"I am at the stadium. Your mum is here. The noise... just... be smart, son. And be brave. I am so proud."

Alex put his phone away. Be smart. Be brave. Be an "angry rock". He could do that.

The Emirates was not a stadium. It was a giant, red and white, roaring monster.

When Alex walked into the locker room, he could feel the building shake. The fans were already singing.

He sat at his locker, number 38. He was starting. The 'Diamond Hurricane'. Alex, Antoine, and Harry. With Mark as the first striker, and another hardworking forward, Trossard, beside him.

No. That was the old plan.

The manager, Steve, walked in. He put the tactics board up.

Alexs name was at the bottom of the diamond. The shield.

Antoines name was at the top. The sword.

Harrys name was at striker.

And... Trossards name was next to him.

Mark... Mark was on the bench.

"You all know the plan," Steve said, his voice a low growl. "Professor. You are the rock. You stop their superstar midfielder. You be boring. You be stable. You win."

Alex nodded.

"Magician. You are the magic. You make them run. You make them look stupid. You fight."

Antoine nodded.

"Harry, Trossard. You run. You fight. You be a problem."

He looked at the bench. He looked right at Mark.

"Speed. You are the missile. You are the 'thirty minute bomb'. You will wait. You will simmer. You will watch. You will learn every single weakness they have. And when I let you go... you will not be chaos. You will be a killer. You will be... controlled fire. Understood?"

Mark just... nodded. Once. His eyes were cold.

"This," Steve said, "is not just an FA Cup game. This is the Derby. This is our house. They are not welcome here. Do not let them be comfortable. Do not let them breathe. Go."

Alex walked out of the tunnel.

The noise.

It was not a cheer. It was a roar. It was sixty thousand people, all on their feet, all screaming. It was pure, beautiful, red and white noise. It hit him in the chest.

He looked at the Tottenham players. They were in their all white kits. They looked... arrogant. Their superstar striker was smiling.

Their left back, the one from the U18 game, was on the bench. But their captain, a tough, smart midfielder, just sneered at Alex.

"You are the 'Professor'?" he yelled. "You look like a mascot! Go do your homework!"

Alex just looked at him. He did not say anything. He was the rock.

The whistle blew.

The game was not football. It was a street fight. At a hundred miles an hour.

It was faster than Liverpool. It was harder than Burnley.

This was hate.

Alex got the ball.

WHAM.

The Spurs captain smashed him. A late, hard, painful tackle.

The referee blew his whistle. Yellow card. One minute in.

"Welcome to the derby, kid," the captain growled, walking away.

Alex got up. His ankle was on fire. He did not care. He was an angry rock.

He got the ball again. He was stable. He passed it. One touch. To Antoine.

Antoine got the ball.

WHAM.

Another player smashed him.

This was the game.

Alexs analyst brain was working. But it was not just data. It was... anger.

He was the shield. He was the rock. He was... everywhere.

He ran. He tackled. He was not a 'duck'. He was not a 'sparrow'.

He was a hawk.

He saw the pass before it happened. He intercepted it.

He got hit. He stayed on his feet.

He saw their fast, Korean winger. He got his body in the way. He was not strong. But he was smart. He was 'annoying'.

He was winning.

Antoine was magic. He was getting kicked. He was getting up. He was... fighting. He was not just an artist. He was a warrior.

The first half was a beautiful, ugly, fast, angry, stalemate.

Halftime. Zero zero.

The locker room was just... panting.

"Good," Steve said. "Good! You are fighting! They are angry! They are... frustrated. They think we are soft. We are not soft. Look at them! They are tired! They have been chasing you, Magician! They have been hitting you, Professor!"

He looked at Alex. "You are not a rock. You are... a wall. You are a genius."

He looked at the bench. He looked at Mark.

Mark was just... watching. His eyes were not moving. He was analyzing.

"Not yet, Speed," Steve said. "Simmer. Ten more minutes."

The second half started. The 'Diamond Hurricane' was working.

Alex was the shield, winning the ball, feeding it.

Antoine was the sword, pulling players, creating space.

Harry and Trossard were running, tiring out the defenders.

The Spurs players were getting desperate. They were fouling. They were yelling.

The clock hit sixty minutes.

Steve looked down the bench.

"Mark. Go."

Alex saw it. The entire stadium saw it.

Mark ripped off his bib. He was not chaos. He was... calm.

He ran to the line. He was replacing Trossard.

He ran onto the pitch. He ran straight to the center.

He looked at the Spurs defenders. He looked at their left back.

And he... smiled. A cold, scary, predator smile.

"Professor," he jogged past Alex. "It is time. Find me."

The game restarted.

The energy had changed. The hurricane was complete.

Alex got the ball. He was deep. He was the pivot.

He looked up.

He saw Mark. Mark was on the shoulder of the last defender.

The defender was scared. He knew Mark was fast. He was giving him five yards.

Alex smiled. A new trap.

He did not pass to Mark.

He passed... to Antoine.

Antoine was in the pocket of space.

The defense collapsed on him. They were terrified of the magic.

Three players... ran... to Antoine.

Antoine just... laughed.

He had the ball. He was trapped.

He did not try a flick. He did not try to turn.

He just... passed it.

A simple, five yard, backward pass.

To Alex.

Who was now... completely, totally, ridiculously... open.

The entire Spurs team was out of position.

Alex had the ball. He had... time.

He looked up.

He saw... Mark.

Mark was not running straight. He was not running the 'fake fake'.

He was... just... standing. He was waiting.

He was playing... smart.

He was letting the defense make the mistake.

The left back, the one who was scared, saw Alex. He saw Mark.

He did not know what to do.

He ran... at Alex.

He had left Mark.

"NOW!" Alexs brain screamed.

Alex did not smash the pass. He did not chip it.

He... he curled it.

A low, fast, beautiful, 'Magician' pass. A pass he had learned from Antoine.

It bent. It bent around the last defender.

It was perfect.

Mark was not 'Speed' anymore. He was not 'Chaos'.

He was... a killer.

He ran onto the ball. He did not even look.

The keeper came out.

Mark just... touched it. One, simple, perfect, cold touch.

He poked it.

Right through the keepers legs.

The ball rolled.

The stadium was silent.

It hit the back of the net.

GOAL.

One zero.

The Emirates... was not a stadium. It was an explosion. It was the loudest sound Alex had ever felt.

He was running. He was screaming.

Mark... Mark was not screaming.

He did not run to Alex. He did not run to the manager.

He ran, at full speed, to the corner flag.

Right in front of the small, silent section of Tottenham fans.

He did not do the lightning bolt.

He just... stood there.

He pointed at his head. "Brains."

He pointed at his heart. "Heart."

And then... he just... put his finger... to his lips.

Shhhh.

The stadium went crazy.

The whole team was on top of him. Alex was at the bottom, his face pressed into the grass.

He was laughing. He was crying.

They had done it.

The final whistle blew. One zero.

They had won the war.

Alex was in the locker room. He was covered in mud, sweat, and... he was pretty sure... happy tears.

He was holding the Man of theMatch bottle. Again.

"You were a rock, Professor," Harry said, rubbing his head. "A giant, angry, smart rock."

"And you," Antoine said, putting his arm around Mark. "You... you were cold. That celebration... very cool. Very... scary."

Mark was not smiling. He was just... calm. The anger was gone.

"I told them I would make them cry," he whispered.

Steve, the manager, walked in.

He did not say anything. He just... looked at his team.

"That," he said, his voice thick with pride. "That was Arsenal football."

He looked at Alex. He looked at Mark.

"That... was the Hurricane. Good work, sons. Good work."

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