In the Frankfurt technical area, Toppmöller stood with hands on his hips for a second, staring at the pitch like he wanted to freeze time and rewind it, then barked angrily at his defenders, clapping too, not praising but demanding response.
In the stands, Lukas's hands went to his head. Not in despair, but in pure frustration, the kind that looks like pain because you cannot fix it with your feet. He exhaled slowly, leaned forward, and watched his teammates gather themselves, watched them try to swallow the sting of conceding right before the break.
The stadium, which had been a weapon all night, turned into something heavier now. The noise did not vanish, but it changed tone. Less celebration. More urging. More pleading. Like the crowd was trying to push the team back into belief with their throats.
