Across the field stand the Rabbitohs.
Season dead. Hopes buried.
But that makes them even more dangerous.
Because when you strip a man of everything he’ll burn the world to spite you.

And tonight, in the shadows of this concrete coliseum,
They’ve come for vengeance.
Not to win, but to drag the Roosters into the dirt with them.
To offer them up like a bloodied prize to the gods of hate and history.

You can feel it.
The drums are beating.
The crowd chanting like a pagan choir.
The stadium becomes a sacred ground.
And the game?
A dark ceremony.

The tackles will be savage.
The hits? Sacrificial.
They won’t just try to beat you.
They’ll try to break you.
To make you bleed.
Because on this night, the old ways return.
And only one tribe will be left standing beneath the stars.

There will be no mercy.
No forgiveness.
No final whistle.
Only judgment.

The Roosters want glory.
The Rabbitohs want blood.

And in the end, when the dust has cleared and the screams have faded,
There will be no applause.
Only silence.
The silence of a ritual complete.