Raya was still on his knees, clutching his ankle.
His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his neck as adrenaline began to fade.
For a brief second, he looked ready to lie down, to let it all go.
The stadium was a blur of noise and tension; bodies scattered, lungs emptied.
But football didn't wait, and Jules Kounde knew that.
Before anyone could gather themselves, he seized the ball, his throw snapping like a whip toward Lamine Yamal on the right.
The teenager's eyes were sharp, alive as he took a touch to steady and then another to curl, a teasing ball, one of those wicked crosses that cut between doubt and disaster, bending toward the far post where Raphinha was ghosting in.
Raphinha lunged, arms out, teeth clenched, with the Barcelona bench rising.
But there was Izan.
He appeared from nowhere, like a red blur slicing into the frame.
One moment, it was Raphinha's chance; the next, Izan's boot was there, stretching, twisting, cutting across the line of fire.
