There was a moment after the match restarted—just a flicker—where the match held its breath.
No whistle. No break. No foul.
Just a quiet shift in energy, impossible to measure but impossible to ignore.
The ball moved, yes.
But the rhythm had changed.
Not slower. Not quicker. It was just... different.
It was tense, coiled like a spring pressed too tight.
Something was coming.
Everyone felt it.
Players were breathing harder—not from fatigue, but from something deeper.
Their eyes shifted faster.
Their steps grew sharper.
Like predators and prey who both knew the storm they dreaded had crept in.
The crowd still roared, but their chants began to stutter.
The thundering "Valencia! Valencia!" started losing its rhythm, broken up by gasps and silences as held notes never released.
They were waiting—not for a pass, not for a whistle but for a moment.
On the Arsenal bench, Mikel Arteta moved to the very edge of his zone.
