Chapter 527: Escape

The referee’s whistle faded, and the ball returned to Arsenal’s possession with deliberate urgency.

The crowd was alive now, energized by Izan’s free-kick masterpiece—but there was something different about the way the young forward moved.

His body language wasn’t just confident; it was defiant.

He wasn’t playing to equalize anymore.

He was playing like the game belonged to him.

White received the ball deep and angled a clean pass into Merino.

Merino turned quickly and saw Izan already pointing where he wanted it—into space, behind Trent.

The former didn’t waste any time zipping the pass forward, and Izan was gone.

He didn’t slow to trap it.

He caressed the ball in stride, letting it roll with him, guiding it rather than stopping it.

Trent, approaching cautiously adjusted his body and tried to match Izan’s pace stride for stride, but Izan faked a cross with his right, then chopped back with his left in one seamless, fluid motion.

Trent bit—just enough for Izan to drag the ball under his foot, spin off his shoulder, and re-enter the final third from a new angle.

“Just outrageous!” Peter Wallace’s voice rode beneath the moment.

“This isn’t football as we know it in recent times. This is samba football in the middle of a Premier League war.”

“He’s dancing,” Marsha added, “in a match where most players are sprinting.”

Mac Allister came to double up but Izan slowed—not out of caution, but calculation.

He leaned into Mac Allister’s direction just slightly, enough to bait the reach, and then skipped past the outstretched leg like it wasn’t even there.

A body feint, another quick touch, and he was in.

Martinelli called for the ball but in doing so, he had attracted the attention of Van Dijk, causing Izan to halt his pass, dragging the ball wide with him.

A triple stepover followed—not flashy, not forced, but surgical.

Konaté stepped up as Izan stopped the ball dead, flicked it over his thigh as he lunged, and slid around the outside to collect it.

The Emirates was on its feet.

“Izan with the ball still, now away from Konate”

The ball reached the corner of the box, and Izan let fly—curling it toward the top far corner.

Kelleher flew across and got just enough to tip it wide.

It didn’t matter.

The crowd roared.

Back on the touchline, Arteta clapped with fierce pride while Slot, on the other hand, had his arms folded tight, jaw locked, whispering something to his assistant with a look that said: We’ve got a problem.

From the resulting corner, Arsenal nearly scored again—Gabriel rising highest, heading inches wide. Liverpool cleared and immediately sought Salah on the break, but Timber was ready this time.

The ball came back to Arsenal, and again—again—it found Izan.

This time, he received it with his back to goal near the halfway line.

One touch to control, another to pivot.

And then he ran.

Two Liverpool midfielders stepped in, Jones and Gravenberch but Izan wasn’t paying them any mind.

He pushed the ball between them, splitting the press with a nutmeg and acceleration so tight it looked like the ball was glued to his feet.

“Goodness me!” Peter cried out. “It’s like watching Ronaldinho in a mirror world. Look at the agility, the freedom!”

“In a world of robotic wingers,” Marsha added, “Izan is showing them Joga Bonito.”

He ghosted past Robertson next—shoulder dip, pace burst, no tricks now, just raw rhythm.

The crowd gasped again, and this time it wasn’t just Arsenal fans.

Even the neutrals watching knew: this was something special.

Inside the box, Izan chopped once more—faking to shoot, pulling Van Dijk into a slide—and cut it back for Saka.

The shot came fast from the England forward but it was blocked by Konate who had done enough.

But the pressure was relentless.

Saka recycled the ball.

Rice kept it moving and Izan dropped again to receive, now dancing across the top of the box, flicking passes with the outside of his boot, collecting return balls in a one-man rondo that had Liverpool spinning.

Eventually, Robertson brought him down.

Not hard.

Just a tactical clip to stop the swirl.

To slow down the pace at which Arsenal were zipping the ball around but it couldn’t kill the belief of the fans who roared after Izan was sent tumbling.

The referee blew the whistle.

Free kick.

No card.

The fans howled.

Slot turned away from the touchline, eyes wide, his hand covering his mouth.

“He’s pulling them apart,” Dion said.

“He’s not just carrying Arsenal forward. He’s frightening Liverpool now.”

By the time the clock struck 39:50, the ball had changed feet three more times.

Liverpool retained possession.

A brief lull followed—slow passes between Gravenberch and MacAllister, and then back to Konate.

But it was Trent who reignited the fire.

Spotting a sliver of daylight, he pinged a ball down the right channel—curved, whipped, designed to move faster than a man’s breath.

Salah darted with his electrifying pace that seemed to only grow with age.

Timber saw him too late as Trent’s ball bent perfectly into stride, and Salah was gone.

The Emirates collectively held its breath as Salah tore down the right like a man chasing destiny.

His first touch off Trent’s ball was perfect—cushioned with his instep at full speed.

Rice turned sharply and chased him down but there was daylight now, real daylight, and Salah’s boots knew the path.

The grass seemed to stretch for him and his every step burned with purpose.

“Here he goes,” Peter Wallace’s voice dropped into tension. “Salah in space. This is danger.”

“Arsenal are scrambling,” Marsha added, “Could things flip all of a sudden?.”

Partey stepped across, trying to angle the approach, trying to buy time.

But Salah had already locked in.

He fainted to cut inside, then chopped back onto his right, dust trailing off his boots as he turned Partey’s weight against him.

Gabriel came sliding across the box to cover, but Salah didn’t flinch.

He opened his hips, drew his foot back, and struck.

The ball left his boot like a shot of heat—low, fast, clinical.

It skidded toward the bottom corner at speed, brushing the blades of grass as it went.

Raya moved instantly, reading it just enough, flinging himself low to his left and—

Made a gorgeous save.

Fingertips and instinct.

A full-stretch denial, nudging the ball just wide enough that it clipped the post and ricocheted out instead of in.

The stadium erupted—not in celebration, but in cathartic release.

Gasps.

Applause and a few disbelieving screams.

“SAVED!” Peter bellowed, nearly out of his chair.

“RAYA! WITH A WORLD-CLASS STOP!”

“How has he kept that out?” Dion muttered.

“That’s textbook from Salah. Nine out of ten times that’s a goal.”

Salah stood there for a beat, hands on hips, breathing hard, staring at the post like it had betrayed him.

Timber was still catching up.

Raya bounced back up and clapped his gloves.

His save had lifted the entire stadium—but on the pitch, Arsenal knew they needed more than adrenaline now.

“Settle,” he mouthed. “Settle.”

The tempo dipped, the ball moving from Ben White who had recovered the ball.

Liverpool didn’t press hard—they regrouped, hovered in their shape, waiting for the next crack to show.

Arteta stepped back from the edge of his box, arms folded now.

No yelling. Just watching. Reading.

Izan, stationed out wide, didn’t call for it.

He waited.

The run was there if they wanted it, but he knew this wasn’t the time.

Arsenal were trying to close the half with control, not chaos.

White looked up and shifted the ball inside to Rice, who returned it quickly, and then White played it again—this time too slow, too soft, and at the wrong angle.

The pass rolled directly into the feet of Mac Allister.

The shift was instant.

Mac Allister turned and launched it down the middle, where Núñez was already peeling off Gabriel’s shoulder.

The Uruguayan took it in stride and drove forward, straight at Partey, with the box opening ahead of him.

Gasps scattered through the crowd.

“Trouble,” Peter said. “Real trouble.”

Ben White backpedaled, trying to delay.

Núñez faked inside, then snapped his hips to shoot.

He struck it cleanly—maybe too cleanly.

The ball curled fast, right-footed, destined for the far post.

Raya didn’t move, because it didn’t matter.

As Raya stood motionless, almost like accepting his fate, the ball clanged off the outside of the post—loud, brutal, and merciless.

The metal rang out like a warning bell.

Núñez grimaced, tilted his head back, and blew out a frustrated breath.

Gabriel thumped the ball clear before it could bounce awkwardly.

“Arsenal just flirting with disaster now,” Marsha said.

“They needed the halftime whistle—and they’re going to get it.”

And then, mercifully, it came.

The referee blew three sharp blasts.

Halftime.

1–1.

But it didn’t feel finished.

It felt like both teams had tasted something.

And the second half would ask even more.

A/n: Last of the day. Sorry for the late release. Will follow up with the second half of this match soon

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