Leon had spent a full day in a state of enraged disbelief before finally, inevitably, just bursting out laughing.

It was the most ludicrous, most ingenious, most utterly Flavio Briatore thing he had ever heard of. He was a secret weapon that had been sold with a built-in safety switch.

The news had sent shockwaves through the Liverpool dressing room, where it was met with a mixture of outrage and a grudging, almost admiring, sense of awe.

"So let me get this straight," Trent Alexander-Arnold had said, a look of pure, bewildered amusement on his face.

"We paid a world-record fee for you, and we're not allowed to use you against one of our biggest European rivals? That's... that's actually genius. I hate it, but it's genius."

But the off-season drama was over.

The clause was a problem for a hypothetical future.

The present was here, and it was loud, fast, and relentlessly real. It was the opening day of the Premier League season.

The atmosphere at Anfield was something else entirely.

The San Siro had been a cauldron of passion, a beautiful, chaotic symphony of noise. Anfield was different. It was a spiritual place. The pre-game rendition of "You'll Never Walk Alone," sung by 50,000 Scousers, was a physical thing, a wave of sound and emotion that seemed to vibrate in your very bones.

In the home dressing room, the mood was one of calm, focused, and slightly terrifying confidence.

"Okay, new boys," Andy Robertson, the fiery Scottish left-back, said to Leon and Florian Wirtz, a predatory grin on his face.

"Welcome to the Premier League. The rules are simple. Run hard. Tackle harder. And if anyone tries to get clever, you have my official permission to send them into the third row."

"First game of the season, at home, against Crystal Palace," Arne Slot said as he walked into the center of the room, his expression one of calm, analytical focus. "They will be organized. They will be disciplined. And they will try to frustrate us." He tapped his tactical tablet, bringing up the formation. "We go with our 4-3-3. Isak, you are the focal point. Mo, you have the freedom to cut inside. And Leon," he said, looking at him with a steady, confident gaze, "you will start on the left. Find the space between their lines. Be our ghost. Go and give them a welcome they will not forget."

As the players lined up in the famous Anfield tunnel, the "This is Anfield" sign glowing above them, Leon felt a shiver of pure, unadulterated history. He was here. He was a part of this.

The commentator, a man whose voice was the soundtrack to a million English Saturday afternoons, was in his element.

"IT IS HERE! The Premier League is back! And Anfield is absolutely rocking for the debut of their new, world-record signing! Leon, the magician from Milan, takes his first steps onto this hallowed turf! But Crystal Palace are no pushovers! They are here to spoil the party! The stage is set! The curtain is up! And the greatest show on Earth is about to begin!"

The whistle blew. The season began.

And fifty-seven seconds later, the party was well and truly spoiled.

Crystal Palace kicked off, played a simple pass back, and then launched a long, hopeful ball upfield. It was a classic, route-one, "welcome to England" kind of play. But Virgil van Dijk, the unflappable colossus, misjudged the flight of the ball by a fraction of an inch. It skimmed off the top of his head and fell perfectly into the path of the onrushing Palace striker, Jean-Philippe Mateta. The Frenchman took one touch and smashed the ball with ferocious power past a stunned Alisson Becker.

Goal. 1-0 to Crystal Palace.

The home crowd was stunned into a dead, horrified silence.

The only sound was the wild, disbelieving celebration from the tiny pocket of away fans in the corner.

The Liverpool players just stared at each other, their faces a mixture of pure shock and "what on earth just happened?"

The next ten minutes were a complete and utter mess. The shock goal had completely rattled the home side. Passes went astray. Players were running into each other. It was a comedy of errors.

"PASS THE BALL, TRENT!" Mo Salah screamed, his arms outstretched in frustration as a cross from Alexander-Arnold sailed over everyone's head and into the stands.

"THERE WAS NO MOVEMENT!" Trent yelled back, pointing at the static forward line.

On the sideline, Arne Slot was a picture of controlled fury, his jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder his teeth didn't crack.

"WAKE UP!" he roared at his team, his voice cutting through the nervous energy. "THE GAME HAS STARTED! PLAY OUR FOOTBALL!"

But it was like they had forgotten how. The pressure of the opening day, the expectation of the home crowd, the shock of the early goal—it was all a toxic cocktail that was poisoning their performance.

In the 9th minute, another disaster nearly struck. A sloppy pass in the midfield was intercepted.

The Palace winger, the electric Michael Olise, was suddenly running at the heart of the Liverpool defense.

He shimmied past a defender, then another, his feet a dizzying blur. He was about to shoot when Arnold, in a moment of brilliant, desperate, last-ditch defending, came flying in from the side with a perfectly timed slide tackle to save the day.

"A DISASTER! AN ABSOLUTE CAR CRASH OF A START FOR THE CHAMPIONS!" the commentator lamented. "They look like a team of strangers! They are nervous, they are sloppy, and they are being completely outplayed by a hungry and disciplined Crystal Palace side! This is not in the script!"

Leon felt a familiar, cold dread creeping in.

This was the Torino game all over again. The arrogance. The complacency.

But then he looked around. He saw the fire in Salah's eyes. He saw the grim determination on van Dijk's face.

He saw the 'Unshakeable Heart' bracelet on his own wrist.

This wasn't Inter. This was Liverpool. And they were not going to lie down.

He started clapping, a sharp, insistent rhythm. "Come on!" he yelled, his voice a raw, defiant cry. "Heads up! We've been here before! We go again! NOW!"

The message, the simple, powerful belief, seemed to cut through the haze of panic.

His teammates looked at him, and something shifted.

The fear in their eyes was replaced by a familiar, dangerous glint.

The champions had been woken up. And now, they were angry.

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