Dalot's legs barely closed before the ball was through, and by the time he twisted around, Izan was already curling around the edge of the box, setting his hips like he was about to clip it across the goal.
But he didn't open his body.
He let the ball trail a fraction longer.
Then—Trivela.
Outside of the boot that spun wickedly, a whip disguised as a whisper.
The ball curled viciously, swerving outside the post, but the physics betrayed it late—it came back, kissing the outside of the far post with a ping that echoed like a bell through the winter air.
The crowd erupted—not in cheers, but in gasping awe.
"Ooohhh!"
A sound of reverence.
Of shock.
Of something dazzling.
Even Onana froze.
The ball didn't go in, but the warning had.
Izan turned, already jogging back into space, his face calm, but his eyes burning.
On the wing, Saka saw the chance to strike next.
"Nuh-uh," he muttered under his breath.
Dalot was still rattled, and the right side was open again.
