Michael's heart just… stopped.

He watched, as if in slow motion, as Sam Jones, his "OP Keeper," flew through the air, his glove just… inches… away.

He wasn't going to make it.

The shot from De Bruyne was just too perfect.

TING!

The ball smashed off the inside of the post, a sound that broke 45,000 red-and-white hearts, and rippled the back of the net.

Goal. 1-1.

The 45,000 Man City fans, who had been stunned into silence, erupted.

The sound was a deafening, arrogant, "we-were-just-playing-with-you" roar.

De Bruyne didn't even celebrate. He just… turned, and started jogging back to the center, his face a mask of cold, terrifying, professionalism.

"GOOOOOOOAL! IT WAS INEVITABLE!" the commentator shrieked, his voice almost relieved. "DE BRUYNE! A GOAL OF PURE, COLD, WORLD-CLASS GENIUS! And just like that, Wembley is blue! 1-1! The dream… is over. The 'Horror Movie'… has begun."

The Man City players, who had been angry before, were now just… cold.

Bop. Bop. Bop.

One-touch, perfect, triangles of passing that had the "Barnsley Braves" chasing ghosts.

"They… they can't get the ball," Michael whispered, his heart a cold, heavy stone.

"It's a "passing carousel"!" the commentator yelled.

"Barnsley are exhausted! They can't get near them! City are… they're just… better!"

The "war" speech was failing.

Finn Riley, the 'Wild Fox,' was still hunting Doku.

But now, Doku was just… passing it. First time. And Finn was just… running.

Danny Fletcher, the 'Brain,' was still being Haaland's "shadow." But Haaland was just… leaning on him. The giant, blond, 6'5" robot was just… tiring him out.

The 60th minute.

Doku got the ball. He just… kicked it, 10 yards ahead of him. And ran.

Finn, his lungs on fire, his [PA 92] legs now feeling like [CA 20] blocks of concrete, just… chased.

He wouldn't… he couldn't… give up.

Clatter!

He didn't even foul him. He just… fell. His legs just… stopped. He collapsed, a heap of pure, red-shirted exhaustion, right at Doku's feet.

Doku just… skipped over him.

PHWEEEEET!

The referee blew his whistle. The game stopped.

Finn… wasn't getting up.

He was on his back, his face a mask of pure, red-hot, agony. He was clutching his hamstring.

He was done.

"Oh, no," Michael breathed.

"No, no, no… not him."

The stretcher was coming on.

"And that… that might be the final nail in the coffin," the commentator said, his voice a low, sad, eulogy. "Finn Riley… has run himself… into the ground. He gave everything. But… it wasn't enough. What a heartbreaking, heroic, image."

Michael watched, his heart breaking, as Finn was carried off, his face buried in his hands.

Arthur Milton… was just… watching.

His face was a cold, hard, mask. He turned to his bench.

"Right," he rasped.

Michael leaned forward. Who, Gaffer? Who do you bring on? Another defender? Do we… do we just try and survive?

Arthur… didn't even look at his defenders.

He looked… at the end of the bench.

At the 16-year-old kid in the brand-new boots. The kid who was… reading. A thick, black, physics textbook.

"Kai!" Arthur roared.

Michael's jaw… dropped.

"No," Michael whispered, his voice a panicked squeak. "Gaffer… no. Not him. Not now. He's a basketball player! They'll… they'll eat him alive!"

Kai Sora… the [PA 97] "Bouncer"… just… looked up. He seemed… annoyed.

He put a bookmark in his book. He closed it, slowly.

He pulled off his headphones.

"What?" he drawled.

"You're on!" Arthur barked. "Get… in the middle! 'False nine'! Just… stand there! Be annoying!"

Kai just… sighed. A deep, theatrical, "I'm-surrounded-by-idiots" sigh.

He… strolled… onto the pitch.

The entire stadium… 90,000 people… just… stared.

"I… I… I DON'T… I DON'T BELIEVE… IT!" the commentator was screaming again, his sadness replaced by pure, hysterical, confusion. "Arthur Milton… has gone… insane! He's taking off his star player… and he's bringing on… a 16-year-old kid! A kid… who… isn't even a footballer! He's bringing on the basketball player! THIS… THIS IS THE SINGLE… WEIRDEST… SUBSTITUTION… IN THE HISTORY… OF WEMBLEY!"

Michael just… slid down in his seat. He covered his face.

It's over. He's lost his mind. It's a 7-0. It's the "horror movie."

The game… restarted.

And Kai… just… strolled.

He was… walking.

He wasn't running. He wasn't marking. He was just… ambling… around the center circle, his hands on his hips, his [CA 44] body looking… tiny… against the City."

He looked… like a kid… who had won a "play-on-the-pitch-at-Wembley" contest.

The City players… were baffled. What… what was this?

The 68th minute.

Barnsley… were dying. They were just… surviving.

A tired clearance… bobbled… into the center circle.

Kai… was there.

He didn't "trap" it. He just… stopped it. With the sole of his boot. Dead.

A £70-million-pound City defender… charged him. "Welcome to the league, kid." Kai… just… watched him. His face… was bored.

At the last... possible... second...

He just... flicked it. A no-look, "basketball-style," behind-the-back heel pass.

It was… physics. It was angles. It went… straight... to Jamie Weston.

Jamie… was shocked. He was in miles of space.

He looked up.

The goalkeeper, Ederson, was off his line again. He was furious about the Raph goal. He was daring him. "Go on, kid. Try it. You're not the 'Magician.'"

Jamie… wasn't.

This was 30 yards. 35, maybe. Too far.

But… Arthur's words. WAR.

Jamie… just… smashed it.

He put every… single… ounce… of his [Power Shot], his anger, his grief for Finn, his hope… his love for this stupid, insane, beautiful team…

Into… one… kick. A knuckleball that defied physics.

It swerved, left. It dipped. It swerved, right.

Ederson… dove. He was at full, full stretch.

He… wasn't… getting… there.

It was too fast. It was too angry.

BAM!

The ball… smashed… into the top, top, top corner of the net. The net… bulged…

And then…

Silence.

The entire… stadium…

DIED.

Michael Sterling… shot up. He wasn't breathing. He wasn't… anything.

And then…

EXPLOSION.

The 45,000 Barnsley fans… detonated.

"I... I... I'M... I'M... GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!

The commentator... was just... a noise.

"A... A ROCKET! A 35-YARD... THUNDERBOLT! FROM... JESUS! I... I... JAMIE WESTON! HAS JUST... BROKEN... FOOTBALL! IT'S 2-1! IT'S 2-1! IT'S 2-1! I AM... DYING! I AM LITERALLY... DYING! THE 'KINDERGARTEN'… IS WINNING! AND IT WAS ALL... STARTED... BY THE BASKETBALL KID!"

Michael… just… screamed.

A high-pitched, primal, "I-AM-ALIVE" shriek that made the City director next to him physically jump.

Jamie… was just… running. He was screaming, his face a mask of pure, red-hot, joy, as he leapt into Arthur's arms on the sideline.

They were losing. To children. And a basketball player. The 74th minute.

They were furious. They were clumsy.

Raph, the 'Magician,' got the ball. He was feeling it. He was… dancing.

He saw a £60-million-pound defender… charging him.

Raph just… stopped. And… nutmegged him.

A slow, insulting, "I-am-better-than-you" pop... right through his legs.

The defender… snapped.

He just… swiped. A clumsy, angry, "I-will-kill-you" lunge.

CLATTER!

Raph… went flying.

Inside… the… box.

PHWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

The referee… didn't even think.

He pointed… straight… to the… penalty… spot.

"A PENALTY!" the commentator shrieked, his voice now just a broken, hysterical, whisper. "A PENALTY! TO BARNSLEY! ARE YOU… KIDDING… ME?! RAPH SANTOS… IS TOO MAGIC! HE'S TOO GOOD! HE'S... HE'S... BROKEN... THEM! AND... WAIT... WHO... WHO IS TAKING IT?"

Michael's heart… stopped. Again.

"My heart," he gasped.

"It can't… it can't take… this…"

Jamie… was the taker. But he was… panting. He was exhausted from his goal.

Raph… had won it. But he was… limping.

And then… the camera… panned.

Walking… slowly… out of the center-back position… his face... as calm... as ice...

...was Danny Fletcher.

He… calmly… took the ball. He… placed it... on the spot. He… was smiling.

The 75th minute. 2-1. A penalty… to make it 3-1.

Michael Sterling… just… closed his eyes.

"Just… put it in, 'Brain,'" he whispered. "Please… just… end this."

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