Izan kept running.
There was no thought behind it anymore, at least not one he could put into words.
The sound of his teammates fighting, the desperate challenges, the supporters refusing to sit quietly and accept what the scoreboard was telling them, all of it seemed to gather somewhere inside him.
Rodri had fought.
Pedri had fought.
Cucurella had fought, and Cubarsí had thrown himself across the grass when the easier thing would have been to let Leão through.
And now that feeling was no longer scattered across the pitch.
It was in him.
It swelled with every stride, gathering until even his breathing seemed to move with it.
Then the system appeared.
[Spain still fights.]
For a moment, the words remained suspended before his eyes.
Then something moved through his body.
It was not the sharp rush of adrenaline he had felt countless times before.
This was stranger.
Warmer.
