Could the sluggishness of the Dortmund press be exploited to carve out high-value chances?
The thought flickered through De Bruyne's mind like a tactical read-out. He caught David Qin's eye, offering a sharp, subtle nod—a silent command to hunt for the pocket of space behind the backline. David arched an eyebrow in acknowledgment; the signal was received and understood.
As the match progressed, De Bruyne began to play a dangerous game of cat and mouse. He held onto the ball a fraction longer than usual, inviting the Dortmund lines to creep forward. He was baiting the trap, luring the black-and-yellow shirts into an aggressive posture that looked organized but felt brittle.
In the 16th minute, the trap snapped shut.
Roman Weidenfeller suddenly realized the peril. In their zeal to maintain a compact shape, his backline had pushed nearly ten meters higher than usual. The veteran keeper had failed to adjust his own position accordingly, leaving a gaping, unguarded canyon between himself and his defenders.
Before he could scream for them to drop back, his premonition turned into a nightmare. Junior Malanda shuttled the ball to De Bruyne. The Belgian's hazel eyes swept across the emerald turf, instantly locking onto the exposed real estate.
With a effortless swing of his right boot, he sent a long, lofted ball over the top. It was fast, mean, and laser-accurate—a deadly arc of leather that cleared the Dortmund defense like a rainbow before plunging toward the designated spot.
Out of the cacophony of the Westfalenstadion, David Qin materialized in the frame.
Weidenfeller charged out, desperate to close the distance. His recent stats might have been abysmal, but the primal instincts of a world-class keeper remained. In the heat of the moment, they flared to life. The German stood tall, eyes fixed on David's lifted foot, arms spread wide to maximize his silhouette.
He's going to hit it! Weidenfeller thought, certain that his aggressive charge had robbed David of the time to do anything else.
But as he braced for the impact of a shot, his heart sank.
There was no shot.
The moment David's left foot made contact, the penalty area became his private theater. With a touch as light as a whisper, he scooped the ball upward. It traced a perfect parabola over the reaching, helpless hands of the "surrendering" Weidenfeller.
David didn't wait to admire the view. He ignited his jets, circled the stranded keeper, and caught up with the ball as it fell, rolling it into the yawning, empty net.
0-1!
"He's scored! What a goal!"
"De Bruyne with the sudden lofted ball, David Qin with the perfectly timed run, and then—the audacity! A nonchalant lob over Roman Weidenfeller to leave the keeper in no-man's land!"
"The composure and imagination on display there... it's pure artistry. Wolfsburg strike first in the 16th minute!"
David sprinted toward the corner flag and the hovering TV cameras. He pressed his palms together, rested his head on them, and closed his eyes in a "sleeping" gesture.
With Christmas just around the corner, he and his teammates had made a pact to deliver a festive gift to the Wolfsburg faithful. This goal was the perfect opening act.
"Qin, what were you thinking with that chip?" Bas Dost asked, rubbing his massive bald head as he jogged over. "If that were me, I would've just smashed it."
"The logic is simple, Bas," David grinned. "Think a little more, do a little more. Don't let the keeper's rush panic you into a sloppy finish."
Dost nodded, though he looked unconvinced. He glanced at David's lean, lithe frame and then at his own tank-like build. He quietly abandoned any thought of imitation. He wasn't built for circus tricks; he was a target man, and he knew it.
While the Wolves celebrated, the Dortmund players stood in a haunting silence, their faces masks of frustration. Klopp had tried to inject them with his trademark "heavy metal" passion before kickoff, but humans aren't machines. They can develop an immunity to adrenaline.
Instead of feeling inspired by the soaring rhetoric, they only felt mentally spent. With Marco Reus sidelined, there was no one on the pitch to drag them out of the mire.
On the touchline, Klopp yanked off his cap and ran his hands through his unwashed hair until it was a chaotic mess. His gaze drifted past his own dejected players and settled on the smiling teenager in the green shirt.
Vitality. Joy. That was Klopp's immediate impression. He couldn't help but wonder—if David Qin had donned yellow and black instead of green, could he have healed this fractured locker room?
But there are no "ifs" in football. Klopp cleaned his glasses, rubbed his face, and forced himself to roar. "Move! Keep the pressure on! Force the mistake! We play fast!"
Henrikh Mkhitaryan nodded numbly. When you lose this often, the spirit withers. There is only one cure for such a sickness: a dominant win. A win that reminds the players who they used to be.
"Twenty minutes after the restart, and Wolfsburg are still pulling the strings," Derek Rae noted. "Dortmund simply cannot get a handle on De Bruyne."
"He's conducting the orchestra beautifully. Dost has already rattled the bar with a header, and Ginter had to throw himself in front of a Perišić rocket. Curiously, David Qin has gone a bit quiet."
David wasn't quiet; he was being stalked. Marcel Schmelzer was glued to his hip, shadowing his every move. Klopp once said Schmelzer reminded him of a younger version of himself—unremarkable talent, perhaps, but a work ethic that could move mountains.
"God, give me some space!" David muttered.
Every time he drifted inside to receive a pass from "Tintin," Schmelzer was there. Seeing the lockdown, David caught Vieirinha's eye and signaled for an overlap. He would drag Schmelzer away and open the flank.
But before he could execute the diversion, the breakthrough came from the left.
Ricardo Rodríguez and Ivan Perišić had been playing together for eighteen months; their chemistry was instinctual. Two simple one-twos saw them bypass the first line of defense. Mkhitaryan, too slight for the physical battle, was brushed aside by Rodríguez like a nuisance.
Lukas Piszczek, who in his prime could man-mark Cristiano Ronaldo into anonymity, was no longer the impenetrable "Iron Gate" of Polish legend. Perišić lunged into a direct sprint, his style as straightforward as a drawn sword.
Piszczek's first step was a beat slow.
"Perišić to the byline! He whips it in!"
"The delivery is pinpoint—he's looking for Dost!"
"Power it home!"
"STUNNING! The Dutch center-forward hammers the header home, and Wolfsburg double their lead!"
The traveling Wolfsburg fans went wild. Dost's grin was so wide it seemed to split his face. He'd never imagined that a player who started the season on the bench would be closing in on ten goals so quickly.
He knew exactly why it was happening. With the creative trio of Qin, De Bruyne, and Perišić all bringing different threats, the opposition was stretched to the breaking point. When the dust settled, Dost was always there to collect the "crumbs."
"Ivan! I love you!" Dost blew a kiss toward the winger.
Perišić moved away from the celebration, leaning toward David. "Have you noticed? Our big bald friend is getting a bit... affectionate lately."
"Only just noticed?" David joked.
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