Chapter 515: Countdown

The Emirates pulsed with expectancy.

Scarlet and white rippled through the stands like waves, flags flaring, voices swelling.

Fans had come for a show, and Arsenal looked ready to deliver one.

Right from the whistle, they pressed up the pitch, the front three—Saka, Havertz, and Izan, who was playing in the left wing role—surging with purpose, dragging Shakhtar’s midfield back, pulling their defenders into uncomfortable spaces.

Izan, drifting between the lines like smoke, picked up the first real thread of danger.

He received the ball near the halfway line, shrugged off a mild tug from Valeriy Bondar, and zipped forward with that gliding pace that always looked effortless until it wasn’t.

Two orange shirts closed in, looking to shut down Izan, but he twisted through them, nudging the ball right to Merino, who flicked it on with one touch for Saka.

The Emirates rose in anticipation.

Saka cut inside, ghosting past Matviyenko before lashing a low shot at goal, but Dmytro Riznyk palmed it away, and Havertz’s follow-up was blocked by a wall of desperate legs.

“Already, Arsenal have their foot on the gas,” the first commentator said.

“They’re squeezing every inch of the pitch. And just look at Shakhtar—nine men behind the ball before that shot came in.”

“Classic 4-1-4-1 collapsing into a 9-1,” the other chimed in.

“They’re not here to dance. They’re here to survive.”

Izan was fouled three times in the opening ten minutes alone.

Each time, the Ukrainian midfielders made sure it wasn’t near the box.

They were calculated fouls, ones designed to frustrate and slow.

No bruises, no cards—just enough to stall and break the rhythm.

“They know what he can do from twenty-five yards out,” the first commentator said.

“They’ve done their homework on those set pieces of his. Right, Left, it doesn’t matter when Izan is the one standing behind the ball.”

At one point, after Izan’s ankle was clipped yet again by Sudakov, the crowd erupted into jeers.

The referee pointed for a free kick but kept the card in his pocket.

Despite the setbacks, Arsenal surged.

Rice began pulling the strings, linking with Partey and Calafiori on the left to overload Shakhtar’s right flank.

Calafiori, operating almost like a second No. 10, floated into central spaces, pinching in to draw defenders.

After one of the shots from Saka was parried by Dmytro, a half-cleared ball fell to Izan just on the edge of the Shakhtar Donetsk box.

He shaped to shoot but instead scooped it over the crowded back line to Havertz, whose header looped just over the bar.

Groans and applause followed in equal measure, but it was getting a bit repetitive for the fans.

The first commentator spoke again, this time with a chuckle, “I don’t know how long Shakhtar can keep doing this. It’s like trying to stop a tide with a mop.”

“They’re bending,” the second replied. “But they’re not broken. Yet.”

Minute 18 came and another sequence in attack so Declan Rice stepping forward from deep, combining with Merino, who laid it off to Izan.

The 16-year-old twisted and turned, waiting for the perfect angle, but Matviyenko didn’t bite.

Izan hesitated a bit, then followed with a sharp cut to the left before accelerating away.

Matviyenko chased after Izan, grabbing onto the shorts of the latter as he tried to slide a through ball to Saka, but Zubkov intercepted.

Izan turned to the referee after this, showing the shorts of his that had been stretched thin by the players of the Ukranian team but the referee just shrugged.

Then it happened.

One misplaced touch.

One too many men committed forward.

One moment of hesitation.

Zubkov, fresh off that interception, launched a long, hopeful pass upfield.

Shakhtar’s winger, Kryskiv, raced after it, with Ben White and Gabriel both scrambling back.

But it was too late.

Kryskiv touched it forward, and suddenly Arsenal’s half was wide open.

“Here’s the danger,” the first commentator’s voice rose.

“Arsenal have everyone up, and Shakhtar are flying forward now—Kryskiv on the right!”

Kryskiv burst past William Saliba next, who misjudged his angle, and laid the ball across the box.

The Emirates fell silent in that heartbeat of panic as Shakhtar’s forward, Eguinaldo, arrived like a thunderclap.

Raya tensed, expecting a thunderous blast, but the former just took a touch and then passed it into the far corner, cool as you like.

Silence.

Then the away corner exploded.

“GOAL! Against the run of play! My word, Shakhtar Donetsk have stunned the Emirates!” the second commentator yelled.

“One counter. One goal. One sucker punch.”

The jeering began almost immediately.

Shakhtar fans, packed into their little section, bounced and sang, scarves aloft.

A few even held fingers to their lips, shushing the stunned home crowd in delight as their players celebrated in front of them.

……..

On the screen inside a betting bar tucked into a North London street, the score flashed: Arsenal 0–1 Shakhtar Donetsk.

The murmur of conversations fell flat as heads turned.

“You’re joking,” someone muttered, gripping a half-eaten burger.

“No way.”

“Nah, nah. Refresh that,” another said, leaning in to check the phone.

“It’s real, mate,” came the resigned reply.

…..

Back at the Emirates, David Raya trudged into the net to collect the ball.

His expression was calm, but his eyes betrayed the sting.

He hurled the ball toward the halfway line as if to say: let’s go again.

The crowd tried to rise behind their players, a chorus of support rumbling back to life, but the sting of the goal lingered like smoke.

“This is football,” the first commentator said, tone almost amused.

“You dominate for twenty minutes, create everything, and then—bam—one moment, and you’re chasing the game.”

“And you’d have to say,” added the other, “Shakhtar planned for this. They knew they wouldn’t outplay Arsenal. But defend, frustrate, and hit when the moment comes? That’s how underdogs write stories.”

On the pitch, Izan looked briefly toward the scoreboard before nodding to Rice.

“Hey Max, activate close control in a 2 minutes” Izan muttered as he turned to face the opponent half.

[Timer for activation of trait, CLOSE CONTROL LV 2, set for 120 seconds]

[119]

The ball was placed at the center circle. Havertz stood over it.

The referee blew his whistle next, and the chase had begun.

The ball rolled back into motion from the center circle.

Havertz nudged it to Rice as most of the Shakhtar Donetsk players stayed in their half, leaving a couple of their players to press.

The English international took a touch and surveyed the field, then shifted it sideways to Calafiori, who was already scampering up the line.

Izan drifted in from his flank, abandoning the chalk of the touchline to float just behind Havertz.

He wasn’t going to be waiting for the ball to come to him; he hunted it, darting into half-spaces like a whisper.

Shakhtar were compact now, a low orange tide, every player back inside their half.

[49]

A ripple of unease trembled through the visitors’ back line, and one moment of brilliance was all it took to unravel this tightly coiled defense.

Izan swooped right in front of Rice and took the ball before rifling a long ball to the right flank where Saka stood, hugging the touchline.

Saka turned to bolt, but the 3 players standing right in front of him made him rethink his decision.

He turned and laid it to Ben White, who stood a few metres away.

A flicker in Izan’s eye.

He caught sight of the bad positioning of one of the Shakhtar defenders.

[27]

Saliba, who now had the ball, seemed to have seen it too.

With one touch, he let the ball roll to Merino who took a bad touch, attracting one of the Shakhtar players and and Izan pounced.

He snapped the ball off Merino’s laces like he was one of the opponent players.

And then—

He was gone.

[17]

From the left flank, he started his drive, keeping the ball tight, dragging it with the sole of his boot across to his left as a defender lunged.

[9]

The first man missed.

Izan hooked, lined up, and—

Gone.

A blur of red streaking down the right flank of the Shakhtar team.

“Oh, he’s away from one” one of the commentatorsa blasted as the run by Izan got the away fans on the edge of their seats.

Then came the second.

[3]

Izan feinted as if to cross, his shoulder dipping, body shifting.

[2]

Then he pulled out the elastico—out to in, in to out—so quick, so vicious it cut the air in half.

[1]

[CLOSE CONTROL LV 2 Activated]

The ball snapped through the defender’s legs, leaving only a puff of mist and gasps in its wake.

The home crowd was now on their feet.

The fans of both teams seemed to have forgotten their seats.

Phone screens lowered as they held their breaths in anticipation of what was to come next and it might have been uncanny, but they all seemed to thinking the same thing.

“A goal,” one of the fans in the stands muttered as another Shakhtar player charged towards Izan.

A/N: Hello guys, second and last of the day, I’ll try to upload the GT bonus chapter If I can today, but if I can’t, we’ll send it over tp tomorrow. Okay, have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!

Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.