Chapter 633 - 3 From Three

The match had barely begun, but already the tone felt electric—too fast for comfort and too sharp to ignore.

Arsenal were playing with the certainty they always had when they had their talisman with them..

The ball pinged between white shirts with a rhythm that looked rehearsed, but was anything but robotic.

Ødegaard dropped deep.

Saliba pushed wide.

Rice checked his run to drag Dalot out of shape.

And all the while, Izan stayed quiet.

Unmarked, not because they forgot him—but because they hadn’t figured out how to reach him.

United had done their homework.

Casemiro was never more than a few feet from the channel between Ødegaard and Izan.

Lisandro Martinez occasionally stepped up from the back line to pinch the angle.

Bruno hovered, not tracking back completely, but shadowing Rice just enough to disrupt Arsenal’s build-up.

It was working.

For six minutes.

Then Ødegaard did something subtle.

He dropped into a false pivot near the right touchline, dragging Bruno with him—and in doing so, opened the smallest seam between the lines.

Casemiro stepped forward to intercept, certain that Ødegaard had mistimed the pass.

He hadn’t.

It was a setup.

From behind Casemiro’s shoulder, Izan pounced, arms stretching over Casemiro’s shoulder as he stole it.

Casemiro spun, but by the time he turned, all he saw was Izan’s back slicing through the space.

"Look at the acceleration!"

the first commentator called out from the booth.

"He’s ghosted past Casemiro—now it’s just Bruno and the back line!"

Bruno Fernandes squared up quickly, but the panic showed in his movement.

Izan dipped a shoulder.

A stepover.

Another.

Then he dragged the ball across his body with his instep and rolled right through the Portuguese midfielder like gravity had been rewritten.

Bruno stretched a leg out—missed and now he was in the box.

Martinez started to close in while Yoro stepped in from the right, body low, hands—

Izan raised his foot.

A fake shot—clean and convincing.

Yoro flinched and launched himself, sliding across the turf with one knee bent, arms raised to block.

The curl never came.

Just the snap of a boot striking something not leather.

The shot from Izan struck Yoro’s hand, clear as day and everyone stopped.

Yoro’s body skidded to a halt in the box as the ball rolled away, untouched now.

The referee didn’t hesitate.

WHISTLE.

Hand straight to the spot.

Penalty.

"Oh, what have they gone and done here. The referee says it’s a penalty"

Old Trafford exploded.

Red shirts surged toward the official in protest.

Martinez flailed his arms, shouting in Spanish, and Casemiro was already gesturing to his chest, claiming the ball hit the ribs, not the hand.

Bruno sprinted up from behind, screaming something that didn’t need translation.

Yoro didn’t move. He stayed on his knees, stunned, eyes wide.

He knew.

Ødegaard turned immediately to the referee, clapping once in affirmation.

Saka pointed to the ball.

But Izan had already picked it up.

He walked to the spot and placed the ball on it, adjusting it once and turning it so the valve faced slightly outward.

Then he stood, three steps back and then one to the left.

His teammates gave him space.

The United players didn’t.

Martinez walked toward the arc, mumbling something while Onana stood tall on the line, already shifting weight from foot to foot, arms stretched wide, trying to read something—anything—from the body language.

But Izan gave them nothing.

"...the one they can’t stop talking about... ball on the spot, Old Trafford on its feet... and a seven-minute penalty chance to open the floodgates."

The whistle blew.

Izan still didn’t move for a moment.

Then he stepped forward.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then everything snapped into motion.

A low-power shot towards the left.

Onana, already committed to the right side could only watch as the ball kissed off the inside of the post and nestled cleanly in the net.

The away end roared as Izan pumped his fist once—sharp, deliberate—towards the travelling Arsenal faithful.

"1–0 Arsenal!"

The commentator called.

"And it’s him again. Izan Hernandez from the spot—"

"Seven minutes in. United set out to frustrate him... and seven minutes in, he’s already carved them open from the spot."

The Arsenal players trotted back to their half with looks of a job half done on their faces.

Bruno barked instructions, urging more aggression while Casemiro waved both hands, trying to get the midfield triangle to press higher.

And on the Arsenal touchline, Arteta turned calmly to Amorim, who stood beside him today.

"Go for it. Don’t play it safe," Amorim uttered from the touchline urging his men forward and United did.

Dalot pushed up the left.

Eriksen dropped into the pocket while Bruno drifted between the lines, both veterans combining to release Zirkzee up top on the run but the Dutch forward blasted his shot wide.

Raya restarted as quickly as the ball went out, sending a long ball into the midfield.

Then when the ball spilt loose from Garnacho’s pass being intercepted by Saliba, Izan stepped onto it like it had been set down for him on a tray.

He took a single touch near the centre circle and lifted his head.

The crowd buzzed, but his world slowed.

Saka had already started drifting wide, hugging the right flank and Izan didn’t hesitate.

He opened his body and sent a diagonal pass slicing through the air—shoulder-high, fast, and spinning tight.

The ball arced clean across the pitch, skipping just once before landing at Saka’s feet like it had always belonged there.

He drove inward, just like he always did—but there was something different in the way he moved.

The kind of body control that made defenders hesitate for fear of being left behind.

Lisandro Martinez stepped up to cover, but he didn’t commit.

Saka took the window, angling himself well as the ball left his foot, curling toward goal.

The shot swept past bodies, past boots, and curved around Onana’s full-stretched dive like it knew exactly where it was supposed to land.

The far net bulged as the scoreboard changed.

Two–nil.

Eleven minutes played.

Arsenal had landed again.

"Would you look at that,"

the commentator snapped into the moment.

"It’s Saka now! But the pass—that pass—from Izan, that’s a scalpel! Efficient. That’s two goals, two strikes, and the hosts haven’t laid a glove."

The camera swept through Old Trafford—an ocean of red seats filled with motionless figures.

Some fans stared blankly.

Others were already shifting, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

The optimism they’d walked in with was evaporating, fast.

Now things were becoming much clearer.

They weren’t the top boys in the game.

As the match restarted, the atmosphere in the stadium changed again.

The stillness in the home sections was broken by the occasional groan whenever another Arsenal pass found its mark.

Manchester United weren’t collapsing.

They were being pulled apart—systematically, and without drama.

"They’re trying to keep him quiet,"

the commentator noted, just as a stat graphic appeared across the screen.

Touches — Izan Hernandez: 42

Next closest — Casemiro: 18

"You wouldn’t think it,"

the co-commentator said.

"He hasn’t taken a shot in a while. But look at that. He’s touched the ball more than twice as much as anyone else. That’s how he’s setting the rhythm."

And just as he said, Izan wrote over those words.

Bruno’s touch wasn’t clean.

A slight bobble, just enough space between boot and ball.

Ødegaard reacted instantly, stepping in with a burst of acceleration to intercept.

Casemiro moved to cut it off as Odegaard approached the United half but it was gone by the time he took his third step.

Izan received it near the centre circle.

The ball came at pace, but his first touch softened it, pulled it into stride.

He scanned upfield, body already pivoting.

And like the second goal, he sent a diagonal slicing through United’s left flank into Saka’s path on the far side.

Dalot, this time had positioned himself to intercept, but the ball reached Saka too quickly.

He controlled it without breaking stride, letting it roll across his body before sliding a perfectly weighted pass down the channel behind De Ligt.

The Dutch centre-back turned to track it, but his pivot was laboured—just one misstep, and the advantage was lost.

Izan was already there.

The pass he sent seconds earlier was now being answered by his own run as he ghosted into the box from nowhere.

Bruno, looking to make amends for losing the ball shifted across, trying to cover.

He stepped into Izan’s path, trying to force him wide but Izan didn’t slow.

Instead, he shaped his run, let Yoro lunge forward, then dragged the ball back across his body with a short, controlled cut.

Yoro stumbled as Izan moved past him, balance and angle gone.

Now inside the area, with defenders off balance and Onana scrambling into position, Izan looked up once before cutting a sharp, low pass to Havertz near the penalty spot.

The shot everyone expected from the German never came as he flicked it back, quickly and into the space behind.

Two defenders turned, both late to see Izan dragging his leg back and without invitation, he wrapped his foot around the ball, left-footed, curling it low across goal.

Onana stretched to his left, full extension, fingertips out—but the shot bent just beyond reach and kissed the inside of the far post before settling in the net.

Three passes. Three players. One finish.

The away end rose first, arms up before the ball had even crossed the line.

The noise inside Old Trafford fractured.

A split between gasps and stunned silence, as another Arsenal move ended with the same outcome.

A goal!

"Arsenal again. And guess who. Three goals. Three shots. All of them with his fingerprint."

"It’s not chaos. It’s calculation. This is control—of the match, the space, the pace."

On the bench, Arteta turned calmly to Carlos Cuesta and tapped his knuckles against his assistant’s palm once.

This was what they’d built the team for.

The Manchester player stared as the perpetrator walked slowly toward the away end, raised one fist, then pointed to his forearm—held the pose—and tapped at the vein.

He gave one slight shiver.

Just enough for the cameras to catch.

"Ice in his veins and all the Red Devils can do is stare,"

the commentator croaked.

The home fans started checking their watches.

Not to see how long was left.

But to see how much more of this they had to survive.

A/n: Hello guys, here’s the Chapter. I will soon be returning to the two Chapter release so hang on for a bit.