The match resumed — no reset, no mercy.
Emden's throw-in arced back into play before Julian had even finished catching his breath.
But this time, the tempo didn't crush him.
It called to him.
The rhythm no longer felt like chaos — it was a drumbeat, sharp and alive, thundering through the grass, through the boots, through his bones.
Every heartbeat synced with the flow of the game.
Every sound — the roar of the crowd, the slap of passes, the breath of defenders closing in — folded into one living pulse.
Julian's eyes narrowed, lungs steady.
He could feel it now — the current beneath the chaos, the order hidden in motion.
The pitch was alive.
And he was part of it.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath, jaw tight, gaze locked forward.
"Let's close this half… with a goal."
It wasn't just a line — it was a promise whispered into the storm. A quiet oath no one heard but the game itself.
…
From the touchline, Coach Soner watched in silence.
