The rain had long since stopped being a backdrop.
It was now part of the match—a fifth element woven into the tempo, clinging to skin, shirts, and blades of grass alike.
Every footfall sent water splashing; every pass skidded faster than intended.
It was miserable weather for most—but for Spain, it was a canvas.
And they were painting with fire.
The game had barely resumed from Lamine, almost equalizing, yet Spain's intent was clear.
There was no panic. No reckless reaction. Just a slow, tightening coil of possession, as they squeezed Switzerland further up their pitch.
Rodri, ever the anchor, stopped Switzerland trying to come back into the game with a perfectly timed interception. After escaping a press, he turned and recycled the ball to the left flank.
The ball found its way to Izan.
Rainwater beaded off his brow as he stared down Widmer.
The Swiss fullback waited in a low stance, cautious—he'd seen the replays and knew what Izan could do when squared up.
