After the substitutions were completed, the game restarted.
Turnovers became frequent in the midfield as fatigue set in, but the core stars of both teams remained on the pitch.
On the touchline near the backfield, Real Madrid earned a throw-in.
Mosquera, who had just come on, raised his hand to signal for the ball.
Vázquez decisively hurled the ball in, and Mosquera controlled it with his chest before executing a chic turn.
With a realistic feint, he skipped past Ilie, and a horizontal pass instantly tore through the makeshift midfield line of the Barcelona B team.
"Mosquera, on loan from Getafe! A player with La Liga-level strength! This is his first game back from injury!"
"Even if Getafe sits mid-table in the top flight, a La Liga-caliber player can usually dominate when dropping down to the Segunda División!"
Near the center circle, Mosquera was oozing confidence.
He protected the ball for a few strides before poking a pass to Jesé, who was charging diagonally ahead.
The ball bypassed the defenders and penetrated deep into the Barcelona half.
Jesé was in no hurry. After drawing in a defender, he knocked the ball to Morata.
At this moment, Morata wasn't deep in the box; instead, he dropped back as a target man, using his massive frame to hold off the opposition.
With a half-turn, he tiptoed the ball back to Mosquera, who continued his forward surge.
"Not bad, big man!" Mosquera grinned.
He rounded the oncoming Quintillà and kept driving with the ball.
Morata and Jesé pressed toward the Barcelona penalty area, while Vázquez sprinted down the flank, ready to provide an outlet.
Castilla's attack swept toward the Barcelona goal like a tidal wave.
"Watch your men! Don't lose them!" Sacristán screamed from the sidelines, his heart in his throat.
Every time Castilla attacked, he felt a wave of terror.
"Campins!!" Sacristán suddenly roared, noticing his defender was out of position once again.
But before his voice could trail off, he grabbed his head in shock—this time, with a surprised grin.
"Oh... my Campins! Well done!"
On the pitch, Campins, the man usually scolded 365 days a year, finally became a hero.
Just as Mosquera was about to break into the box, Campins lunged from the flank with a decisive sliding tackle, poking the ball out of the danger zone and taking Mosquera down with him.
It was a risky "flying shovel" tackle so close to the box, the kind that often results in a penalty or a red card.
But fortunately, Campins got the ball first.
Mosquera rolled over several times, trying to bait a set piece, but the referee waved him off, seemingly telling him to work on his acting skills.
The Real Madrid fans erupted in boos. "Shit! These Segunda referees are blind!" Mosquera slammed the turf in frustration.
At that exact moment, the Barcelona B counterattack ignited.
"Find a way to get the ball to Viktor!" Campins yelled, his leg cramping immediately after his heroics.
The Barcelona players now shared a unified belief: get the ball to No. 99 at all costs.
...
"The situation has flipped! Barcelona's counterattack is lighting fast! Castilla is retreating frantically!"
"That small tank on the wing is a physical machine! After 80 minutes, Traoré hasn't slowed down a bit!"
"It's a duel against the clock! Barcelona's No. 99 center has pinned Fabinho!"
"It's clear Fabinho is running on fumes!"
...
On the pitch, Viktor strided forward.
Hearing the heavy, ragged breathing of Fabinho right beside him, he knew the Portuguese loanee had hit his limit.
"Viktor! Look back!" Traoré shouted from behind.
Viktor caught a glimpse of the ball being whipped in from the flank—a low, direct through-ball.
The ball was fast; Viktor and Fabinho chased it simultaneously.
Fabinho wasn't slow, but his exhaustion made him powerless to pull away.
On the sidelines, Zidane rubbed his bald head, his expression becoming extremely grim.
At this point, Nacho was still struggling to cross over from the other side of the pitch; Fabinho was entirely on his own.
The loanee gritted his teeth and threw his shoulder into Viktor, attempting to shove him off balance.
However, Viktor didn't budge. The Drogba template granted him elite physical resistance, and his core strength was rock-solid.
An exhausted Fabinho couldn't move him an inch.
Seeing the physical battle was failing, Fabinho resorted to a defender's desperate trick: he grabbed a handful of Viktor's jersey.
Viktor impatiently threw an elbow, knocking the hand away, and controlled the ball just as he stepped into the penalty area.
With a soft touch of his inner instep, he pushed the ball slightly ahead and prepared to strike.
This time, it was on his dominant right foot.
"Shit..." Fabinho hissed. He couldn't let Viktor finish this shot.
In a moment of pure instinct, Fabinho lunged forward and hauled Viktor down from behind.
It was a blatant take-down, a chokehold-style pull that sent Viktor crashing to the turf.
Even with his strength, Viktor couldn't withstand a foul that completely ignored the rules of the game.
"Unbelievable! Under the immense pressure from No. 99, Fabinho was forced to pull him down!"
"This foul won't escape the referee! And Fabinho is already on a yellow!"
"He stopped a certain goal, but can young Luca withstand the pressure of a penalty?"
...
The stadium was in shock. Viktor scrambled up and grabbed Fabinho by the collar.
"Calm down! Calm down, brother..." Fabinho backed away, looking helpless.
He knew Viktor was just venting; after all, earning a penalty is a massive result.
"For the next game, you can just sit in the stands and watch," Viktor snapped, shoving him away.
Fabinho's face fell. He knew a red card meant a suspension.
"Beep!" The referee rushed in, pulling out a yellow followed by a red.
Fabinho was sent off. The pull was so cynical that even without the prior yellow, it might have been a straight red.
He exchanged a dejected look with Nacho and walked off. It had been a disastrous day for him: bullied by a new striker, conceded two goals, and now a red card.
And the worst part? A penalty was still looming—one that would likely kill the game.
"It's a penalty! Will Viktor take it?" the fans in the stands buzzed.
"If he scores, that's three goals! I think they call that... wearing a hat?" one of the girls near Kanna Hashimoto asked.
Kanna giggled. "Please, it's called a hat-trick!"
...
On the pitch, Viktor turned to his teammates. "Who's the designated penalty taker?"
Truthfully, he wanted it. A hat-trick on his debut in the National Derby? Who wouldn't want that?
"It's me, but there's no way I'm stopping you from taking this," Traoré said with a wink. "Give Zidane's son a lesson he won't forget."
Viktor raised an eyebrow. "Wait, you're the designated taker?"
Traoré scowled playfully. "What's that look supposed to mean?"
...
Twelve yards out.
Viktor placed the ball on the spot and stepped back.
He took a long, deep breath.
He was one goal away from a debut hat-trick in the Segunda División.
If he scored, he would likely secure the win in the biggest game of the season.
...........