A quick break down the flank, a cut inside, a finish that left no chance.
"1–0 already?" Adeyemi sat up. "Yeah… okay."
Before France could even settle—
second.
Merino.
A quickfire double.
2–0.
The room reacted immediately.
"No way," someone muttered.
"They're cooking them," another voice said, half-laughing.
Wirtz shook his head slightly. "This is what I mean."
Lukas leaned back slightly, watching it unfold, eyes narrowing just a bit. Spain weren't just good—they were overwhelming.
Then came the third.
Yamal.
From the penalty spot.
Cool.
Composed.
3–0.
Adeyemi let out a low whistle. "This kid…"
"He's ridiculous," Wirtz said, almost in disbelief. "How old is he again?"
"Doesn't matter," Kimmich replied. "He's already elite."
The fourth followed not long after.
Pedri.
Clinical.
4–0.
The room had shifted from casual watching to full attention now.
Even the ones who had been joking earlier were quiet.
Because this—
this was a statement.
