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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And for the first time since the break-in, the future didn't feel dominated by fear anymore with one honest day at a time.
The days after England qualified for the World Cup settled into something steadier.
Not perfect.
Healing never moved in perfect straight lines.
But steadier.
The mansion slowly stopped feeling like a place holding its breath.
Security still remained tighter than before. Cameras still watched the gates constantly. Some habits lingered too. Francesco still checked locks at night sometimes without even realizing he was doing it.
But now those moments no longer carried panic attached to them.
Just caution.
Manageable caution.
And perhaps most importantly?
Football had started feeling normal again.
Really normal.
Not distraction-normal.
Not pretend everything's okay because there's a match normal.
Actual normal.
Training resumed fully after Dr. Hayes completed her evaluation and reassured both Arsenal and England staff that neither Francesco nor Leah showed signs of severe trauma disorders. Fatigue, stress, interrupted sleep, but mentally healthy.
That conclusion had lifted a weight off everyone around him.
Wenger especially.
The manager never treated Francesco differently afterward in public. Never hovered. Never made recovery feel like fragility.
But privately?
Francesco noticed the subtle things.
Slightly lighter training loads early in the week.
More check-ins during recovery sessions.
Quiet conversations that weren't really about football.
Wenger understood balance better than most people.
And maybe for the first time in weeks, Francesco finally understood what the older man had been trying to teach him.
Strength wasn't pretending nothing affected you.
Strength was surviving something difficult without letting it harden you completely afterward.
By the end of the international break, Arsenal training carried its usual energy again.
Laughter.
Competition.
Constant noise.
Alexis Sánchez screaming at people during five-a-side matches like the fate of civilization depended on possession drills.
Ramsey arguing with literally anyone available.
Bellerín somehow arriving to training dressed like a futuristic art student every single morning.
Football life.
Comfortingly ridiculous football life.
And eventually, inevitably, attention turned toward the fixture circled in red across North London.
Tottenham Hotspur.
The North London Derby.
The Emirates Stadium buzzed differently on derby days.
Everyone knew it.
Players.
Fans.
Staff.
Even security personnel moved with slightly sharper awareness.
Hatred wasn't really the correct word anymore.
Too simplistic.
North London derbies were pride.
History.
Identity.
A football match wrapped inside years of tension and rivalry and noise.
And this one carried extra attention.
Because it would be Francesco's first match back after everything.
The media built narratives around it immediately of course.
"CAN FRANCESCO SILENCE THE NOISE?"
"ARSENAL STAR RETURNS FOR ONE OF THE BIGGEST MATCH OF THE SEASON."
"PRESSURE RETURNS AT THE EMIRATES."
Francesco ignored most of it now.
Or at least learned how to.
That didn't mean nerves disappeared though.
Because this match mattered.
Not just to fans.
To him.
Part of him wanted this game badly.
Wanted ninety minutes where nobody discussed trauma or mental recovery or emotional vulnerability.
Just football.
Just movement.
Goals.
Noise.
Competition.
The simple language he'd understood his entire life.
And now, on a cold North London afternoon beneath pale November skies, Francesco sat near the middle of Arsenal's team bus while it rolled slowly through streets packed with supporters already wearing red and white scarves.
Rain mist clung lightly to the windows while crowds gathered outside pubs and along barricades surrounding the Emirates Stadium.
The atmosphere had started miles away already.
Fans spotted the bus immediately.
Phones lifted.
Scarves raised.
People banging against barriers chanting Arsenal songs loud enough to vibrate faintly through the glass.
Francesco sat beside Héctor Bellerín quietly watching them.
The defender nudged him lightly with his elbow.
"You missed this, didn't you?"
Francesco looked out toward the supporters for another second before answering honestly.
"Yeah."
A small smile pulled at Bellerín's mouth.
"I knew it."
Further down the bus Sánchez argued aggressively with someone over music choices while Koscielny attempted reading tactical notes in complete silence like a man regretting every life decision leading him onto this bus.
Typical derby atmosphere honestly.
Energy everywhere.
Wenger sat near the front calm as ever, occasionally speaking quietly with Steve Bould while the rest of the squad drifted between focus and nervous excitement.
Francesco leaned his forehead lightly against the cool window glass for a moment watching the Emirates slowly appear ahead through grey London mist.
Even after everything.
Even after fear and exhaustion and sleepless nights.
This still felt like home.
The bus finally turned toward the stadium entrance beneath heavy security presence while supporters erupted louder outside.
Thousands of voices merging together into one overwhelming wall of sound.
The moment always hit differently arriving for derby matches.
Adrenaline immediately sharpened.
Francesco felt it spreading through his chest now.
Not panic.
Something cleaner.
Familiar.
Football adrenaline.
The bus doors opened moments later.
Noise exploded instantly.
Cameras flashing.
Fans screaming names.
Security guiding players quickly toward the stadium entrance.
Francesco stepped off the bus wearing Arsenal tracksuit gear and immediately heard the roar intensify around him.
"FRANCESCO!"
"COME ON ARSENAL!"
"SMASH SPURS!"
A few supporters shouted his name repeatedly with something emotional behind it too.
Support.
Relief maybe.
Like they were happy simply seeing him back here again.
Francesco raised one hand briefly toward the crowd while walking beside Walker toward the entrance tunnel.
The defender glanced sideways at him.
"You ready?"
Francesco's answer came immediately.
"Yeah."
And this time?
He truly meant it.
Inside the stadium, familiar routines took over naturally.
Boots echoing against corridors.
Staff moving quickly everywhere.
The smell of grass and muscle rub and coffee drifting through hallways.
Home dressing room doors opening.
Arsenal players spreading through their usual spaces automatically.
Normal.
Beautifully normal.
Francesco dropped his bag near his locker before sitting down briefly while the room buzzed around him.
Music played quietly through speakers overhead.
Sánchez already changed faster than everyone somehow.
Ozil sat calmly taping his wrists with the expression of a man emotionally detached from chaos entirely.
Walker and Robertson debated defensive positioning before they'd even reached the pitch.
Wenger moved quietly around the room speaking individually to players in short calm conversations.
Francesco started changing into the training kit slowly.
Red Arsenal top.
Training pants.
White socks.
Routine settled him immediately.
Beside him Kante tied his boots with the same focused seriousness he applied to literally everything in life.
"You good?" the midfielder asked quietly.
Francesco glanced toward him.
"Yeah."
Kante nodded once.
Simple.
No dramatic speeches.
Just trust.
The team eventually headed down the tunnel together toward the pitch for warmups.
The second Francesco stepped into the Emirates atmosphere properly, noise crashed into him like a physical force.
Derby noise felt different from ordinary matches.
Sharper.
More emotional.
The stadium already nearly full despite kickoff still approaching.
Red and white flags waving everywhere.
Tottenham supporters gathered in one corner singing loudly enough to challenge the rest of the stadium.
Arsenal fans responded immediately.
Back and forth endlessly.
Francesco jogged onto the pitch beside Gnabry while cameras tracked them instantly.
The roar that followed him specifically felt enormous.
Weeks ago the entire country debated whether he was mentally okay enough to play football.
Now sixty thousand people screamed his name while he stepped onto the Emirates grass again.
Funny how quickly football moved.
Warmups began properly.
Passing drills.
Sprints.
Shooting exercises.
Francesco moved sharply from the first touch onward.
Fast.
Focused.
Alive.
And somewhere underneath every movement, a dangerous thought had already rooted itself firmly in his head.
I'm scoring today.
Not just scoring.
He wanted more than that.
Partly competitive instinct.
Partly emotion.
Partly something personal he couldn't fully explain.
He wanted to show people he was still himself.
That fear hadn't taken football away from him.
That he still belonged here under bright lights and pressure and noise.
At one point during finishing drills Sánchez whipped a ball toward him near the edge of the area.
Francesco controlled it instantly before burying the shot into the top corner.
The stadium roared during warmups alone.
Sánchez pointed toward him immediately.
"There he is."
Francesco grinned faintly for the first time all afternoon.
Yeah.
There he was.
After warmups finished, Arsenal headed back toward the dressing room together through the tunnel while stadium noise echoed behind them.
The atmosphere inside the dressing room shifted immediately once players started changing into match kits.
Less relaxed now.
More focused.
Derby focus.
Francesco pulled the Arsenal shirt carefully over his head before adjusting the captain's armband resting beside his locker.
Even now that responsibility still carried weight every single time.
Not pressure exactly.
Purpose.
Around him boots tapped against flooring while players prepared quietly.
Some listened to music.
Some sat silently inside their own thoughts.
Some like Sánchez somehow maintained maximum emotional intensity every second of existence.
Wenger eventually stepped into the center of the room holding the tactical board.
The dressing room settled immediately.
No matter how long players worked under him, Arsène Wenger still commanded silence effortlessly.
The manager looked around the room calmly before beginning.
"Gentlemen."
His voice never needed shouting.
"That atmosphere outside is emotional. Derby matches always are."
He placed the tactical sheet onto the board.
"But emotion without discipline becomes chaos."
Players focused immediately.
Wenger began naming the lineup clearly.
"Petr."
Cech nodded once from his seat.
"Defenders from left to right: Robertson, Van Dijk, Koscielny, Walker."
The back line exchanged quick glances.
Strong.
Aggressive.
Fast.
"N'Golo as defensive midfielder."
Kante nodded quietly.
"Mesut and Granit central."
Ozil leaned back calmly while Xhaka cracked his knuckles with visible anticipation.
"Alexis left. Serge right."
Both wingers looked ready to start a war immediately.
Then Wenger's eyes moved toward Francesco.
"And captain leading the line — Francesco."
The room stayed quiet for half a second before Sánchez smacked him lightly across the shoulder.
"Hat-trick today."
"Subtle," Ozil muttered dryly.
Wenger allowed the brief laughter before continuing tactically.
"Tottenham will press aggressively early. Use that space behind their midfield."
He pointed toward areas on the board.
"Quick switches. Fast movement. Trust the passing triangles."
Then more firmly:
"And when opportunities come, punish them."
The manager looked directly around the room afterward.
"This derby is not won emotionally. It is won intelligently."
Typical Wenger.
Poetry disguised as tactical instruction.
The players rose together moments later as final preparations finished.
Tape adjusted.
Boots tightened.
Shirts straightened.
Heartbeats rising.
Francesco stood near the tunnel entrance rolling his shoulders once while noise thundered from outside.
Walker bumped fists with him lightly.
"Ready captain?"
Francesco looked toward the tunnel ahead where floodlights spilled across the floor.
"Let's hurt them."
That earned a grin from the defender.
The Arsenal players lined up inside the tunnel moments later.
Tottenham stood opposite them in white shirts and dark shorts beneath harsh tunnel lighting.
Tension instantly sharpened.
Not open hostility.
Professional rivalry.
Dangerous rivalry.
Francesco stood at the front wearing the captain's armband while beside him Hugo Lloris waited calmly as Tottenham's captain.
The French goalkeeper glanced sideways briefly.
"Good to see you back."
Simple respect between competitors.
Francesco nodded once.
"Thanks."
Around them cameras moved constantly while child mascots looked simultaneously terrified and thrilled standing between elite footballers preparing for war.
The referee checked both captains briefly before speaking.
"Keep it controlled today gentlemen."
Neither captain answered because absolutely nobody believed North London derbies stayed controlled.
Then the signal came.
Players started walking.
And suddenly the noise became overwhelming.
The Emirates erupted as Arsenal emerged from the tunnel beneath floodlights and banners and roaring supporters.
Francesco stepped onto the pitch feeling adrenaline surge through every part of him now.
This.
This was the place where his mind finally stopped drowning in noise.
Football simplified everything.
Movement.
Decision.
Instinct.
The teams lined up beside the referees while anthem music echoed across the stadium.
Francesco stared ahead calmly beside Lloris while cameras flashed endlessly around them.
Thousands of faces blurred together inside the stands.
Red scarves everywhere.
The pre-match formalities followed automatically after that.
Handshakes with referees.
Handshakes with opposition players.
Quick acknowledgments between rivals who would spend ninety minutes trying to destroy each other competitively.
Francesco shook Harry Kane's hand briefly.
"Ready?" Kane asked.
"Always."
Then the Arsenal starting eleven gathered for the team photograph.
Players crouched and stood in formation while photographers screamed instructions from every direction imaginable.
Francesco stood in the center wearing the armband while supporters behind the goal chanted loudly enough to shake the air.
Then came the coin toss.
Both captains walked toward the center circle beside the referee while the stadium buzzed around them.
The referee held the coin up.
"Call it."
Francesco looked toward it.
"Right."
The coin spun briefly before landing.
The referee glanced down.
"Arsenal ball."
Francesco nodded once immediately.
Perfect.
Exactly what he wanted.
Attack first.
Set the tone early.
The captains shook hands before returning toward their teams.
Francesco gathered Arsenal players into a quick huddle near the center circle.
"Fast start," he said firmly.
"Push them immediately."
Players nodded.
Focused.
Ready.
The referee checked both sides one final time.
Whistle in mouth.
Then sharp blast.
The North London Derby began.
Arsenal exploded forward immediately.
No hesitation.
No cautious feeling-out period.
Just pressure.
Francesco dropped deep instantly receiving possession from Ozil before turning sharply away from Dembele and releasing Gnabry down the right flank.
The Emirates roared approval already.
Tottenham pressed aggressively too, but Arsenal's movement looked sharper early.
Faster passing.
Cleaner transitions.
Francesco felt unbelievably alive inside it.
Every touch settled him further.
Every sprint stripped away another layer of lingering fear from previous weeks.
This was who he was.
Not headlines.
Not trauma discourse.
Football.
At six minutes Sánchez nearly scored after Robertson's overlapping cross created chaos inside the box.
At ten Francesco spun away from Alderweireld and forced Lloris into a strong near-post save.
The stadium sensed it building.
Arsenal smelled blood early.
Beside the touchline Wenger stood calm as always, hands inside coat pockets while tracking movement patterns carefully.
But even from distance, Francesco could tell the manager liked what he saw.
Arsenal looked aggressive.
Confident.
And Francesco?
Francesco looked dangerous.
At fifteen minutes he nutmegged Wanyama near midfield and heard the Emirates react like someone detonated fireworks.
Tottenham supporters booed immediately afterward.
Which honestly made it even better.
Leah watched from the executive seating area high above the pitch with her stomach twisting every time Francesco accelerated into space.
Part of her still carried lingering nerves seeing him back inside this emotional intensity.
But another part recognized something important too.
He looked happy.
Not pretending.
Actually happy.
Football restored pieces of him nothing else quite could.
The match continued at relentless pace.
Challenges flying in.
Crowd noise constant.
Walker and Rose battling aggressively down Arsenal's right side.
Van Dijk dominating aerial duels like a man personally offended by gravity.
Kante somehow appearing everywhere simultaneously.
Then finally at twenty-three minutes.
Breakthrough.
It started through midfield pressure.
Xhaka intercepted possession aggressively before feeding Ozil between Tottenham's lines.
The German lifted his head immediately.
Saw the run.
Of course he did.
Nobody saw attacking movement like Mesut Ozil.
Francesco had already burst between center-backs before the pass even left Ozil's foot.
Perfect timing.
Perfect space.
The ball slid beautifully through Tottenham's defensive line.
One touch to control.
Second touch to shift away from Vertonghen.
Then finish.
Low.
Precise.
Past Lloris into the bottom corner.
Goal.
The Emirates exploded.
Absolute eruption.
Francesco sprinted toward the corner flag immediately while noise crashed around him from every direction.
Adrenaline flooded through his body violently now.
This wasn't just scoring.
This felt like reclaiming something.
Teammates slammed into him seconds later.
Sánchez screaming directly into his ear.
Walker grabbing the back of his head.
Ozil smiling that calm satisfied smile like he'd predicted the entire sequence five minutes earlier.
Francesco roared toward the supporters afterward, chest heaving beneath the Arsenal shirt while thousands screamed his name back at him.
Weeks of noise.
Pressure.
Fear.
Doubt.
All of it vanished inside that moment.
Just football again.
Just joy.
Back near midfield Kane clapped his hands sharply trying to refocus Tottenham immediately.
But Arsenal smelled vulnerability now.
Francesco especially.
He wanted more.
Badly.
Every touch afterward carried growing confidence.
He drifted wider.
Dropped deeper.
Pressed harder.
At one point he chased down a seemingly lost ball near the sideline simply because his energy levels now bordered on reckless.
The Emirates fed off it completely.
Tottenham struggled to slow Arsenal's momentum before halftime.
And then, just before the break at fourthy-three minutes.
The move began through patient buildup this time.
Robertson recycled possession toward Xhaka near midfield while Tottenham's defensive shape briefly lost compactness.
That tiny hesitation proved fatal.
Xhaka spotted Francesco drifting into the half-space instantly.
Threaded pass.
Sharp.
Fast.
Francesco controlled with his left foot while pivoting between defenders in one movement.
Alderweireld lunged too late.
Space opened.
And Francesco hit the shot first time.
Powerful.
Rising.
Lloris got fingertips to it, but not enough.
Net bulged violently.
2–0 Arsenal.
Brace for Francesco Lee.
The Emirates lost its mind completely.
Francesco turned immediately toward the supporters arms spread wide while noise swallowed the entire stadium.
This celebration carried different emotion from the first.
Less release.
More defiance.
Like he wanted the whole football world to understand something clearly.
He was still here.
Still dangerous.
Still himself.
Teammates mobbed him again near the touchline while Wenger allowed himself the smallest visible smile beside the technical area.
Leah covered her mouth briefly in the stands watching him celebrate beneath roaring floodlights.
Not because of the goals alone.
Because she could physically see life returning to him out there.
Confidence.
Freedom.
Joy.
The first half continued through added time before finally, whistle.
Halftime.
Arsenal 2–0 Tottenham Hotspur.
The Emirates roared players toward the tunnel while Francesco walked beside Ozil breathing hard but grinning despite himself.
The German nudged him lightly.
"You wanted three, didn't you?"
"…maybe."
"Greedy striker."
"Correct."
Back inside the dressing room, energy buzzed everywhere.
Players talking over one another.
Adrenaline high.
Sweat and steam filling the air.
But Wenger raised one hand calmly and the room gradually settled.
The manager waited until everyone focused before speaking.
"Good first half."
Simple.
Measured.
Then immediately tactical again.
"But derby matches become dangerous when you think they are finished."
Every player listened carefully.
"Tottenham will react aggressively now. The next fifteen minutes are critical."
He pointed toward the tactical board.
"Stay compact defensively. Do not lose structure chasing a third goal immediately."
Sánchez looked personally offended by defensive caution.
Wenger ignored this completely.
"Kante, continue protecting transitions."
The midfielder nodded.
"Fullbacks, be careful of overloads wide."
Robertson and Walker listened intently.
Then Wenger looked directly toward Francesco.
"Excellent movement."
Francesco nodded once quietly.
But Wenger's expression sharpened slightly afterward.
"Now remain intelligent."
Translation?
Don't let emotion pull you out of tactical shape chasing a hat-trick.
Fair advice honestly.
Even if part of Francesco absolutely still wanted that third goal desperately.
The manager stepped back slightly afterward.
"They are wounded," Wenger said calmly.
"So finish the match properly."
Silence settled for one focused second.
Then players rose together preparing for the second half.
The dressing room emptied gradually after Wenger's final instructions.
Boots scraped against the floor.
Tape tightened around wrists.
Players rolled shoulders loose again while adrenaline rebuilt itself for the second half.
Outside, the Emirates still thundered with noise loud enough to vibrate faintly through the walls.
North London derbies never truly rested.
Not even during halftime.
Francesco stood near his locker for a moment pulling his shirt sleeves back into place while his breathing finally settled from the intensity of the first half.
Two goals.
Forty-five minutes.
And somehow he still wanted more.
Not selfishly.
Well.
Maybe partially selfishly.
But mostly because he could feel Tottenham wobbling. Feel uncertainty spreading through them every time Arsenal attacked with speed. The match sat balanced on that dangerous edge now where one more goal could either kill Tottenham completely or drag them violently back into the contest.
Wenger understood it too.
That was why the manager kept repeating structure.
Control.
Intelligence.
Don't let emotion create chaos.
Francesco grabbed a water bottle before Sánchez suddenly appeared beside him already vibrating with second-half aggression.
"We score again immediately," the Chilean declared like a military order.
"You ever relax?"
"No."
Fair enough honestly.
Nearby Ozil adjusted his gloves calmly while Xhaka stretched against the wall.
Kante looked exactly the same as always somehow. Same composed expression. Same terrifyingly calm focus.
Like derby pressure physically could not affect him.
The referee's knock arrived a minute later.
Time.
Players rose together automatically.
And just before Arsenal headed back toward the tunnel, Wenger spoke one final sentence.
"Finish the match."
Simple.
Cold.
Professional.
Exactly what Arsenal intended to do.
The second the players stepped back into the tunnel, noise swallowed everything again.
Floodlights.
Smoke drifting faintly above the stands.
Tottenham supporters singing desperately now trying to drag their team back emotionally.
Arsenal fans responding immediately louder.
Francesco bounced lightly on his toes near the front of the line while Walker cracked his neck beside him.
"You know Spurs are coming out angry now."
"Good," Francesco answered instantly.
Walker grinned.
"That's the correct response."
Then the whistle blew again.
Players walked back onto the pitch.
Second half.
And immediately Tottenham tried changing the energy.
Higher press.
Harder tackles.
More aggression through midfield.
Pochettino clearly understood his team needed emotional momentum quickly or the match would drift entirely into Arsenal control.
For the opening minutes Tottenham pushed harder through Dembele and Alli while Rose bombed forward aggressively from left-back.
But Arsenal stayed disciplined exactly like Wenger demanded.
Compact shape.
Fast passing.
No panic.
Kante especially looked unbelievable.
Every loose ball somehow belonged to him already before anyone else realized it existed.
At fifty-one minutes Tottenham finally created their best opening when Eriksen curled a dangerous cross toward Kane inside the area.
Van Dijk rose above everyone with brutal authority and headed the ball nearly to midfield.
The Emirates roared approval instantly.
Francesco pointed toward the Dutch defender.
"Monster."
Van Dijk gave the smallest nod imaginable.
Basically emotional celebration by his standards.
Arsenal responded immediately afterward with another dangerous counterattack.
Walker burst down the right flank before cutting possession inside toward Ozil, who flicked the ball beautifully first-time into Francesco's path.
The striker accelerated between defenders instantly.
One touch.
Second touch.
Shot.
Blocked desperately by Alderweireld.
The crowd groaned.
Francesco slapped both hands together once.
"So close."
But he could feel it.
The third goal hovered there now.
Waiting.
Tottenham still looked wounded from the first half.
Still uncertain every time Arsenal attacked directly.
At fifty-six minutes Sánchez nearly ended the contest himself after dribbling through two defenders near the edge of the box before smashing a shot inches wide.
The Chilean screamed something furious in Spanish afterward that probably violated several international laws.
Francesco laughed despite himself while jogging back.
"You need therapy."
"I need fifth goal."
"It would be the fourth."
"I think ahead."
Completely insane human being honestly.
Then came the moment that finally broke Tottenham apart completely.
Fifty-nine minutes.
Arsenal built patiently from the back first.
Koscielny into Xhaka.
Xhaka toward Ozil.
Quick switch wide toward Robertson pushing forward down the left.
The Scottish fullback immediately spotted Francesco drifting between Tottenham's defensive lines and fired the pass sharply into his feet.
One touch from Francesco pulled the ball away from Wanyama.
Second touch carried him directly into the penalty area.
Danger instantly exploded everywhere.
Dier stepped across desperately trying to recover position.
Too late.
Francesco shifted the ball past him sharply and Dier lunged.
Contact.
Legs tangled.
Francesco crashed onto the turf.
The whistle came immediately.
Penalty Arsenal.
The Emirates detonated.
Tottenham players surrounded the referee instantly protesting while Arsenal supporters screamed for a red card from every section of the stadium.
Francesco pushed himself up from the grass breathing hard while Dier already looked frustrated with himself.
The referee reached calmly toward his pocket.
Yellow card.
Dier threw one arm outward in annoyance but couldn't really argue much.
He'd caught him.
Simple as that.
Francesco stood near the penalty spot while noise crashed around him from every direction imaginable.
Hat-trick chance.
North London Derby.
The entire stadium knew it too.
Lloris picked the ball up first before walking slowly toward him.
The French goalkeeper handed it over calmly.
"You're enjoying yourself today."
Francesco smirked faintly.
"A bit."
Lloris shook his head once before retreating toward the goal line.
Around the stadium supporters bounced with nervous energy now.
Scarves waving.
Phones recording.
People barely breathing.
Francesco placed the ball carefully onto the spot before stepping backward slowly.
And suddenly everything became quiet inside his own head.
That always happened before penalties.
Crowd noise faded.
Pressure disappeared.
Just instinct remaining.
Lloris bounced lightly on his line watching him carefully.
The referee blew the whistle.
Francesco moved forward.
Short run-up.
Calm body shape.
Then side-footed the finish low toward the left corner while Lloris guessed the opposite direction.
Goal.
Hat-trick.
The Emirates absolutely lost its mind.
Francesco turned immediately toward the crowd with both arms spread wide while noise exploded around him violently enough to shake the air itself.
Three goals.
Against Tottenham.
After weeks where the entire football world debated whether he was mentally okay enough to even play.
Now this.
Now thousands screamed his name like thunder rolling through North London.
Teammates sprinted toward him instantly.
Walker nearly tackled him to the ground.
Sánchez grabbed the back of his neck screaming pure emotional chaos directly into his ear.
Ozil arrived smiling calmly again like this outcome had existed inside his brain hours earlier.
Francesco laughed breathlessly in the middle of it all while adrenaline surged through every part of him.
Not relief anymore.
Freedom.
Pure football freedom.
Up in the executive seating area Leah stood applauding with tears threatening briefly at the corners of her eyes before she laughed at herself immediately.
Not because of the hat-trick alone.
Because she remembered him sitting awake in the dark weeks earlier questioning whether he'd ever fully feel like himself again.
And now look at him.
Alive.
Fearless.
Smiling beneath floodlights while sixty thousand people worshipped every movement.
Football really did heal pieces of him nothing else could reach.
Back near midfield Kane clapped aggressively trying to wake Tottenham up again, but Arsenal could sense it now.
The fight was draining from Spurs.
Every Arsenal player felt it.
Every supporter felt it.
Even Wenger allowed himself a slightly longer smile than usual near the technical area before immediately returning to composed professionalism.
The manager still barked instructions moments later anyway.
"Stay focused!"
Because he knew derbies could become stupid quickly if concentration disappeared.
Still, Tottenham looked broken emotionally now.
Arsenal smelled it immediately.
The passing became sharper.
Movement more confident.
Every successful tackle drew roars from the crowd.
Every Tottenham mistake got punished emotionally.
At sixty-four minutes Gnabry embarrassed Davies near the right sideline with quick footwork before whipping a dangerous cross toward the penalty area.
Sánchez nearly reached it at the far post.
Lloris barely got fingertips there first.
The Tottenham goalkeeper shouted furiously at his defenders afterward.
Completely understandable honestly.
Arsenal attacked again four minutes later.
And this time they killed the match completely.
Sixty-eight minutes.
Walker intercepted possession aggressively near midfield before driving forward into open space with long powerful strides.
Tottenham's defensive shape scrambled trying to recover.
Too late.
Walker surged down the right flank before lifting his head.
Sánchez already sprinted diagonally toward the area.
The pass came perfectly.
Driven hard across the box.
Sánchez arrived first-time.
Bang.
Roof of the net.
4–0 Arsenal.
The Emirates erupted again.
Sánchez sprinted wildly toward the corner flag pounding the Arsenal badge against his chest while screaming something incoherent with pure joy.
Walker chased after him laughing.
Francesco arrived moments later grabbing Sánchez around the shoulders while the winger continued vibrating with emotional instability.
"I TOLD YOU," Sánchez yelled.
"Told me what?"
"FIFTH GOAL NEXT."
"Alexis there are still twenty minutes left."
"Exactly."
Absolute psychopath.
Still lovable though.
The scoreboard glowing above the stadium now looked surreal.
ARSENAL 4–0 TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR
North London belonged entirely to Arsenal today.
And at the center of it stood Francesco.
Hat-trick captain performance.
Movement everywhere.
Pressing relentlessly.
Leading emotionally and tactically all afternoon.
The crowd sang his name constantly now between every passage of play.
"FRAN-CES-CO LEE!"
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each chant rolled through the Emirates louder than the last.
Tottenham tried responding with substitutions soon afterward.
At seventy-three minutes Pochettino finally accepted changes were necessary.
Dembele off.
Kane off.
Alli off.
On came Harry Winks, Fernando Llorente, and Heung-min Son.
Fresh legs.
Fresh energy.
An attempt to salvage dignity more than anything now.
Wenger responded immediately too.
And as the fourth official raised the substitution board, the Emirates reacted before the numbers even fully appeared.
Francesco off.
Ozil off.
Sánchez off.
Giroud.
Cazorla.
Iwobi entering.
The stadium rose together applauding instantly.
Huge deafening applause pouring down from every stand.
Not polite applause either.
Emotional applause.
Proud applause.
Francesco looked up briefly toward the supporters while jogging slowly toward the touchline.
Hat-trick secured.
Match won.
And somewhere deep down he understood this reception wasn't only about football today.
The crowd knew what the last few weeks looked like too.
The fear.
The pressure.
The public scrutiny.
This applause carried support inside it.
Recognition.
Welcome back.
Wenger waited near the technical area as Francesco approached.
The manager held one hand out calmly.
"Excellent performance."
Francesco shook it breathing hard.
"Thanks boss."
Then quieter, Wenger added:
"You looked free again today."
That sentence hit harder than tactical praise ever could.
Because yeah.
He had.
For ninety minutes almost everything heavy inside him disappeared beneath football instinct and adrenaline and joy.
Francesco nodded once quietly before moving toward the bench while the stadium still applauded him loudly.
As he sat down beside the substitutes, Bould leaned over slightly.
"Not bad for someone supposedly emotionally fragile."
Francesco laughed breathlessly.
"The media's going to hate this performance."
"Oh they'll survive."
Probably not gracefully though.
On the pitch the match finally slowed after the substitutions.
Tottenham no longer pressed with the same aggression.
Arsenal no longer needed to force attacks recklessly.
Control replaced chaos now.
Cazorla dictated tempo beautifully every time he touched possession while Giroud bullied defenders physically just by existing near them.
Iwobi added fresh energy down the flank too.
Meanwhile Francesco sat wrapped in a bench jacket watching the game with heartbeat slowly returning toward normal.
The emotional high afterward felt strange.
Not empty.
Just reflective.
Leah texted him from the stands during a stoppage.
You look happy again ❤️
He stared at the message for a second before smiling faintly.
Then typed back:
I forgot how much I missed this.
Above the pitch the crowd still buzzed constantly.
Arsenal supporters started singing mocking chants toward the Tottenham section now.
Walker encouraged it shamelessly every chance he got.
Koscielny spent the final minutes organizing the defensive line with complete seriousness despite leading by four goals because apparently French center-backs considered joy illegal.
Typical Laurent honestly.
At eighty-one minutes Son forced Cech into a decent save from distance, earning sarcastic cheers from Tottenham supporters celebrating basic offensive activity like a miracle event.
The Arsenal fans responded immediately louder.
North London derbies remained petty until the final second.
That was part of the beauty honestly.
Wenger continued pacing calmly near the touchline despite the scoreline while Pochettino stood opposite looking increasingly haunted by life choices.
Francesco almost felt bad for him.
Almost.
Not quite though.
Because derby mercy did not exist.
The final ten minutes drifted toward conclusion steadily afterward.
Arsenal kept possession comfortably.
Tottenham looked emotionally exhausted.
The Emirates crowd sensed the approaching victory completely now and every completed Arsenal pass drew cheers.
Ole's started echoing around the stadium eventually.
Nothing frustrated rival supporters more than ole's.
At eighty-seven minutes Cazorla danced away from two Tottenham midfielders near the center circle and the crowd reacted like witnessing live art.
Francesco shook his head laughing softly from the bench.
"Ridiculous player."
Beside him Giroud nodded seriously.
"Tiny magician."
Accurate description honestly.
Then finally.
Ninety minutes approached.
The fourth official signaled added time.
Three minutes.
Mostly symbolic at this point.
Arsenal supporters already celebrated loudly while scarves waved throughout the stadium.
Francesco leaned back slightly in his seat watching it all with tired satisfaction settling gradually into his chest.
A few weeks ago he'd questioned whether football pressure might crush him emotionally for a while.
Now he'd just destroyed Tottenham 4–0 with a derby hat-trick.
Funny game sometimes.
The final whistle arrived shortly afterward.
Sharp.
Definitive.
Done.
Arsenal 4–0 Tottenham Hotspur.
The Emirates erupted one final time.
Players raised arms toward supporters while noise rolled across the stadium like thunder.
Koscielny punched the air once emotionally.
Walker sprinted directly toward the crowd encouraging more noise because subtlety had never existed inside him.
Sánchez celebrated like Arsenal had won the Champions League despite being substituted twenty minutes earlier.
Francesco stood slowly from the bench afterward before walking onto the pitch again beneath floodlights and deafening applause.
The atmosphere wrapped around him instantly.
Warm.
Electric.
Alive.
Tottenham players disappeared toward the tunnel quickly while Arsenal's squad stayed out applauding every side of the stadium together.
Francesco clapped above his head toward supporters while chants followed him everywhere.
"THERE'S ONLY ONE FRANCESCO LEE!"
Again.
Again.
Again.
He looked up toward the stands briefly searching automatically until eventually spotting Leah applauding from above near the executive section.
Even from distance he could see her smiling.
Not worried tonight.
Not tense.
Just happy.
That mattered more than the goals honestly.
Walker suddenly grabbed Francesco around the shoulders from behind.
"Hat-trick in the derby," the defender shouted over the noise. "You dramatic maniac."
Francesco laughed.
"You assisted one."
"Exactly. I expect partial credit."
Absolutely shameless.
The players eventually headed back toward the tunnel together while cameras followed every step.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
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, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 21
Goal: 28
Assist: 1
MOTM:3
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
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