Izan tore after the loose ball like he'd been waiting his whole life for that bounce.
His boots skimmed the turf, stride light, balanced, confident.
The ball took a spin off the grass, but he killed it dead with the inside of his foot, cushioning it so cleanly it looked rehearsed.
"Arsenal could break here!" the commentator's voice climbed, rising above the swell of the crowd.
And break, Izan did.
He shifted like he was moving into a higher gear, body leaning forward as he sprinted through the middle, the red of his kit cutting through the sea of white like a flare in the dark.
But the Madrid players reacted fast, with four of them closing in: Trent from his left, Modrić straight ahead, Alaba angling from the side, and Vinícius tracking back like a blur with his exceptional pace.
It was a trap to box Izan in and keep him from advancing further, at least, that's what it was supposed to be.
But Izan didn't slow down.
