"Thirty-six minutes played, and Leverkusen are in the ascendancy!" Derek Rae's voice rose an octave to match the swelling noise within the BayArena. "They are flooding the final third, pressing high and rotating their attack with terrifying fluidity. The Wolves have held firm so far, but it's been frantic in front of Benaglio's goal. They need a release valve, and they need it now."
The home crowd sensed blood, their roars rhythmic and intimidating. On the pitch, Hakan Çalhanoğlu received a fizzing pass and looked to initiate a quick one-two with Son Heung-min.
CRUNCH.
Junior Malanda had been stalking that exact passing lane. He threw his weight into a heavy shoulder-to-shoulder challenge, jarring the ball loose. Çalhanoğlu's hurried pass drifted wide, falling right into the path of Luiz Gustavo. The Brazilian veteran shrugged off Son's desperate recovery attempt and sliced a vertical ball straight into the center circle.
Kevin De Bruyne was already on the half-turn. He let the ball run across his body, ignited his engines, and surged into the vacuum of space.
The counter-attack was on.
After being pinned back for ten minutes, Wolfsburg had finally found daylight. The Leverkusen defenders, however, didn't panic; they retreated with practiced discipline, organizing a multi-layered blockade.
"Watch the runner!" Lars Bender screamed at Giulio Donati, but he was already too late. De Bruyne had released the ball.
The pass was a thing of beauty—a low, carpet-burning delivery that bypassed two lines of defense to find the open "corridor" on the left. David Qin flicked a glance at Donati; the two had a history of bruising encounters. But David didn't linger on the past. He dug his studs into the turf and exploded forward like a bolt from a crossbow.
The Italian fullback stood no chance. Shock flashed across Donati's face as he scrambled to recover. Only five months ago, David's pace had been impressive but manageable, his movements still carrying the raw, unpolished edges of youth. Now? This was a different animal entirely. He could only watch the number 17 jersey recede into the distance.
David charged into the box. As Bernd Leno rushed out to narrow the angle at the near post, David drew back his left leg for a thunderous strike. Every defender in the box committed to the block.
Then, the BayArena gasped.
In a move that defied the laws of momentum, David executed a "No-Look" feint—disguising the shot only to whip a low cross into the heart of the six-yard box.
TAP.
Bas Dost, the towering Dutchman, barely had to break stride to cushion the ball into the empty net.
1-2!!!
"DOEL!" Dost roared, lunging to embrace David. "Qin! You make it too easy! Can't you give me something with a bit of a challenge?"
"Tell you what, Bas," David teased, "next time, why don't you try dribbling through eight men from the halfway line and nutmegging the keeper?"
"Ha! I'd be retired before I finished the second dribble. But I think you've got a shot at it!"
As the first half drew to a close, Leverkusen refused to buckle. Roger Schmidt's philosophy was built on a relentless, almost suicidal offensive output. They threw caution to the wind, looking to equalize before the break.
Çalhanoğlu floated a sublime ball over the top, catching the Wolfsburg backline flat-footed. Stefan Kießling rose high, his header skimming the top of the crossbar. A collective groan echoed through the stands. Kießling held his head in his hands; at this level, you didn't get many second chances.
"Keep pushing! We're not going in down!" Son Heung-min shouted, clapping his hands to galvanize the side. He was in the zone, his movements sharp and hungry.
David, sensing the danger, dropped back twenty yards to assist Ricardo Rodriguez. But even his defensive efforts couldn't stem the tide. Bellarabi managed to squeeze a pass through David's legs to Kießling, who laid it off for Çalhanoğlu. The Turk feinted a shot, drawing Malanda out of position, before sliding a disguised through-ball into the path of Son.
Facing Benaglio one-on-one, Son Heung-min didn't blink. He unleashed a clinical strike that whistled into the side netting.
2-2!!!
"Equalizer in stoppage time!" Derek Rae shouted. "A brace for Son Heung-min! The connection between him and Çalhanoğlu has finally dismantled the Wolfsburg lock. This is Bundesliga football at its breathtaking best—a relentless, end-to-end spectacle!"
The home fans were in a frenzy, the chant of "Werkself!" shaking the foundations of the stadium. Son celebrated with raw intensity; he felt the gap between him and David closing with every stride.
But the euphoria lasted exactly ninety seconds.
Wolfsburg restarted the match, looking to kill the clock. Naldo, pressured by the high Leverkusen line, went long toward the left flank. David chested the ball down, immediately feeling Donati's breath on his neck.
The Italian defender hesitated, terrified of David's signature "3D" aerial flicks. Sensing the hesitation, David didn't lift the ball; he killed it on the grass, turned, and faced his man.
"Here we go," Dieter Hecking murmured, standing tall on the touchline. He could see the flaw in Leverkusen's high press—their lung-busting effort to equalize had left their recovery pace sluggish. The defensive seams were showing.
David shifted gears. His right ankle flicked with the speed of a viper—an "Elastic" or "Flip-Flap" that defied physics. Donati's body reacted, but his brain was still processing the first movement. David glided past him as if the defender were a training cone.
"A magical Flip-Flap! Absolute sorcery from David Qin!" Stewart Robson exclaimed.
David cut into the left half-space, coming face-to-face with the twenty-year-old Tin Jedvaj. The young Croatian, standing in for the injured Papadopoulos, was visibly trembling. David tested him with a flurry of step-overs. The moment Jedvaj committed his weight, David ghosted inside toward the "D."
Dost was screaming for the pass, but David saw Spahić lurking. Instead, he adjusted his stride and unleashed a low, grass-cutting drive with his right foot. It was a predator's strike—precise, powerful, and aimed with lethal intent at the bottom corner.
Leno dived, but he was chasing a shadow.
2-3!!!
Ninety seconds after the equalizer, Wolfsburg had snatched the lead back.
"Two for the boy!" David shouted, running toward the away end and holding up two fingers to the traveling fans. His eyes were sharp, radiating an almost arrogant confidence.
"HAT-TRICK! GO FOR THE HAT-TRICK!" the Wolfsburg supporters roared back, shirtless fans leaning over the railings in a state of delirium.
The whistle for halftime blew shortly after. Five goals in forty-five minutes.
In the tunnel, David saw Son Heung-min again. The Korean's face was set in a mask of grim determination. David didn't smile; he simply quickened his pace. He knew that to reach the summit of world football, he had to be the one to kick the ladder out from under everyone else.
Inside the locker room, Hecking didn't waste time with a lecture. "The plan doesn't change. We meet fire with fire. But watch the 65th and 80th minutes—that's when they'll throw the kitchen sink at us. Don't leave the back door open for their pace."
He turned to David. "David, I need you drifting inside more this half. Let's take the weight off Kevin's shoulders and tear them apart through the middle."
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