The Camp Nou's roar surged as Santos's shot clipped the post, the ball spinning out for a goal kick.
The sound was a living thing, a tidal wave of 90,000 voices chanting "Bar-ça! Bar-ça!" that rolled down the stands.
Blue and garnet scarves were raised high, tweaking in the January chill, the floodlights bathing the pitch in a stark glow.
The scoreboard still read 0-0, five minutes in, but the air was heavy with Barcelona's intent.
The fans clapped rhythmically, their faith unshaken.
But Madrid players were veteran, they almost didn't hear the Catalan shouts piercing through the atmosphere, they were unfazed.
Barca were taking their passes to the peak, each one of them not taking more than two touches on the ball.
But Madrid's white wall stood firm, and passes alone wouldn't crack it. Elian jogged back to his right-wing spot, his breath steady, his boots planted firmly on the slick grass. His number 19 jersey clung to his shoulders, sweat already beading despite the cold.
