The stadium lights burned brighter as the clock struck 80:00.
The scoreboard glared coldly: HSV II – 0, Blau-Weiß Lohne – 2.
Soner Uysal stood on the touchline, arms folded tight. His expression gave nothing away, but the weight behind his eyes said enough. Around him, the bench was silent — tense, heavy, waiting.
Lohne's machine still hummed perfectly.
Westendorf and Alessio — two engines, one will — had smothered HSV II's rhythm, bending every phase of play to their control. Their empire stood tall, two walls of precision and pressure, squeezing the life from the game.
Soner turned.
"Julian. Warm up."
A quiet command — sharp, absolute.
Julian rose without a word. His pulse steadied, his steps already measured. He jogged down the sideline, loosening his shoulders as the murmurs from the stands began to rise.
The air was thick — rain and breath and tension woven into one.
