Whistle.
Not a sprint. No triumphant jog. Just controlled strides toward the tunnel, boots ticking softly across the turf.
Giuly's head was down, but not from shame. Focus. Breath slow. Cissé wiped his wrist across his jaw. Evra pointed once at his own feet, murmuring something to Rothen behind him—timing detail, likely. Quiet talk.
Demien came last. Clipboard pressed under his left arm. Eyes scanning—not the scoreboard.
The movement.
The rhythm.
Michel was already posted by the tunnel, shoulder propped on the doorway, nodding at nothing.
"They look good," he said, like a placeholder thought.
Demien didn't even glance.
"They'll need to look better."
Then he disappeared through the door.
No pause. No breath.
Just the sound of studs against tile.
Inside, the locker room lights hummed. Bright. Clean. Water bottles lined up, untouched. Jerseys peeled halfway. No one sat yet.
Demien walked straight to the whiteboard. Didn't touch the marker.
Just pointed.
"Giuly—left row."
Giuly blinked, then nodded. Slid down onto the bench without question.
"Cissé. Hold."
The midfielder stopped midway through sitting. Stood upright, waiting.
Demien paced once—measured. No yelling. No theatrics.
"The triangles are breaking late. That's not fatigue. That's hesitation."
He looked at Rothen now. "You're stalling on your first touch. Don't think. Shape it or send it."
Rothen nodded once, lips tight.
"Cissé," Demien turned now, "when we rotate left, you're dragging too wide. Trust Zikos to hold. Stay tighter to Bernardi. You're wasting your recovery legs on empty grass."
A towel dropped near the boot rack. No one moved to pick it up.
Demien continued.
"This isn't Feyenoord. We're not holding water here."
He looked at the group now—slowly, row by row.
"We control possession. But possession doesn't mean pace. Stop tapping the ball like it's made of glass. Cut. Switch. Hit third-man runs early. Make them chase."
He let that hang. Let the breath sit a little longer.
"They're preparing to open us up down the sides. You feel that, right?"
Cissé nodded first. Then Giuly. Rothen shifted on the bench.
"They'll pin our fullbacks. Try to stretch the press."
Demien's voice didn't rise. If anything, it dropped lower—cutting clean.
"So don't wait for me to fix it from the sideline."
His eyes landed on Morientes now.
"You hold your run one second longer in buildup—we score twice. Do it."
Morientes gave a single, sharp nod.
Demien leaned forward now, both hands on the bench in front of him.
"This isn't a story. It's a knife fight. You don't write it pretty. You survive it clean."
The locker room stayed frozen.
Then, finally, a breath from someone near the back. Giuly cracked his knuckles. Zikos laced his boots tighter.
Demien stood upright again. Looked around.
"That's all."
No rallying cry. No fist bump. Just fact.
He stepped away from the board. No marker used. No adjustments drawn.
Michel moved toward the door. Demien nodded once. Just once.
The door opened.
"Five," Michel said. Voice low.
Boots scuffed against the tile. Players stood.
Evra jogged in place twice. Rothen rolled out his shoulders. Giuly pulled his sleeves tighter.
Demien didn't say another word.
But his gaze followed each man as they left.
One thought, silent:
"Don't repeat the second half."
The door had barely finished swinging shut behind Cissé when Demien's voice landed like a blade.
"Play forward."
And then they were gone. Out. Tunnel-bound. Studs raking concrete. No music. No fire. Just breath and sweat and the weight of a one-goal lead that didn't feel real yet.
Demien didn't follow immediately. He adjusted his sleeves. Tightened the strap on his watch. Stepped into the hallway last.
46' to 50' — The Fracture Begins
The second half opened flat. Not in effort. In rhythm.
Zikos dropped too early, collapsing the midfield triangle. Cissé moved without scanning. Evra hesitated just enough on a release ball to slow a switch.
Demien's arms stayed folded, but his jaw clenched hard enough to twitch.
"Keep the triangles tight," he had said.
"Don't chase shadows."
They were doing both.
52' — The Warning
It came from Bordeaux's right. A switch that cut the shape clean open. Squillaci drifted too far central. Zikos was a second late.
Demien's feet shifted.
Too much grass behind them.
54' — The Hit
It didn't come pretty. Just decisive.
A long diagonal from Bordeaux's left back. Pinpoint. Over Evra's head.
Their winger trapped it cold. Pulled Squillaci wide with a feint. Laid it back into the box.
The midfielder arrived unmarked. One touch. Side-footed low.
Roma didn't even move.
1–1.
Snap.
The sound of Demien's water bottle hitting the turf cracked louder than the crowd's roar. Not thrown. Slammed.
Michel didn't flinch. The bench froze.
Demien pointed sharply—two fingers—then cut them across the pitch.
"Get them off," he told Michel without turning. "Now."
56' — Substitution
Cissé out.
Morientes out.
Adebayor on.
Plašil on.
No hugs. No slaps. Just out, in, and refocused. Rothen spoke quietly to Plašil before the restart—one sentence, then a nod.
Demien barked once—"Squeeze line!"—then dropped back to the technical zone.
60' to 70' — The Fire Builds
The change worked. Plašil narrowed the midfield. Zikos stopped drifting wide. Giuly dropped ten yards to collect from deeper.
Now the press clicked again. Not perfect. But tight enough.
Bernardi took a knock and waved it off.
Demien didn't sit once.
72' — Close
Giuly picked a pocket and burst through the half-space. Bernardi looped wide, pulling the right-back out.
Shot from Giuly, low and fast.
Inches wide.
Giuly didn't curse. Just jogged back.
Demien didn't blink.
81' — Warning Shot
Adebayor got free at the far post after a lofted cross from Evra—chest down, volley near post.
Saved. Just.
The bench rose, but Demien stayed still.
He leaned forward, both hands on his thighs, watching every millisecond of Bordeaux's goal kick.
88' — Pressure
Throw-in from the right. Giuly to Plašil. Back to Giuly.
Bernardi stepped in—tight triangle. Flicked it.
Rothen read the signal and darted forward, just ahead of the fullback.
Demien's hand twitched at his side. A fraction.
89' — The Breakthrough
Rothen didn't cross blind.
He waited—half-beat. Let the defender bite.
Then slid it low.
Adebayor read it first. Touch with the outside of his boot.
Keeper shifted too late.
The net bulged low left.
2–1.
Relief didn't erupt. It spilled.
Giuly clenched a fist and didn't raise it. Zikos tapped Adebayor on the chest. Roma pointed upfield—reset, no time to drift.
90'+2 — The Whistle
When it came, it sounded like breath finally exhaled.
Players clapped. One or two hugged. No shirt tossing. No leaps.
Demien turned straight down the touchline. Michel moved to his side, steps light.
"They'll expect more next time," Michel said quietly.
Demien didn't look at him. Eyes still fixed on the grass. Expression unreadable.
Inside the Locker Room – Post-Match
The door clicked shut behind him.
No voices. No celebration.
Just steam and breath and soaked jerseys hanging from tired shoulders.
Demien walked the full arc of the room. Didn't stop at any man. Didn't raise his voice.
"Same second half as Feyenoord," he said flat.
Evra looked up first—only to look back down.
Demien stopped near the whiteboard.
"You did it again."
He faced them now.
"You dropped the press. You widened the shape. You waited for someone else to make the decision."
One beat.
"Evra—pressed too early. Gave them the channel."
Another.
"Cissé—missed the second cover. Left Zikos exposed."
A third.
"Squillaci—lost shape three times. Once is a mistake. Twice is a warning. Three…"
Silence answered.
He paced once across the front.
"You think winning makes this okay?"
He let the words burn.
"Tomorrow," he said, nodding once. "We correct it. From minute forty-six onward."
He walked to the door.
Didn't grab his jacket. Didn't turn back.
Down the corridor, a staffer held the next door open.
Inside, the Ligue 1 press conference room buzzed with idle chatter and recorder checks.
Demien stepped in.
A voice near the podium spoke sharply.
"If you have any questions," the Ligue 1 rep said, "you may ask now."