Alex sat on his bed. His room was quiet.

On his wall, the white Real Madrid shirt was hanging. Next to it was the red and blue Barcelona shirt.

Two trophies from two wars.

He looked at the empty space next to them.

He needed one more shirt. A light blue one. Manchester City.

He needed to complete the collection.

He stood up. His legs were heavy. His chest still hurt from where he had blocked the ball at the Camp Nou.

But he did not care.

He was going to the Champions League Final.

He walked downstairs. His house was... different.

It was not just his house anymore. It was a museum.

His mum had framed every newspaper. Every photo. Every interview.

"Morning, Professor," his dad said. He was drinking tea out of a mug that had Alexs face on it.

"Dad," Alex groaned. "Please do not drink out of my head."

"It tastes better," his dad laughed. "It tastes like victory."

His mum put a plate of toast in front of him. "Eat. You are too thin. The City players... they are big. You need to be heavy."

"I am stable, mum," Alex said, buttering his toast.

"Be a heavy stable," she said.

Alex laughed. His parents were enjoying this. They were happy.

That was the best part.

He arrived at the training ground. Seven forty five. Bastian early.

Bastian was there. He was sitting on the floor. He was not stretching. He was meditating. His eyes were closed. He looked like a giant, stone monk.

"Bastian?" Alex whispered.

"I am visualizing," Bastian rumbled. He did not open his eyes.

"Visualizing what?"

"The trophy," Bastian said. "It is shiny. It is heavy. It smells like metal and champagne. I want to hold it."

Alex smiled. He went to his locker, number 38.

The door opened. Harry, the captain, walked in. He looked serious.

"Morning, lads," Harry said. He did not have a newspaper. He had a binder. A thick, black binder.

He threw it on the bench.

"Manchester City," Harry said. "The Dossier. The boss gave it to me. It is... terrifying."

Alex picked it up. He opened it.

Data. Graphs. Heat maps.

His analyst brain woke up. He started to read.

Pass completion: 98 percent.

Possession average: 75 percent.

Goals scored: 100.

They were not a team. They were a machine. They were a computer program designed to play perfect football.

Antoine walked in. He looked tired. The travel from Barcelona had been long.

"The Machine," Antoine said, seeing the binder. "I hate playing them. It is like playing against a wall that moves. You kick the ball, it comes back. You run, they are there. It is... exhausting."

"We beat Madrid," Alex said. "We beat Barcelona."

"Madrid has ego," Antoine said. "Barcelona has style. City... City has no soul. They just... win. They are robots."

Mark walked in.

He was quiet. Very quiet.

He was wearing his silver 'Arrow' shirt, but he was not celebrating. He sat in his corner. He stared at his boots.

"Speed?" Alex asked. "You okay?"

Mark looked up. His eyes were wide.

"Walker," Mark whispered.

"Who?"

"Kyle Walker. Their defender. The one who will mark me."

Mark swallowed.

"He is faster than me, Professor. I watched the video. He is... he is faster than light. If I run... he will catch me."

For the first time, the Arrow looked scared. His one superpower, his speed, was not special anymore.

Alex walked over. He put a hand on Marks shoulder.

"He is fast, Mark. But is he chaos?"

Mark looked at him. "What?"

"He runs in straight lines," Alex said. "He is a sprinter. You... you are a firework. You go left. You go right. You fake. You stop. Speed is not just legs. It is brain."

Mark thought about it. "A firework," he muttered. "I like fireworks. They explode."

"Exactly," Alex said. "Explode."

Steve, the manager, walked in.

He did not shout. He did not smile. He looked... focused.

"The Final," Steve said. "Wembley Stadium. London. Our home city."

The room was silent.

"We are the underdogs," Steve said. "The world thinks City will win. They think we are a cute story. A fairy tale. They think the 'Hurricane' is a nice little storm, but City is climate change."

A few players chuckled nervously.

"They are right," Steve said.

The laughter stopped.

"City is better than us," Steve said bluntly. "If we play a normal game... we lose. If we try to pass with them... we lose. If we try to run with them... we lose."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You are the analyst. How do you beat a computer?"

Alex stood up. He felt the eyes of the room on him.

He thought about his old life. He thought about coding. He thought about glitches.

"You do not play the game," Alex said slowly. "You... you break the game."

"Explain," Steve said.

"City relies on rhythm," Alex said. "Tick, tock, tick, tock. Pass, move. They are a clock. A perfect clock."

"Yes," Steve nodded.

"So," Alex said. "We have to be... sand. We have to be sand in the gears."

He looked at the team.

"We do not play football. We play... stops. We play... starts. We break the rhythm. We foul. We waste time. We run fast. Then we stand still. We make the game... ugly. Broken. Weird."

"Weird?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Alex said. "We do things that make no sense. Mark... you do not run to the goal. You run to the corner flag. Antoine... you do not dribble. You stand still."

He looked at Steve.

"We make them think... we are crazy. Computers cannot predict crazy. They error."

Steve smiled. It was a wide, happy smile.

"I love it," Steve said. "Operation Glitch. We are going to be the most annoying, confusing, chaotic team in history. We are going to break their clock."

He clapped his hands. "Training pitch. Now. We are going to practice being weird."

The week of training was strange.

They did not practice passing. They practiced... stopping.

They practiced taking a long time to take a throw in.

They practiced running in zigzag lines.

They practiced "The Freeze".

Steve would blow his whistle, and everyone had to stop moving. Just... freeze. To confuse the imaginary opponent.

It was funny. But it was serious.

Milo arrived on Thursday.

He was wearing a suit made of pure gold fabric. He literally shined in the sun.

"THE FINAL!" Milo screamed. "WEMBLEY! THE BIGGEST STAGE!"

He had a new box.

"Boots!" he yelled. "For the Final! Special Edition!"

He gave Alex a pair.

They were not black. They were white. Pure, bright white. With a gold brain painted on the heel.

"The Professor... graduates!" Milo beamed.

He gave Antoine a pair. They were purple. "Royal purple! For the King!"

He gave Mark a pair.

They were not silver. They were... transparent. You could see through them.

"Invisible!" Milo shouted. "So Walker cannot see your feet! Genius, right?"

Mark held them up. "I... I am going to wear plastic bags?"

"High tech plastic!" Milo said. "Very fast plastic!"

Mark put them on. He ran. He looked at his feet.

"I look... like a ghost," Mark whispered. He grinned. "I love it."

Steve walked over. He looked at the boots. He looked at Milo.

"Gold suit," Steve said.

"Yes!" Milo said. "Do you like it?"

"It hurts my eyes," Steve said. "But... the boots. They are good. White, Purple, and Ghost. The Hurricane has colors. Good. Now go away. We have to practice freezing."

Milo ran off to call a magazine.

Friday. The day before the game.

They traveled to the hotel. It was near Wembley.

The bus was silent. No music. No movies.

Just focus.

Alex sat next to Antoine.

"Tomorrow," Antoine said quietly. "It is the day. I have played in finals before, Professor. World Cup. Euros. Champions League."

"Did you win?" Alex asked.

"Some," Antoine said. "Lost some. The pain of losing... it never goes away. It sits in your stomach. Like a cold stone."

He looked at Alex.

"Do not lose, Professor. For your first final... do not lose. It changes you."

Alex nodded. "We will be sand, Antoine. We will break the clock."

"Yes," Antoine smiled. "Sand. I like sand."

Saturday. Wembley Stadium.

It was a temple of football. The giant arch reached into the sky.

The locker room was huge. It was red and white.

Alexs shirt, number 38, was hanging there.

He put on his white boots. He felt... light.

He was not scared. He was focused. He was a machine designed to break a machine.

The team talk was short.

Steve stood there. He looked at them.

"You are Arsenal," he said. "They are City. They are perfect. We are not perfect."

He smiled.

"We are better. We are human. We have heart. We have anger. We have love."

He pointed at Alex, Antoine, and Mark.

"The Hurricane. Today... you do not just blow. You destroy. You break their system. You make them panic."

He opened the door.

"Go. Become legends."

They walked out.

The noise was loud at the Emirates. It was loud at Anfield.

Wembley was different. It was a wall of noise that vibrated in your bones.

Ninety thousand people. Half blue. Half red.

The Champions League anthem played. It sounded louder, deeper.

Alex looked at the City players.

They looked... calm. They looked like robots.

Walker, the defender, was looking at Mark. He looked bored.

Mark was vibrating. His invisible boots were tapping on the grass.

The whistle blew.

The game started.

City took the ball. Tick. Tock.

Pass. Move. Pass. Move.

They were perfect. They kept the ball for five minutes. Arsenal did not touch it.

The crowd started to get nervous.

"Professor!" Bastian yelled. "The glitch! Now!"

Alex saw the pattern. City was building a rhythm.

He ran.

He did not run at the ball. He ran... into the referee.

He bumped into the referee. Accidentally.

"Sorry!" Alex said.

The game stopped for a second. The City player with the ball hesitated. The rhythm broke.

"Now!" Alex yelled.

Arsenal pressed.

Antoine ran at the defender. Mark ran at the keeper.

City panicked. They kicked the ball out.

Throw in to Arsenal.

The crowd cheered. A tiny victory.

Alex took the throw. He held the ball. He waited. Five seconds. Ten seconds.

The City players were getting annoyed. "Throw the ball!" they yelled.

Alex threw it. To Bastian.

Bastian headed it back to Alex.

Alex headed it back to Bastian.

They played head tennis in their own half.

The City players were confused. This was not football. This was... nonsense.

They started to get angry. They started to leave their positions.

They chased the ball.

The clock broke. The machine malfunctioned.

Alex got the ball on the ground.

A City midfielder charged at him.

Alex stopped. He froze.

The midfielder ran past him.

Alex passed. To Antoine.

Antoine did a magic spin. He held the ball. He waited.

A defender kicked him.

Foul.

The game stopped again.

Arsenal was slowing it down. Breaking it up. Making it weird.

City was furious. Their manager, on the sideline, was waving his arms. "PLAY FOOTBALL!" he screamed.

"No," Alex whispered. "We play Chaos."

Halftime. Zero zero.

It was an ugly game. A strange game.

But City had not scored. The machine had zero shots.

Steve was happy. "It is working! They are crazy! They are angry! Now... second half. We switch."

"Switch?" Mark asked.

"Yes," Steve said. "We stop being sand. We become... the storm. They are frustrated. They are pushing high. They want to score. Now... we use the Speed."

He looked at Mark.

"Walker is annoyed. He is bored. He thinks you are lazy. Surprise him."

Second half.

City attacked. They were angry. They pushed everyone forward.

They lost the ball. Bastian won a tackle.

He passed to Alex.

Alex turned.

He saw the City defense. They were high. They were near the halfway line.

Walker was there. He was looking at Mark.

Mark was standing still. Looking at his invisible boots.

Then... Alex made eye contact.

Mark looked up.

GO.

Mark exploded.

He was not a ghost. He was a rocket.

Walker reacted. He was fast. He turned.

But Mark had the jump.

Alex hit the pass.

It was the pass of his life.

He did not curl it. He did not chip it.

He drove it. A straight, low, hard arrow of a pass. It cut the grass.

It went right through the City defense.

Mark ran onto it.

Walker was chasing. He was gaining.

Mark felt him.

Mark did not panic. He remembered the training. Be smart.

He cut across Walker's path.

Walker clipped his heels.

Mark stumbled.

He could have fallen. He could have won a penalty. Red card for Walker.

But Mark... he wanted the goal.

He stayed on his feet. He used his balance.

He stumbled... and kept running.

He was one on one with the keeper.

The keeper was huge. He filled the goal.

Mark had one chance.

He did not shoot.

He stepped over the ball. A stepover.

The keeper froze.

Mark tapped the ball to the side.

He ran around the keeper.

The goal was empty.

Mark walked the ball to the line.

He stopped it on the line.

He looked at Walker, who was sliding in, desperate.

Mark waited. One second.

Then... he tapped it in.

GOAL.

One zero.

Wembley exploded. The sound was not human. It was an earthquake.

Mark ran to the corner.

He did it.

He pointed to his head. Brains.

He pointed to Alex.

Alex ran over. Antoine ran over.

They hugged. The Hurricane.

One zero. Fifty fifth minute.

Now... the war began.

City threw everything. They attacked. They shot.

Bastian blocked. Harry tackled.

Alex ran until he could not feel his feet.

He was the shield. He was the rock. He was the sand.

He was everything.

Ninetieth minute.

Four minutes of added time.

City had a free kick. On the edge of the box.

Their star player stepped up.

He hit it.

It curled over the wall.

It was going in. Top corner.

The Arsenal keeper flew.

He touched it. Just a fingertip.

The ball hit the bar.

CLANG.

It bounced down. On the line.

Alex was there.

A City striker was there.

They both slid.

Alex got there first.

He kicked it away.

He cleared it.

The whistle blew.

The final whistle.

Arsenal 1. Manchester City 0.

Champions of Europe.

Alex fell to the ground. He was crying. He could not stop.

He felt hands on him.

Mark was there. Antoine was there.

"WE DID IT!" Mark screamed, tears running down his face. "WE ARE LEGENDS!"

"The Professor!" Antoine yelled. "The King Slayer! The Champion!"

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