Toppmöller paced his technical area, clapping rhythmically, calling for calm. There was no need to chase a second goal at the cost of control.
Augsburg offered little in response. When they did break, it was cautious and short-lived, a hopeful ball down the channel that Koch or Pacho dealt with comfortably. Kauã remained largely untroubled, organizing, shouting, pointing, his presence almost symbolic in the final stretch.
Frankfurt were content to squeeze the life out of the contest, to let the clock become their ally.
As the minutes ticked into the final five, the decision was made. The fourth official raised the board, and moments later Lukas's number was called. He jogged toward the touchline in the 86th minute, chest rising and falling steadily, sweat clinging to his hair.
The away end rose as one. More than four thousand Frankfurt supporters stood, applauding, whistling, singing his name. It was not the roar of a goal, but something warmer, more sustained. Recognition.
