The scoreboard ticked toward the thirty-eighth minute, Real Madrid still cruising with a two-goal cushion on the night.
"They've really come to play tonight," Ian Darke said over the broadcast, his voice brimming with weight. "No half measures here, no sitting back. Real Madrid are all in, and Arsenal know it, but knowing it and being able to counter are two entirely different things."
Robbie Savage jumped in. "Yeah, they're not here to play games. Madrid are serious — they want this tied up before halftime."
On the pitch, Izan dragged the ball under his boot, the crowd rising with a murmur.
He looked up, eyes flashing at the sea of white shirts, and every time he had the ball, despite not having an impact on the scoreboard, it was like electricity sparking through the stadium.
"There he is again," Ian said, sharper now. "Izan Miura Hernández — dangerous every time he's got it at his feet."
