"Quick throw here," McManaman noted, almost talking over Fletcher’s words. "They want to keep Valverde thinking—"
Nwaneri had already released it, and Izan t the ball in stride without even trapping it.
He let it drop just enough before flicking it high over the Uruguayan’s head — a samba twist so sharp the crowd’s noise pitched upward like a sudden gust.
"Ohhh, that’s cheeky!" Fletcher laughed, voice breaking with it. "That’s just—"
"That’s why I’m still here," McManaman finished, half under his breath.
But even before the ball began to fall again, Izan’s fra stilled.
His head tilted, a faint pause in his motion — not hesitation, but sothing else entirely.
The real move was brewing sowhere deeper, not in his feet but in that space between instinct and invention, the kind of pause where the air itself seed to tighten because an idea was about to take shape.
"Ah, fuck," Odegaard muttered behind him, the words slipping out like he’d just seen a storm cloud forming.
For the fans, it seed like the ball hung in the air longer than it should have been able to.
And then the pause ended in an explosion.
Ding,
[Rocket trait activated]
[HyperVolley activated]
The confirmation of these two traits rang in Izan’s mind as his body coiled, every muscle drawing tight in that half-breath of stillness before chaos.
The Rocket trait roared to life — a savage ignition — and his evolved Hyper Volley didn’t just join it; it rged with it.
Not two weapons.
One.
Fused into a single, devastating instrunt that seed to hum with lethal intent.
Valverde realised too late what was coming.
He lunged, shoulder driving into Izan’s side, desperation in every movent.
But the ball had already gone.
"—Oh!" was all Darren Fletcher could manage as his voice cracked mid-shot, as though his words were sprinting to keep up with what his eyes had just witnessed.
It wasn’t just power.
Power you could train for.
This... this was sothing else — sothing untad, a shot you didn’t catalogue under football technique but under acts of God.
The ball ripped through the air like it was breaking a law, the echo of the strike still hanging in the stands.
"Oh my... that’s—no... no, that’s ridiculous!" Steve McManaman’s voice was climbing without his permission, caught between awe and alarm.
Past Courtois, it scread — the Belgian fully horizontal, fingertips clawing at thin air, eyes wide because he knew he was beaten even before contact.
And then the final cruelty — the dip.
A sharp, sudden drop that kissed the underside of the bar with a tallic clink before snapping down into the net.
For a frozen half-second, no one moved or couldn’t move.
Eyes staring in disbelief at what they had seen was truly happening, and then—
"GOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL"
"Oh, Wow, Izannnn, how much more?..." Fletcher’s voice dropped, almost reverent now.
"You don’t do that here. Not in this stadium... not against this team."
But Izan had.
And every single person — fan, player, coach, stranger — was processing the sa thought: they had just seen sothing that didn’t quite fit the rules.
The noise arrived all at once, an eruption that shook the upper tiers.
Real Madrid players stared.
So had hands on their hips, so with faint, disbelieving smiles.
Vinícius let out a low whistle while Camavinga muttered sothing to Modrić, who only shook his head.
From the Arsenal bench, Arteta had both hands on his head and for the normally nonchalant Ancelotti on the opposite side, he was feeling sothing he had never experienced in all of his years of coaching.
Finality.
For the ones who were expecting a huge celebration from Izan for scoring a goal which no player wouldn’t want in his or her catalogue, all they got was an opposite reaction.
He turned, slow, deliberate, toward the Real Madrid fans, walking like a grim reaper, coming for souls.
Their jeers and whistles were already pouring down — and he drank it in.
Step by step, he reached the touchline, lifted his right hand... and placed an imaginary crown on his head with the comntary spilling into the theatre of it now.
"Dreaming of all the possibilities, and this-this is what Izan manages to pull out of his inventory. He truly is the king of the Emirates and the owner of Real Madrid at this point!" McManaman laughed in disbelief.
"That is brazen," Fletcher chuckled, "but after that... I don’t think anyone can take it off him."
In the VIP box, Komi and Olivia were on their feet, screaming with the rest of the Arsenal contingent in the stands.
Hori had both arms thrown skyward, grinning so wide her cheeks hurt while Miranda stayed seated — at least on the outside.
Calm. Professional.
But her fingers tapped against her knee in silent, giddy satisfaction.
Beside her, Florentino Pérez hadn’t blinked for a good three seconds.
He finally turned to her, lips curling into sothing between admiration and hunger.
"I’m greedy for him," he said, voice low but clear. "Very greedy."
Miranda didn’t reply.
She only let the smallest of smiles appear — enough for him to see, but not enough to give anything away.
......
The match stumbled forward in the wake of Izan’s thunderclap, as if both teams were still shaking the ringing out of their ears.
Real Madrid had the ball, then lost it.
Arsenal pressed, then eased, the tempo no longer frantic but carrying the undercurrent of sothing dangerous lurking at every turn.
Even in the stands, you could hear the conversations — the replays still looping on the big screens, hands gesturing wildly as fans tried to explain the inexplicable.
When Arsenal won a free kick thirty yards out, just to the left of centre, there was no surprise when Izan picked up the ball.
But instead of planting it down and stepping back, he glanced at Declan Rice and tossed it into the vice captain’s hands with a small, almost conspiratorial nod.
"Oh, he’s giving it to Rice!" Fletcher remarked. "Second one tonight for Declan... It has rarely happened, but could this be his second from the deadball situation for the night?"
Rice’s run-up was asured, the strike clean — a whip of the instep that sent the ball curling viciously toward the top corner.
Courtois scrambled, fingertips straining, but there was no touch.
This ti, however, the ball smacked the underside of the bar with a tallic clang, spun backwards, and rolled agonisingly along the goal line.
"Is it in?!" Fletcher’s voice cracked.
"No, no!" McManaman shouted over him. "Ascensio’s there! Oh my word — Ascensio hooks it clear!"
The Arsenal end groaned in unison, so fans already half-rising before sinking back into their seats.
On the pitch, Rice could only laugh in disbelief, hands on his hips.
Izan jogged over, gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, and both n shook their heads at how close it had been.
The ga, from there, settled into a kind of respectful stalemate —
Madrid wary of another explosion, Arsenal content to let the clock roll, the crowd still humming with the aftershocks of what they’d just witnessed.
Eventually, the piercing blast of the referee’s whistle cut through the cool night air, followed almost instantly by a swell of noise from the Emirates.
"And there it is! Arsenal take the first leg!"Darren Fletcher’s voice rose over the roar. "A night of grit, monts of brilliance, two goals that will be replayed for years to co, whether Arsenal go through next week or not. Mikel Arteta’s n have beaten Real Madrid here in North London — but this tie... oh, this tie is far from over."
Down on the pitch, players from both sides moved in a tired shuffle toward each other.
So embraced with mutual respect, others exchanged brief nods.
Vinícius Jr. patted William Saliba on the back before heading toward the tunnel.
Modrić, ever the gentleman, shook the hands of nearly every Arsenal player he passed.
Izan lingered in the middle of it all with Bellingham beside him, scanning the stands where the Arsenal fans were still on their feet, red and white scarves swaying in the floodlights.
He started walking toward them, clapping as he went, and the fans answered with a roar that seed to carry his na.
"Real Madrid will head back to the Bernabéu next week knowing they’ve got work to do,"Darren continued, his tone dropping into sothing more asured.
"They’ve been in this position before, of course, but tonight they ca up against a side who refused to be intimidated... and in Izan Miura Hernández, Arsenal had the one man capable of breaking open even the tightest of gas."
The cara followed Izan as he reached the touchline, lifting both arms in gratitude to the crowd.
"From the Emirates in North London," Darren’s voice softened as the closing music swelled, "this has been a night that reminded us why we love this ga — drama, passion, and just a touch of madness. Arsenal 2, Real Madrid 1. The story continues in Madrid. Goodnight."
A/N: Okay, guys. I have been introspecting a bit and I found myself making so of the matches ridiculously long. I got used to such writing because of the Euros arc where I had the tendency to make every ga almost perfect, with the need to emphasize on a lot of things that didn’t need such things. I am very sorry for that and that’s who I seek criticism. I will strive to do better. And as always, thanks for reading.
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