Minute 63.
A clash — sharp, metallic — echoed through midfield.
A loose ball ricocheted between Mageed and Bremen's number six, both lunging, cleats carving lines into the soaked grass.
Julian saw it first.
Half a second before the others.
Enough.
He moved.
Rain sprayed off his boots as he cut through the center like a blade through fog.
The ball bounced once — too high for control, too low for comfort — but his timing was exact.
Chest. Touch. Turn.
All in one motion.
And before Bremen's back line even reacted, the pass was gone — a threaded silver streak through the gap.
Fabio caught it in stride.
One touch.
Strike.
The keeper sprawled — glove out, desperate.
Saved.
But the ball didn't die.
It spilled, spinning free toward the edge of the box.
Julian was already there.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +50 To All Attributes]
He didn't think.
He didn't need to.
One touch forward — to set balance.
Then the strike.
Not brute force.
Not wild freedom.
