No Europa League.
No Champions League.
No European nights next season.
A season already spiraling in the league had been handed its final verdict here. United's last lifeline had snapped, and it had snapped spectacularly.
"And that's the cruel truth of knockout football," the commentator continued. "You can win the first leg by two. You can walk into the return leg confident. But if you switch off—if you hesitate—even once—someone will punish you. Tonight, that someone was Lukas Brandt."
The camera found him briefly on the bench. Wrapped in ice, hair damp with sweat, eyes still burning. Not celebrating wildly. Just watching. Taking it in.
On the pitch, the Frankfurt players gathered themselves, then turned as one toward the corner where their supporters were packed tight. They formed a line. Arms around shoulders. Jumping. Clapping. Singing.
They bowed.
They pointed.
They beat their chests.
