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Francesco reached for the remote and lowered the volume further until the television became little more than moving light.
The television faded into little more than light and motion, the voices dissolving into a soft, indistinct hum. Francesco let the remote rest on his chest, fingers loose around it, eyes half-lidded now. Leah stayed where she was, breathing slow and even, the rise and fall of her back steady against him.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
It was the kind of silence that didn't need filling. The kind that came from shared understanding rather than absence.
The days that followed passed in a rhythm that Francesco knew by heart.
Recovery. Training. Analysis. Sleep that came easier now but never quite deep enough. Meals eaten with purpose. Conversations that always drifted, eventually, back to Bayern.
At London Colney, the focus sharpened with each session. Wenger spoke less than usual, trusting the group to understand what was required. The drills were precise, compact, designed to reinforce spacing and discipline. No unnecessary risks. No indulgence.
Three goals up.
But no one treated it like safety.
Francesco felt it in the way Kanté trained as if the tie were level, in the way Özil stayed behind to repeat patterns, in the way Sánchez snapped into sprints with that familiar ferocity. Even the younger players carried themselves differently, aware that this was a European night that could define seasons.
Leah came to a few sessions, standing quietly at the edge, hands tucked into her coat pockets, watching with the same intensity she brought to matches. Francesco always noticed her, even when he pretended not to.
By the time 7 March arrived, the calm had transformed.
Not into nerves.
Into clarity.
The team bus idled outside London Colney just after midday, engine humming low and steady. The sky was overcast, heavy with that particular London grey that felt neither threatening nor kind, just present.
Francesco climbed aboard early, headphones already around his neck, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He moved down the aisle with easy familiarity, nodding at teammates, exchanging quiet greetings.
Kanté was already seated, scrolling through his phone, smiling at something only he could see. Walcott leaned back two rows ahead, eyes closed, music pulsing faintly through his headphones. Özil sat by the window, hood up, gaze distant, fingers tapping idly against his knee.
Francesco took his usual seat near the front, by the aisle. He placed his bag at his feet, rested his forearms on his thighs, and stared straight ahead as the bus doors hissed shut.
The journey to the Emirates was short, but ceremonial in its own way. Police escort easing them through traffic. Familiar streets passing by in slow procession. Fans already gathering along the route, scarves raised, phones out, faces lit with anticipation.
Someone near the back started clapping rhythmically against the seat in front of him. It didn't turn into a chant that just a pulse, a reminder.
This mattered.
As the Emirates came into view, its curved steel and glass rising out of the cityscape, Francesco felt that familiar tightening in his chest. Not anxiety. Focus.
Home.
The bus rolled into the underground entrance, the echo of the engine bouncing off concrete walls. When it finally stopped, the doors opened, and the smell hit them immediately with fresh grass, cold air, anticipation.
Francesco stood and led the way off.
Cameras flashed instantly. Stewards guided them through. The stadium loomed above, quiet for now, but charged, like a held breath.
Inside the dressing room, everything was laid out with surgical precision.
Training kits folded neatly. Boots lined up. Names taped above lockers. The Arsenal crest everywhere from on walls, on benches, on towels. Red and white dominating the space.
Francesco moved to his locker and changed methodically, peeling off layers, slipping into the training top, pulling the fabric down over his torso, smoothing it unconsciously. He laced his boots slowly, deliberately, feeling the studs beneath his fingers.
No rushing.
No wasted energy.
When they stepped out onto the pitch for warm-up, the Emirates was beginning to fill. The lower tiers dotted with early arrivals, scarves draped over seats, flags unfurled. Music played softly over the speakers, a hum beneath the noise of conversation.
Francesco jogged lightly, body warming, breath steady. The grass felt perfect underfoot that trimmed, even, alive. He exchanged short passes with Özil, then Sánchez, movements instinctive now. Shots followed. Stretching. Sprints.
Above them, banners hung heavy with memory.
European nights.
Hope.
Pressure.
By the time they finished warming up and jogged back toward the tunnel, the stadium had transformed. Seats filled. Noise rising. Energy thickening.
Back in the dressing room, the music cut out.
Wenger stood at the front, hands clasped behind his back, eyes moving slowly from face to face. No theatrics. No raised voice.
Just clarity.
"We stay ourselves," he said. "We do not protect the score by hiding. We protect it by playing correctly."
He turned slightly, gesturing to the tactical board.
"Four-two-three-one," he continued. "The structure you know. Petr in goal."
Čech looked up, nodding once.
"Back line," Wenger said, pointing. "Andrew. Virgil. Laurent. Kyle."
Robertson rolled his shoulders. Van Dijk crossed his arms. Koscielny adjusted his socks. Walker bounced lightly on his toes.
"Kanté. Granit," Wenger said next. "Balance. Discipline."
Both midfielders nodded in unison.
"Mesut," Wenger continued. "Freedom, but responsibility."
Özil's eyes flickered up, sharp.
"Alexis. Theo," Wenger said. "Width. Directness. Work back."
Sánchez clenched his jaw. Walcott exhaled slowly.
"And Francesco," Wenger finished, meeting his gaze. "Lead."
Francesco nodded, the armband already secured around his arm, fabric tight against his skin.
"The bench," Wenger added, glancing briefly. "Be ready."
Ospina. Mustafi. Monreal. Bellerín. Cazorla. Gnabry. Giroud.
Names spoken like insurance policies.
When Wenger finished, the room stayed quiet for a moment longer. Then Francesco stood.
No speech.
No rallying cry.
Just a look around the room.
A nod.
That was enough.
The tunnel felt narrower than usual.
The air was colder. Sharper.
Arsenal lined up behind the referees, red and white a solid line. To Francesco's right, Bayern Munich stood in crimson, faces composed, eyes hard.
Manuel Neuer stepped up beside him, captain's armband on his sleeve, posture tall, commanding.
They exchanged a glance.
A nod.
Respect.
Nothing more needed.
The referee checked his watch. Gave the signal.
The Champions League anthem began.
That music.
It rose into the stadium, swelling, wrapping around them, lifting hairs on arms, tightening throats. Francesco stepped forward with the referees, leading his team out onto the pitch.
The Emirates erupted.
A wall of sound crashed down, red and white scarves raised, flags waving, voices blending into something vast and overwhelming. Francesco felt it in his chest, in his bones.
They lined up.
Shook hands.
Referees first.
Then Bayern players.
Grip after grip.
Eyes locking briefly, professionally.
When it was done, the teams took their places for the photos. Eleven men shoulder to shoulder. History captured in a single frame.
Then the captains walked to the center circle.
Francesco. Neuer. The referee between them.
The coin glinted under the floodlights.
"Call it," the referee said.
Francesco didn't hesitate.
"Right."
The coin landed.
Arsenal.
Kick-off.
Francesco nodded once, calm settling over him like a cloak.
As they jogged back into position, the anthem faded, replaced by raw noise, anticipation boiling over.
Three-goal advantage.
Ninety minutes to protect it.
Or to define something even bigger.
Francesco took his place up front, glanced back once at his teammates, then forward toward Bayern's half.
The referee raised his whistle.
The sound cut through the noise like a blade.
And Europe began.
The ball rolled from the centre circle with deliberate calm, a simple touch from Francesco back toward Özil, and then into the familiar patterns Arsenal had rehearsed all week. The Emirates roared immediately, not waiting for danger, not waiting for proof. This was belief noise. Anticipation noise.
Bayern responded just as quickly.
Lewandowski drifted left, then right, testing the line, his movement subtle but constant. Ribéry hugged the flank at first before darting inward, sharp changes of direction forcing Walker to stay alert from the opening seconds. Robben, on the opposite side, stayed wide and patient, waiting for the moment when one mistake could become a sprint he would win nine times out of ten.
Behind them, Bayern's midfield triangle began to hum.
Thiago Alcântara demanded the ball early, receiving on the half-turn, body always open, head always scanning. Xabi Alonso positioned himself a few yards deeper, metronome-like, dictating tempo with one-touch passes that pulled Arsenal's shape sideways. Arturo Vidal was the chaos between them, snapping into tackles, surging forward, barking instructions in Spanish and German alike.
Arsenal absorbed it.
Kanté was everywhere at once, darting across passing lanes, pressing Thiago one second, Vidal the next. Xhaka anchored himself just ahead of the back line, communicating constantly, pointing, shuffling, ensuring the distances stayed tight. Özil floated between Bayern's midfield and defence, ghosting into pockets that made Alonso glance over his shoulder more often than he liked.
Up front, Francesco never stopped moving.
He dropped deep when needed, pulled wide to drag Hummels with him, then spun back through the centre, forcing Martinez to step out. Sánchez and Walcott mirrored his intent, one all fire and snarling urgency, the other sleek and explosive, always threatening the space behind.
The first ten minutes were tense, breathless, but controlled.
Bayern pushed.
Arsenal resisted.
At the fifth minute, Ribéry slipped past Walker with a quick double touch, cutting inside toward the box. Van Dijk stepped out calmly, body angled, timing perfect, shepherding him into traffic where Kanté snapped the ball away cleanly. The crowd roared approval.
Two minutes later, Robben tried his trademark cut inside from the right, left foot cocked. Robertson stayed low, patient, refusing to dive in. Robben hesitated, glanced up, and was forced backward.
"Good," Francesco shouted, clapping once. "Keep them there."
Bayern's intent was obvious. Early goal. Shake the tie. Plant doubt.
Arsenal refused to provide it.
At the tenth minute, Özil picked up the ball near the centre circle, pivoted away from Vidal's lunge, and slid a perfectly weighted pass into space. Walcott was already moving, sprinting onto it, forcing Alaba to turn and chase.
The Emirates rose.
Walcott crossed low and hard toward the six-yard box.
Neuer was there first, diving forward, smothering it cleanly.
Francesco jogged back, nodding once. Encouraging.
The message was clear.
They could be hurt.
Eleven minutes.
That was all it took.
The move began innocuously enough.
Xhaka intercepted a pass intended for Thiago and played it quickly to Kanté, who didn't dwell, didn't slow the rhythm. One touch. Forward.
Özil received it between the lines, back to goal, Vidal tight behind him. For a heartbeat, it looked crowded, suffocating.
Then Özil turned.
It wasn't fast. It wasn't flashy.
It was perfect.
He rolled the ball across his body, slipped past Vidal's outstretched leg, and suddenly Bayern's midfield was split open. Hummels stepped forward instinctively.
That was the trigger.
Francesco had already started his run.
He burst through the channel between Hummels and Martinez, timing immaculate, body leaning forward, hunger in every stride. Özil saw it instantly.
The pass was threaded like a needle.
Weighted.
Precise.
Deadly.
Francesco met it just inside the box, right foot cushioning the ball into his path. Neuer rushed out, making himself big, arms wide, angle narrowing.
Francesco didn't rush.
He took one more touch.
Then finished low, hard, across Neuer's body.
The net rippled.
For a fraction of a second, the stadium went silent like the world had inhaled all at once.
Then it exploded.
Red and white surged upward. Noise crashed down from every corner. Francesco spun away, fists clenched, roar tearing from his chest, every ounce of tension released in that moment.
1–0 Arsenal.
6–2 on aggregate.
Özil reached him first, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Sánchez arrived next, screaming something unintelligible in his ear. Walcott slid in from the side, laughing, breathless.
Francesco pointed once to Özil. Just once.
Thank you.
He jogged back toward the centre circle, heart hammering, senses sharpened even further now. Bayern players regrouped quickly, faces tightening, jaws set.
They'd expected a fight.
Now they were in one.
Bayern responded with fury.
The tempo increased immediately. Thiago demanded the ball more aggressively, dropping deeper to escape Kanté's shadow. Vidal surged forward, pressing higher, forcing Arsenal's back line to make decisions faster.
At the 15th minute, Lewandowski came close.
A cross from Robben curled wickedly toward the near post. Lewandowski darted in front of Koscielny, flicking a header goalward.
Čech reacted instantly, diving low, parrying it wide with strong hands.
The Emirates roared again.
"Stay sharp!" Francesco shouted, clapping, voice cutting through the noise.
Arsenal didn't retreat.
They stayed compact, disciplined, trusting the structure Wenger had drilled into them. Kanté continued to harass, to disrupt, to deny Thiago the time he wanted. Xhaka dropped between the centre-backs when needed, forming a temporary back three, allowing Robertson and Walker to stay aggressive wide.
At the 20th minute, Sánchez nearly doubled the lead.
He picked up the ball near the touchline, drove at Rafinha, beat him with a sharp cut inside, and unleashed a fierce shot toward the far corner.
Neuer tipped it over the bar with fingertips.
Sánchez cursed, clapped his hands, turned back, eyes burning.
The corner came to nothing, but the message lingered.
Arsenal were not here to defend a lead.
They were here to impose themselves.
At 23 minutes, Bayern struck back.
It started with patience.
Alonso recycled possession calmly, spreading play wide to Alaba, who pushed forward aggressively. The full-back exchanged a quick one-two with Ribéry, dragging Walker out of position.
Ribéry slipped inside.
Just for a second.
That was enough.
He played a sharp pass into Lewandowski's feet, back to goal, just inside the box. Van Dijk stepped up, tight, strong, but Lewandowski was already spinning.
The shot came quick.
Low.
Powerful.
Čech got a hand to it, but not enough.
The ball crossed the line.
1–1.
The Bayern end erupted.
Lewandowski punched the air, turning toward his teammates, eyes blazing.
Aggregate still heavily in Arsenal's favour, but the reminder was clear.
This was Bayern Munich.
Francesco stood near the centre circle, hands on hips for a brief moment, breathing steady.
"Reset," he called. "Nothing's changed."
Özil nodded. Kanté clapped. Van Dijk raised a hand.
The whistle blew.
Play resumed.
The minutes that followed were some of the most intense of the half.
Bayern pressed high now, trying to force errors, trying to create momentum. Vidal flew into challenges, some clean, some riding the line. Thiago began dictating play more effectively, pulling Arsenal side to side.
But Arsenal adapted.
Özil dropped slightly deeper, helping Kanté and Xhaka form passing triangles that relieved pressure. Walcott tracked back diligently, doubling up on Ribéry when needed. Sánchez chased tirelessly, harrying Alonso, forcing him to rush passes.
At the 30th minute, Bayern nearly took the lead.
Robben cut inside once more, finally finding a yard of space. His left-footed shot curled toward the top corner.
Čech leapt.
Fingertips grazed the ball.
It clipped the crossbar and bounced away.
A collective gasp swept the stadium, followed by thunderous applause.
Francesco turned, pointed at Čech, nodding emphatically.
"Big save," he mouthed.
Then Arsenal struck again.
Thirty-four minutes.
This one was all Walcott.
It began with a turnover deep in Bayern's half. Kanté poked the ball away from Vidal, recovered it himself, and immediately looked forward. Walcott was already sprinting down the right channel, calling for it.
Kanté released him.
The space opened like a corridor.
Alaba chased, pumping legs, but Walcott was faster. He carried the ball at full speed, cutting slightly inward to improve his angle. Hummels stepped across, trying to close him down.
Walcott feinted left.
Then right.
Hummels slipped just enough.
Walcott burst past him into the box, heart pounding, crowd rising with every stride. Neuer rushed out again, arms spread.
Walcott didn't hesitate.
He smashed it high at the near post.
The net bulged.
2–1 Arsenal.
7–3 on aggregate.
The Emirates detonated.
Walcott slid on his knees toward the corner, fists pumping, face split by a grin that was part relief, part triumph. Teammates swarmed him with Sánchez first, then Özil, then Francesco, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, shouting something lost to the noise.
"That's it," Francesco said fiercely. "That's it."
Bayern looked rattled now.
Not broken.
But shaken.
The remainder of the half settled into a tense stalemate.
Bayern continued to push, probing, searching for cracks. Arsenal remained disciplined, refusing to be drawn out, refusing to panic.
Thiago tried to speed things up. Alonso slowed them down when needed. Vidal continued to crash forward, but Kanté met him every time, an immovable force wrapped in relentless motion.
Francesco dropped deep to help link play, then surged forward again when space opened. He took a knock from Martinez at one point, stayed down for a heartbeat, then rose immediately, waving away concern.
"Play on," he insisted.
The clock ticked.
Forty minutes.
Forty-two.
Forty-four.
The referee glanced at his watch.
One minute of added time.
Bayern launched one last attack before the break. A hopeful cross into the box. Lewandowski leapt. Van Dijk rose higher, stronger, heading clear with authority.
The whistle blew.
Half-time.
Players peeled away toward the tunnel, breaths heavy, shirts damp, faces flushed.
Francesco walked with measured calm, clapping once toward the crowd before disappearing inside. The roar followed them down the tunnel, echoing off concrete walls.
In the dressing room, the atmosphere was intense but controlled.
Players dropped onto benches, gulping water, toweling sweat from faces. The air buzzed with adrenaline, with awareness.
Wenger stood at the front once more.
"We are doing many things right," he said calmly. "But remember, this is not finished."
He gestured toward the board again, already adjusting magnets.
"They will push harder. They must. We stay compact. We choose our moments."
He looked directly at Francesco.
"Control the rhythm."
Francesco nodded.
Wenger's gaze swept the room one last time.
"Be intelligent. Be brave. Be Arsenal."
The message landed.
The second half waited.
Then tunnel felt tighter than before.
Not physically as the concrete walls hadn't moved but emotionally, like the weight of the moment had thickened the air. Francesco walked at the front of the group again, captain's armband darkened with sweat, chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths. He could still feel the echo of the crowd in his bones, still hear the thrum of belief vibrating through the Emirates above them.
Two–one on the night.
Seven–three on aggregate.
Comfortable, people would say.
Francesco knew better.
He glanced back once as they reached the pitch entrance. Faces were focused now. Kanté's eyes were sharp, already scanning. Van Dijk rolled his shoulders, loosening muscles that had already been through a war. Sánchez bounced lightly on his toes, jaw set, restless. Walcott exhaled slowly, hands on hips. Özil adjusted his sleeves, calm as ever, but attentive.
Across the way, Bayern emerged with a different energy.
Hungry.
Urgent.
There was no resignation there. No acceptance. Just a hard edge, a quiet fury in the way they walked back out, in the way Lewandowski stared straight ahead, in the way Robben kept flexing his left foot as if reminding himself what it could still do.
The referee looked at his watch.
Blew the whistle.
The second half began.
Bayern came like a wave.
No probing this time. No slow buildup. No patience.
From the first touch, they pressed higher, faster, more aggressively. Alonso pushed up closer to the centre circle, compressing the space. Thiago dropped and then surged forward again, demanding the ball, accelerating the tempo with sharp, vertical passes. Vidal flew into challenges with even more bite, toeing the line between intensity and recklessness.
Arsenal were forced back immediately.
Not panicked.
But tested.
At 46 minutes, Ribéry burst down the left, exchanging passes with Alaba, forcing Walker to retreat. The cross came in early, dangerous, whipped toward the penalty spot. Van Dijk rose, headed clear, but only as far as Thiago.
The shot came.
Blocked.
Xhaka threw his body in front of it, grimacing as the ball thudded off his shin and ricocheted wide.
The crowd roared encouragement.
Francesco clapped hard, shouting, "Good block! Keep shape!"
Bayern recycled possession again, refusing to let Arsenal breathe. The ball swung right now, to Robben, who took it wide, hugged the touchline, then stopped dead. Robertson squared up, low stance, arms out.
Robben feinted.
Once.
Twice.
Then exploded inward.
Robertson stayed with him, stride for stride, but Robben had just enough space to slip the ball past his boot and into the half-space at the edge of the box. Lewandowski darted toward the near post, dragging Koscielny with him.
That left Robben room.
One touch.
Left foot.
47th minute.
The shot bent viciously toward the far corner, spinning away from Čech's reach. Petr launched himself anyway, fingertips stretching, but the ball kissed the inside of the post and rippled the net.
2–2.
The Bayern end erupted, a sudden explosion of red and noise slicing through the Emirates. Robben wheeled away, arms outstretched, face fierce with belief. Lewandowski sprinted to him, pounding his chest. Vidal roared toward the Bayern bench.
Aggregate still favoured Arsenal.
But the warning couldn't have been clearer.
Francesco stood still for a moment near the centre circle, hands on hips, chest rising sharply. He looked around.
No panic.
Just focus.
"Alright," he called out, voice strong, controlled. "Head up. Same job."
Kanté nodded immediately. Xhaka clapped his hands together. Van Dijk raised an arm toward the back line.
The whistle went.
Play resumed.
Bayern smelled blood now.
Their press intensified further, forcing Arsenal to move the ball quicker, sharper. Alonso began stepping into Arsenal's half, compressing the midfield. Thiago danced away from Kanté once or twice, wriggling free just long enough to release dangerous passes.
At 50 minutes, Lewandowski nearly struck again.
A low cross flashed across the face of goal. He slid in, stretching, boot outstretched.
Millimetres wide.
The Emirates exhaled collectively.
"Focus!" Francesco shouted, clapping again, refusing to let the energy dip.
Arsenal needed control.
Not possession for possession's sake.
Control.
Özil dropped deeper, offering himself between the centre-backs, trying to calm the rhythm. Xhaka began switching play diagonally, moving Bayern side to side, forcing them to run, to expend energy.
At 55 minutes, Arsenal finally carved out a moment of respite.
Sánchez won a foul near the touchline after bulldozing past Rafinha. He sprang up immediately, tossing the ball toward Xhaka, demanding tempo. The free-kick was taken quickly, catching Bayern mid-shift.
The ball moved through Özil, then Kanté, then back to Özil again, triangles forming, pressure easing slightly.
Francesco drifted wide left, dragging Hummels with him, creating a pocket through the middle. Walcott tried to exploit it, darting inside, but Martinez read it well, intercepting at the last second.
Bayern countered instantly.
Douglas Costa was warming up on the sideline now, pace personified, a reminder of what was coming.
Francesco clocked it.
He filed it away.
At 58 minutes, Bayern won a corner.
Robben jogged over to take it, sweat slicking his hair back, eyes sharp. The delivery was flat, fast, aimed at the near post. Lewandowski attacked it aggressively, but Van Dijk was there, planted, unmovable, heading it clear with authority.
The clearance dropped near the edge of the box.
Vidal swung a boot.
Blocked again with this time by Kanté, who somehow appeared out of nowhere, the ball ricocheting off his thigh and rolling loose.
Francesco saw it.
Before anyone else.
Sixty minutes.
The moment came from chaos.
Francesco collected the loose ball just inside Arsenal's half, body turned toward his own goal, Vidal snapping at his heels. Instead of laying it off, he spun sharply, rolling Vidal with him, accelerating into the space Bayern had left behind.
The crowd sensed it instantly.
Noise rose.
Thiago stepped across, trying to slow him down. Francesco nudged the ball past him with his left foot, powering through the challenge, shrugging off contact. Alonso lunged, mistiming it, fingertips brushing Francesco's sleeve as he surged past.
Suddenly, there was grass in front of him.
Space.
Open field.
He drove forward, head up, legs pumping, heart hammering. Hummels backed off at first, wary of committing too early. Martinez moved across, trying to close the angle.
Francesco feinted right.
Cut left.
Hummels shifted.
That was enough.
Francesco burst between them, acceleration vicious, the ball glued to his feet as if tethered by instinct. The Emirates was on its feet now, sound swelling into something almost physical.
Neuer charged out.
Big.
Commanding.
Francesco didn't slow.
He took one last touch to set himself, waited just long enough for Neuer to drop his weight, then slid the ball past him with the outside of his right foot, rolling it calmly into the far corner.
Time seemed to stretch.
The ball crossed the line.
3–2 Arsenal.
8–4 on aggregate.
The stadium exploded.
Francesco spun away, arms spread wide, scream ripping from his throat, pure release, pure defiance. Teammates flooded toward him with Sánchez first, leaping onto his back, shouting into his ear. Kanté arrived, laughing, disbelief etched across his face. Van Dijk thundered in from behind, wrapping him in a crushing embrace.
The noise was deafening.
Relentless.
Uncontainable.
Francesco pointed toward the badge on his chest, then toward the crowd, chest heaving, eyes blazing.
This was control.
This was leadership.
This was Europe.
He jogged back toward the centre circle, breath still ragged, adrenaline roaring through him. As he passed Neuer, their eyes met briefly.
Respect.
Frustration.
Acknowledgment.
The referee whistled.
Play resumed.
Bayern tried to respond immediately, but the wind had shifted.
Not fully.
But enough.
Arsenal's confidence surged after the goal. Their passes grew crisper. Their movement sharper. Kanté seemed to cover even more ground, if that was possible, snapping into challenges, intercepting passes before Bayern could build rhythm.
At 63 minutes, Sánchez nearly added another.
He picked the ball up centrally, burst past Vidal, and unleashed a shot from distance that whistled inches wide of the post. He slapped his hands together in frustration, then turned back immediately, tracking Alonso as if nothing had happened.
Walcott, exhausted but still dangerous, continued to stretch the pitch, forcing Alaba to stay honest. Özil orchestrated calmly, choosing when to slow it down, when to accelerate.
On the sideline, Wenger was already preparing changes.
He knew.
The game demanded fresh legs.
Fresh minds.
At 66 minutes, Bayern made their first move.
Ancelotti stood, calm but purposeful, and called Robben over.
Douglas Costa rose from the bench, stripping off his training top, pace humming beneath the surface.
Robben jogged off, expression tight, nodding once toward Ancelotti, then toward his teammates. He'd done his damage.
Now someone else would try.
Francesco watched Costa step onto the pitch, noting the way Walker adjusted his position immediately, the way Van Dijk shouted instructions across the line.
At 69 minutes, Wenger responded.
The board went up.
Theo Walcott off.
Mesut Özil off.
Serge Gnabry and Santi Cazorla on.
Walcott jogged off to a standing ovation, chest heaving, eyes bright. He clasped Francesco's hand briefly as they crossed.
"Good work," Francesco said simply.
Walcott nodded. "Finish it."
Özil followed, calm as ever, exchanging a quick word with Cazorla as they passed. Santi bounced lightly onto the pitch, grin already there, eyes alight with purpose.
Gnabry took his place wide, energy crackling, eager to make his mark.
Arsenal shifted shape subtly, retaining the 4-2-3-1 but injecting control and creativity into the midfield, fresh legs to manage the rhythm Wenger had demanded.
The shift was subtle at first.
Not a collapse. Not panic. Just a reminder that Bayern Munich never stopped believing, no matter the numbers on the scoreboard.
They waited.
They always did.
By the time the clock crept toward the seventy-minute mark, the game had stretched into something brittle. Arsenal still led on the night. Still held a commanding aggregate advantage. But the margin for emotional error had narrowed. One lapse. One mistimed press. One second of hesitation.
And Bayern were built to punish those.
Douglas Costa didn't waste time announcing himself.
From his very first involvement, he played as if the pitch had tilted in his favour. He hugged the left touchline, boots practically brushing white paint, drawing Walker outward, testing his legs, his patience. Each time Costa touched the ball, the crowd inhaled sharply, instinctively aware of what raw pace could do in moments like these.
At 72 minutes, he burned past Walker for the first time.
Just a glimpse. Just enough.
Walker recovered brilliantly, sliding across to block the cross, but the warning echoed loudly. Costa smiled faintly as he jogged back into position, rolling his shoulders as if loosening chains.
Francesco clocked it immediately.
He drifted slightly wider, helping Walker double up, shouting instructions, arm raised, voice cutting through the noise.
"Don't dive. Force him back. Together."
Kanté adjusted, sliding across, plugging the half-space. Xhaka stayed deeper, shielding the centre.
For a moment, Arsenal held.
Then, at 74 minutes, Bayern struck.
It came quickly.
Cruelly.
Rafinha collected the ball on the right, unpressured for half a second too long. Sánchez had tracked back all night, lungs burning, legs heavy now, and that half-step was enough. Rafinha surged forward, drawing Robertson inside before slipping a sharp, perfectly weighted pass across the top of the box.
Douglas Costa arrived like a blade.
One touch to set.
One explosive swing of his right foot.
The shot ripped low and hard toward the near post, skidding across the turf. Čech reacted instantly, dropping, arm outstretched, fingertips brushing air.
Too late.
The net bulged.
3–3.
The Bayern end detonated again, red flares of sound cutting into the Emirates' roar. Costa sprinted toward the corner flag, fists clenched, screaming into the night. Rafinha followed, pounding his back.
On the aggregate, Arsenal still led comfortably.
But the night had teeth again.
Francesco stood near the centre circle, hands resting on his hips, eyes fixed on the grass for a heartbeat longer than before. Sweat dripped from his hairline. His chest rose and fell in deep, measured pulls.
He lifted his head.
No fear.
Just calculation.
"Same focus," he barked, clapping his hands. "Nothing changes."
The whistle blew.
Bayern pressed immediately, emboldened by the goal. Vidal surged forward again, throwing himself into challenges with renewed venom. Renato Sanches had begun warming up on the sideline now, power and chaos waiting to be unleashed.
Arsenal, to their credit, didn't retreat into themselves.
They slowed the game deliberately.
Cazorla took responsibility, demanding the ball in tight spaces, drawing fouls, absorbing pressure. Gnabry worked tirelessly down the right, tracking back when needed, then bursting forward with youthful energy that contrasted sharply with Bayern's hardened intensity.
At 78 minutes, Wenger stood.
The fourth official prepared the board.
Francesco saw it out of the corner of his eye.
He knew.
His legs had begun to burn now, lactic acid creeping in, every sprint costing more than before. He'd emptied himself. Scored. Led. Pressed. Covered.
This was about control now.
About seeing it through.
The board went up at 80 minutes.
Number 9.
Francesco.
Off.
A murmur rippled through the Emirates, not disappointment, but recognition. Appreciation. Understanding.
Francesco jogged toward the touchline, slowing as he reached Wenger. They locked eyes for a brief second. No words. Just mutual respect.
Then Francesco did something deliberate.
Something symbolic.
He pulled the captain's armband from his arm and walked back onto the pitch, seeking out Laurent Koscielny. The defender met him near the halfway line, eyes questioning for half a beat.
Francesco slid the armband onto Koscielny's arm, tightening it carefully, firmly.
"You've got it," he said quietly.
Koscielny nodded once, jaw set. "Always."
The Emirates rose to its feet.
Applause crashed down from all sides, long and loud, rolling like thunder. Francesco lifted a hand in acknowledgement, tapping his chest once before stepping off.
As he passed the bench, Giroud rose, already shrugging into his place.
Power for power.
Presence for presence.
Ancelotti responded almost immediately.
Ribéry's night was done. Thiago followed him off moments later.
On came Renato Sanches and Joshua Kimmich, legs fresh, intent clear. Bayern were going for chaos now. For momentum. For overwhelming pressure.
Francesco sat down heavily, towel draped over his shoulders, eyes never leaving the pitch. His breathing slowed gradually, but his mind stayed razor-sharp, tracking every movement, every shift in shape.
Giroud took his place up front, immediately engaging Hummels physically, backing into him, contesting every aerial ball. It was a different kind of threat now. Less fluid. More brutal.
At 83 minutes, Bayern nearly found a fourth.
Costa again, bursting past Walker, whipping a cross toward the far post. Lewandowski leapt, neck muscles straining, head snapping forward.
The ball skimmed off his forehead.
Wide.
The Emirates erupted in relief.
Koscielny roared instructions, arm slicing through the air, reorganizing the back line. Van Dijk responded instantly, stepping up, holding the line.
Time slowed.
Every second stretched.
At 86 minutes, Arsenal began to sense it.
Not just survival.
Opportunity.
Bayern were committing numbers forward now, desperation creeping into their structure. Alonso stayed deep, but even he edged forward when Bayern recycled possession. Spaces began to appear wide, just briefly, just enough.
Cazorla stole a ball near the centre circle, poking it away from Vidal with perfect timing. He spun, spotted Gnabry already accelerating down the right, and slid a pass into his path.
The crowd rose.
Gnabry flew.
Grass blurred beneath his boots as he surged into Bayern's half, Rafinha scrambling to recover, lungs screaming. Giroud thundered through the centre, arms pumping, eyes locked on the space between Hummels and Martinez.
"Cross it!" someone screamed from the stands.
Gnabry didn't rush.
He slowed just enough near the edge of the box, lifted his head, measured.
Then he delivered.
A cross of pure intent.
High. Arcing. Perfectly weighted.
Giroud attacked it with everything he had.
He rose between Hummels and Martinez like a force of nature, neck muscles taut, eyes fierce. Time seemed to pause as he met the ball at the apex of his jump, forehead connecting cleanly, powerfully.
The header flew.
Downward.
Into the corner.
Neuer reacted, diving full stretch, but there was nothing to be done.
89th minute.
4–3 Arsenal.
The Emirates exploded.
Not relief.
Euphoria.
Giroud sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees, fists clenched, roaring. Gnabry followed, leaping onto him, laughing, shouting, disbelief etched across his face. Cazorla arrived next, arms raised, joy unfiltered.
On the bench, Francesco surged to his feet, fists pumping, shouting until his voice cracked. Wenger allowed himself a rare, wide smile, clapping slowly, deliberately.
This was it.
This was sealing it.
Bayern kicked off again, but the belief had finally drained. Their movements lacked the same sharpness now, the same venom. Arsenal pressed intelligently, forcing the ball wide, killing seconds with experience rather than fear.
The referee checked his watch.
Three minutes of added time.
Then four.
Bayern pushed once more, long balls launched forward, hopeful rather than calculated. Van Dijk dominated the air. Koscielny timed his tackles perfectly. Kanté chased everything, somehow still finding the energy.
At 93 minutes, the ball fell loose near the corner flag.
Gnabry shielded it expertly, drawing a foul.
The whistle shrilled.
That was it.
The referee glanced at his watch one final time.
Blew the whistle.
Full time.
Arsenal 4.
Bayern Munich 3.
Aggregate: 9–5.
The Emirates erupted into pure, unfiltered celebration.
Players collapsed to the turf, arms spread, faces turned skyward. Others embraced fiercely, shouting into each other's shoulders. Wenger hugged his staff, composure finally cracking.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 37
Goal: 59
Assist: 3
MOTM: 7
POTM: 1
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9