The rain had stopped.
Only the scent of wet grass and iron hung in the air.
Julian stood near the touchline, sweat cooling under the floodlights as the crowd's roar refused to fade.
"Nice one, kid!"
"Call him up to the first team!"
"Bring HSV back to the Bundesliga!"
The voices came from everywhere — scattered, raw, real.
It wasn't just noise. It was recognition.
Julian exhaled, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small, tired smile.
He didn't raise his hands or bow to the chants. He didn't need to.
The pitch had already spoken for him.
Steam rose faintly from the ground where the rain met the heat of floodlight glare. The blades of grass glistened like threads of emerald steel, slick beneath the shadows of exhausted players.
The stadium air tasted of sweat and rain — sharp, metallic — the kind of night where victory smelled like iron and breath.
Somewhere in the stands, a camera light flickered — a fan recording the moment.
