The ball bent around the wall like it had been poured out of Izan's boot.
Sommer saw it and dove as fast as he could.
Full extension, right hand clawing at air.
But the ball dipped late, late—just as Izan had seen it would.
It clipped the inside of the post, that kiss of inevitability, and settled into the net with a muted thud.
4–1.
The stadium didn't erupt—it boiled over.
Arms rose. Flags swung. From every corner, every soaked figure in red leaped to their feet as if that goal had unshackled something inside them.
"Would you believe it? You can't script this. You cannot script this. That… that's a masterpiece. A signature scrawled on the night in red and gold ink."
[Max: Bruh, It's scripted. Even the readers know it]
Izan stood there for a moment, just breathing.
Then Nico wrapped him in a headlock from behind.
Pedri came sprinting in, clapping him hard on the back while Yamal arrived late, pointing at the ball, then at his temple, mouthing, "How?!"
