The restart rolled beneath a gray sky.
Rain stitched fine silver threads through the floodlight haze.
Bremen's bench shouted, voices sharp with new life, but Soner's sideline stayed still—calm in the storm.
Julian's heartbeat steadied with every stride back into position.
He could feel the pulse of the match again—wild, alive, yet fragile.
Freedom is fire, he thought. Control is the forge.
The stadium air carried that metallic scent of rain and sweat, an electric heaviness that clung to every breath.
The pitch shimmered under the floodlights, half mud, half mirror, reflecting the restless sky above.
Beyond the field, banners fluttered like torn sails in the wind—red, blue, white—each ripple whispering a thousand hearts caught between prayer and madness.
He glanced left and right: Fabio fixing his socks, Mageed wiping rain from his face, Luis pounding a fist into his chest like a vow.
They were ready.
The whistle blew.
