Florentino Pérez sat in his seat high in the director's box, arms folded tightly across his chest, his jaw locked in a way that betrayed more than his expression did.
He had watched many nights in the Bernabéu where opponents broke against Real Madrid's will, nights when the Champions League seemed to bend toward the white shirts almost by divine right.
But now—now it was his own side under the weight of inevitability.
On the pitch, Izan stood like he had grown ten feet taller, chest heaving, eyes blazing as he pointed deliberately to the back of his shirt, fingers pressing against the letters of his name.
Izan Hernández.
There used to be a name that tormented them but even that wasn't on any level of what this kid was doing to them in because if tonight went as it was currently was, they still would have not won a game, ever, against the kid and no one in that stadium would forget it now, not tonight, not ever.
