The moment Trent released the ball, Izan had already burst out from the central channel, adjusting his path in real time like a bloodhound locked onto scent.
He tore after Salah with an engine that didn't understand fatigue — seventeen years old and chasing history, chasing ghosts, chasing this game.
Salah felt him crawling up his neck, and the Egyptian slowed up, drawing Izan in like bait, trying to pin him, trap him, flick it off him for a corner — something to kill tempo, maybe waste a few seconds.
But Izan wasn't biting.
He stopped short at the last second, bracing as Salah swung his hips to angle the ball off him — and dodged.
"Wonderful read by the teenager!" Alan Smith exclaimed, not hiding his admiration.
"Izan Miura, absolutely switched on—he knew what Salah wanted, and he's turned the tables brilliantly. Arsenal aren't dead yet!"
"ARSENAL! ARSENAL! ARSENAL!" The crowd roared, embers turning to flame.
They weren't dead yet.
