Gabriel reacted first, throwing himself at it, heading clear with every sinew straining.
The ball skidded away from the crowded box—straight to Izan.
The 17-year-old's boots kissed the ball in stride, and his head snapped up once.
Space. There was space.
The pitch stretched before him like an open highway, and like an F1 car, suddenly taken from a school zone into the Intelagos, Izan shot forward.
"And now Izan… oh my word—look at him go!" Robbie Savage roared.
The stadium's noise fractured into disbelief as Izan's speed ignited—his acceleration was savage, tearing through the green like a blade, a blur of red separating from the swarm of white still clambering in Arsenal's box.
"THIS is what they feared!" Darke cried, voice shaking with the urgency.
"Izan Miura Hernández, breaking—like a bullet—like a storm—Arsenal have a chance to turn it all around right here!"
The crowd rose as one, the tension vibrating in the air.
A throw-in had turned into a thunderclap.
