Michael was halfway out of his seat, his hand outstretched, a silent "NO!" strangling in his throat.
He gripped the armrest of his seat so hard his knuckles turned a bloodless, stark white.
Down on the pitch, time, which had slowed to a crawl, suddenly snapped back to vicious, real-time speed.
The kick-off pass went straight to Raphael Santos.
"The Butcher" Harris, Millwall's hulking captain, charged him like a freight train, his studs high, his face a mask of pure, malicious intent.
[Evasive Dribbler: ACTIVATED!]
At the last possible, infinitesimal millisecond, as the defender's boot was scything in to snap his ankle, Raphael did something impossible.
He shifted. His body, imbued with the system's supernatural skill, seemed to become almost liquid.
He rode the challenge, his leg lifting just high enough to hurdle the leg-breaker, his balance so perfect that he landed on one foot.
