The second half began under gray Hamburg skies.
The air was thick and cold — the kind that clung to lungs, turning every breath metallic and every sprint into a test of will.
Raindrops stitched faint lines across the pitch, glimmering under the floodlights.
The tempo hadn't caught fire yet.
HSV II's supporters clapped in steady rhythm, their voices echoing through the stands like a heartbeat trying to wake something sleeping.
Julian sat forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the field.
He wasn't just watching the game — he was inside it. Every movement, every rotation, every breath of space on the pitch mapped itself in his mind.
The ball shifted through midfield, and his gaze tracked it like a hunter following prey.
When Lohne's deep midfielder dropped between the center-backs, Julian's brow furrowed. There. That's the trigger. They're resetting the tempo. Baiting the press.
