Minutes bled away in skirmishes.
Nico tore through duels like a bull, Felix clawing at him with sheer grit. Damian slid in from the shadows, ghosting into tackles, forcing mistakes that shouldn't have been possible. And at the center, Silas conducted it all—barely moving, barely raising his voice, yet every small, unseen touch bent the rhythm of the match.
It was like facing a hydra. Cut off one head, and two more rose. Riverside's midfield domination didn't just feel like talent—it felt like inevitability.
Lincoln couldn't afford a single slip.
But beneath the surface, Julian felt something.
For all their control, Riverside weren't creating real danger. Their rhythm was a cage, but it lacked fangs. Possession, passes, flow—it was all there, yet Lincoln's backline refused to break.
Riku's commands rang sharp as iron, Zion's tackles cracked through like blades, Damien's gloves swallowed shots with certainty. And what surprised Julian most—Ricky.
The kid was everywhere.
