The tunnel lights flickered overhead as B-7 walked back onto the pitch.The hum of the crowd rose in waves — the kind that vibrated through the turf itself.
They were down by one. But there was something different in the air now.
No panic. No rush. Only quiet focus.
Bram wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist and glanced up at the scoreboard: B-8 – 1, B-7 – 0 (30')
Feine stood near the touchline, arms folded, eyes sharp. He didn't shout — just gave a small nod as Bram passed him by. A silent order.
The whistle blew. The second half began.
B-8 kicked off again, and Forga immediately looked to re-establish control. Their signature rhythm — the quick passing triangles — returned in an instant. But this time, B-7 didn't bite.
They stayed compact. Bram and Percy shadowed Forga, not diving in, not giving space. Daren lingered higher up, waiting for a loose ball.
The first five minutes were a silent chess match.
Tap. Pass. Return. Shift.The sound of boots against turf echoed like a heartbeat.
Then, in the 36th minute, B-8 finally tried to pierce through the middle — a through-ball slicing the gap between Felix and Callen.
Felix anticipated it. He didn't slide in recklessly this time; he stepped forward, letting his shoulder absorb the ball before turning sharply and clearing wide to Bram.
The counter was on.
Bram took the ball, one touch to settle, then another to push forward. He glanced ahead — Percy was breaking right, Daren peeling left.
For a split second, the faint shimmer of Replay Vision flickered at the edge of his vision. He didn't call on it — it came naturally this time, soft and instinctive, like muscle memory returning.
Three lines of movement flashed — all wrong — then one golden route glimmered faintly across the pitch.He didn't think. He passed.
A curling ball over two defenders, perfectly landing for Percy.
Percy caught it mid-stride, flicked it past his marker, and drilled a low cross into the box. Daren lunged — inches away — but the keeper dived out and smothered it.
Groans echoed from B-7's bench. So close. But the rhythm had returned.
39th minute.
Forga tried to reset the tempo, slowing play. He dropped deeper, calling for the ball — but Bram was already there.
He didn't press wildly; he mirrored. Every shift Sulfur made, Bram shadowed it — left, right, then back again. It forced Forga to retreat.
Frustration flickered across the captain's face. He turned sharply, switching the ball to the flank.
Jory was ready this time. He intercepted cleanly and cleared upfield toward Bram, who chested the ball down in stride and turned.
The crowd roared
again. Momentum was swinging.
He pushed forward, but just as he looked up to pick a pass — pain spiked behind his eyes. His vision blurred for half a heartbeat. The faint golden threads from Replay Vision flickered and vanished.
He hissed quietly, grounding his focus. Not now.
Still, he managed to send a diagonal ball toward Daren, who shielded it and laid it back to Percy.
Percy faked a shot, then drove inside — two defenders closed in, forcing him wide. He chipped it across goal — too high — but B-7's pressure didn't fade.
43rd minute.
The ball found its way back to Bram at the center. He was breathing heavier now, but the rhythm — the feeling — hadn't left.
He feinted left, spun right, gliding past one player. The crowd's noise swelled again as he released to Daren.
Daren cut in, dragging defenders with him, before slipping it back — a one-two return to Bram. Bram lunged, barely reaching it, and flicked a shot from the edge of the box — deflected.
Corner.
The dome erupted. Feine clenched his fists at the sideline — not cheering, but satisfied. The control had shifted.
Percy jogged to take the corner. Sweat dripped from his chin as he signaled with a raised hand.
Inside the box: Callen, Felix, Daren, Jory, all ready. Bram stood a little outside the area, watching.
The delivery came in fast — near-post. Felix rose for it — flicked — chaos.
The ball bounced once, twice — then B8 cleared it away desperately. The play was restart.
Bram rolled it back to Felix, who immediately played it wide to Jory. B-7 started with deliberate short passes — calm, clean, no risks. They were conserving energy, waiting for openings.
B-8 pressed harder than before, pushing both wingers high. Forga led the charge, barking orders. His stamina was still frightening; he moved like a machine.
Bram tracked him closely, never tackling, only intercepting lanes — like water shaping around stone.
"Percy," Bram muttered, voice low between breaths. "Drag him wide. Pull one out of position."
Percy nodded, darting right, forcing B-8's fullback to follow. The opening rippled across the pitch like a hairline crack. Bram noticed — there.
He signaled Daren subtly with a hand flick.
Daren understood instantly.
Felix swung it diagonally to Bram, who laid it short to Daren. One touch, two — backheel pass behind the defense. Percy cut in, struck—
Saved.
The keeper's gloves smacked the ball wide for a corner kick again.
And the crowd roared, rising to their feet again.
50th minute.
Percy jogged over to take it. He didn't look tired — his focus was razor sharp. Inside the box, Felix, Callen, and Jory were ready. Daren hovered near the far post.
Bram stayed just outside the area, hands on his knees, breathing deep. His legs were heavy now, and behind his eyes, that faint burn from earlier returned — a small pulse of fatigue. He ignored it.
"Felix!" Percy shouted — a prearranged signal. Felix nodded. The plan was in motion.
Percy's corner came in — not high, not looping — but flat and spinning, like a blade. It curved toward the near post, catching the defenders off-guard.
Felix broke free first. He sprinted in, jumped — his head met the ball like thunder.
THUD.
The ball ricocheted off a defender's shoulder, chaos breaking loose.
Bodies clashed, boots scraped — the ball hung in the air for a split second — then dropped right in front of Callen Ward.
No time to think. He struck.
A clean, brutal half-volley that screamed through the air and slammed into the bottom corner of the net.
GOOOOOOOOAL.
The stadium erupted.
Feine didn't move. He just exhaled once — a deep, quiet breath of satisfaction. On the sideline, even the B-8 coach froze mid-command.
The scoreboard changed.B-8 – 1 | B-7 – 1 (52')
The equalizer had come. Not from a miracle — but from persistence. From rhythm. From trust.
The next minutes were chaos.
B-8, furious, threw everything forward. Forga led relentless counters, weaving through midfielders like wind through grass. He unleashed a shot from twenty meters — saved by Mhed, barely. The ball slipped, but Jory cleared the rebound before danger struck again.
B-7's formation tightened. They didn't crumble. Not this time.
Bram's body screamed in exhaustion now — calves aching, lungs burning — but his mind stayed sharp. His Replay Vision flickered faintly in the corner of his sight, whispering subtle cues — anticipate there, shift right, hold three beats.
He didn't need to use it fully. He just felt it.
Every time Forga tried to build momentum, Bram was already in position to block the angle or cut the pass before it bloomed.
57th minute.
A desperate B-8 long ball soared toward the box — Felix rose higher than anyone, heading it clear. Percy collected it, sprinted down the line, then played to Daren.
B-7 broke again, this time in perfect sync — one last rhythm.
Bram followed behind, not leading, but anchoring. His vision was hazy, but the sound of the game — boots, breath, shouts — pulsed like a heartbeat. He could sense the tempo bending their way again.
Daren crossed — blocked. Corner. Again.
The tension was unbearable. Feine didn't call any instruction. He trusted them.
Percy lifted the ball again, eyes locked on the goalmouth. "Near post!" Daren barked.
The ball sailed perfectly, a spinning arc toward the cluster of players.
Felix leapt again — clashed midair — the ball deflected — and this time, it hit the crossbar and bounced down onto the line.
Callen threw himself forward — headfirst — but missed
The final whistle followed seconds later. The roar was deafening.
Bram fell to one knee, gasping. His heartbeat thundered through his skull — fatigue pressing down like a wave. But when he looked up, he saw his teammates — Daren hugging Felix, Percy grinning despite a bleeding lip, Callen on the ground laughing in disbelief.
They'd done it. They'd earned it.
Not by luck. Not by one man. By all of them.
Feine's calm voice cut through the chaos. "Now you understand," he said quietly as Bram walked off the field. "Vision isn't just what you see. It's what you make the others see too."
Bram's head lowered slightly, a tired smile forming."…Yeah," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Guess we're starting to see the same thing."
The scoreboard burned bright one last time before fading into black:
Full Time — B-8 (1) vs B-7 (1)