"Let me talk!!!"
De Bruyne's voice cracked with raw, unbridled emotion.
You're too quiet. You're too difficult to talk to. They don't want you back.
One assist. Zero goals. Ten recoveries. Were those the only stats that mattered? The cold, calculated words of the people who had discarded him at Chelsea still echoed in his mind. Now, every time he stepped onto the pitch, a furnace roared within him. It was a fire that made him both terrifyingly clinical and utterly volatile.
Once De Bruyne was finally settled, the match surged into the 80th minute. Schalke 04 was attacking with the desperation of a cornered beast, but the Wolves refused to blink. Utilizing De Bruyne's vision and the blistering pace on the wings, Wolfsburg kept the Royal Blues on the verge of a breakdown.
"De Bruyne with a piercing ball into Bas Dost!" Derek Rae's voice boomed over the airwaves. "The Dutchman is a classic target man, much more of a physical presence than Olić. He backs into his marker and spreads the play wide!"
"David Qin is one-on-one with Atsuto Uchida!"
Uchida had been a revelation the previous season, racking up over 2,000 minutes of Bundesliga action with defensive stats that made him the blueprint for the protagonist of the popular manga Ao Ashi. The Japanese international dropped his center of gravity, his eyes locked on the ball, waiting for the split-second David committed to a move.
David glanced up. Marco Höger was closing in fast from the interior. He couldn't afford to let the play stagnate. He needed something explosive.
"Time to end this," David thought. In one fluid motion, he trapped the ball between his ankles and flicked it over his head.
From Uchida's perspective, it was as if a rainbow had suddenly arched across his field of vision. He had prepared for a step-over or an Elastico, but this piece of street-football audacity caught him completely flat-footed. By the time he scrambled to turn, David had already completed his acceleration, shielding the ball with his body.
"Oh, marvelous! Simply marvelous!" Rae shouted. "The Rainbow Flick! He's torn the Schalke flank to shreds!"
"Let's see what he does with it now!"
The Veltins-Arena, which had gone hoarse from jeering, erupted into a new wave of indignant fury. Middle fingers and vitriol formed the backdrop as David blurred toward the box. He reached the edge of the area and threw in a double step-over. Neustädter, still haunted by the earlier Rabona, hesitated, his mind racing through a dozen defensive scenarios.
David didn't overthink it. He squared a hard, low pass across the face of the box.
His target? De Bruyne.
"The Belgian holds off Matip, cocks his right leg back—it looks like a shot—but he disguises it beautifully!"
"The through-ball splits the defense wide open!"
Ivan Perišić ghosted into the box, meeting the ball perfectly.
"Perišić fires toward the near post!"
"He's found the net!"
"In the 86th minute, Wolfsburg get their third! They've surely killed off any hope of a comeback!"
Perišić grabbed David, wanting to head to the corner flag for a celebratory dance they'd joked about, but David shook him off, already heading back toward the center circle.
The Schalke fans looked like they were on the verge of a collective cardiac arrest. Adding fuel to that fire would probably result in a riot.
"Skip the celebration, Ivan. Get back. I'm actually a little scared," David muttered. He'd never seen a stadium on the brink of an uprising before. He'd heard stories about Italian ultras using flares and smoke bombs against police; he didn't want to find out if German fans were more "efficient" at it.
"Fair point," Perišić agreed. He had seen it all before back home; some Croatian fan groups had transitioned from mere ultras to something resembling paramilitary organizations.
On the touchline, Dieter Hecking looked up. The roof of the dugout was already carpeted in trash. Even the Revierderby against Dortmund isn't usually this toxic, he thought. He looked at David. The kid's flair was usually just within the bounds of "acceptable," but that second goal—the "stolen" one—had changed the narrative. To the Schalke faithful, it wasn't a goal; it was a heist.
Hecking signaled for his final sub.
"Arnold comes on for David Qin. And look at that... the Schalke fans are relentless, raining down projectiles as he leaves the pitch."
"David can't even sit on the bench; he has to run straight into the tunnel for safety," the international feed noted. "We certainly don't want to see scenes like this."
David stood at the mouth of the tunnel, grinning as he watched the final minutes. He realized he had a bit of a mean streak; the more the opposition fans spiraled, the more he enjoyed it.
But his smile vanished in stoppage time. Uchida surged down the wing and found Choupo-Moting, who cleverly let the ball run through his legs. Huntelaar was there to lash it home.
2-3!
Huntelaar snatched the ball from Benaglio's arms, screaming at his teammates to get back for the restart. He was hunting for a miracle. He wanted to preserve the dignity of the Veltins-Arena with a last-gasp equalizer. The stadium roared, the fans forgetting their hatred for David for a split second as they chased the dream of a point.
But the Wolves were street-smart. They kept the ball in the corners, playing simple keep-away. When the pressure mounted, they launched it long into the channels. Perišić eventually took the ball to the corner flag and started his own personal show, shielding the ball and wasting precious seconds.
"Perišić kicks it off Fuchs to win the throw-in! He's trying to set up camp at the corner flag!"
When the final whistle—two short blasts and one long—finally sounded, the miracle died.
WHAAA! The fans instantly shifted their hatred back to Perišić, showering him with a fresh barrage of insults.
"Full time! It's all over at the Veltins-Arena!"
"Congratulations to the Wolves! A hard-fought 3-2 victory on the road!"
"A brace for David Qin and a decisive strike from Perišić. One of David's goals was a piece of Rabona magic, while the other... well, it was opportunistic. A fan's whistle distracted the defense, and David pounced. You have to wonder what's happening to that fan right now—hopefully, he's being escorted out for his own safety!"
The Schalke fans refused to leave, hurling curses at Perišić and occasionally remembering to throw a few more toward David's general direction. The Wolfsburg players didn't hang around; they bolted for the dressing room, skipping the post-match handshakes and the press conference entirely.
Hecking might be old, but he wasn't stupid.
Only when the team bus was safely on the autobahn did everyone finally exhale.
"Why are they so terrifying?" David asked, his heart still thumping.
"They used to be miners," Olić explained. "Hard people with short tempers. And then there's that goal you scored..." He paused. "Honestly, if I were a Schalke fan, I'd probably be cursing you too."
"Haha! Come on, you guys didn't see it coming, but I did!" David bragged, showing no remorse. "And Kevin was on the same wavelength. Great minds think alike!"
De Bruyne wanted to point out that he only passed because David was waving like a madman, not because he was part of some grand conspiracy. But he knew it was a losing battle, so he just stayed quiet.
Beside them, Perišić was laughing his head off. Whether it was because of the win or David's sheer audacity, it didn't matter. They'd both been called every name in the book today, and they'd walked away with three points.
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