Minute 87.
Both sides were spent.
Boots dragged through puddles. Lungs burned raw.
Rain fell in relentless sheets, silver lines stitching the night together.
Every pass carried the weight of survival.
Every touch, a test of will.
HSV's midfield drew in—compact, synchronized, breathing as one.
Julian's world had narrowed again: step, breathe, press, release.
A soldier's rhythm. A ruler's pulse.
Across the field, Bremen's line wavered.
They still pressed, but their feet betrayed them—half a beat slow, half a breath late.
Julian felt it before he saw it.
The fracture.
He turned to Fabio.
"Inside-run pattern six."
Fabio blinked rain from his lashes. "Now?"
Julian's eyes glinted—silver beneath the floodlights.
"Now."
The ball came from Anssi—short, slick, spinning through rain.
Julian received it with his back to goal, two defenders crashing in.
He dropped a shoulder right.
Both bit.
He flicked behind with his heel—deceptive, surgical.
