed violently to the ground in a tangled heap.
"That is a cynical, tactical foul!"
García yelled enthusiastically from the Spanish commentary box.
Cana's tactical intent was blatantly obvious.
If he had allowed Shane to escape with the ball...
Lazio would have been subjected to an incredibly lethal "counter-counter-attack." Because Lazio had been actively transitioning into an offensive shape, their players were surging forward, leaving massive gaps behind them. If Atlético secured possession during that specific vulnerability, the resulting counter would have been infinitely more dangerous than a standard transition.
The referee sprinted over instantly.
He reached into his pocket and flashed a yellow card directly in Cana's face.
Cana didn't argue. He stood up, completely unbothered, and rapidly jogged back into his defensive position.
But over on the touchline, Lazio manager Edy Reja frowned deeply.
The match had barely begun.
And his primary midfield enforcer was already carrying a yellow card.
It was an incredibly ominous sign of things to come.
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