The French defenders scrambled to reset, their heads turning, searching—
But the ball was already out.
Or so they thought.
Lamine Yamal, quick as ever, lobbed it back into play from the corner, and Izan had already moved.
A flash of red near the corner flag. His body twisting mid-air, his boot stretching out—
[Control]
A touch so absurdly delicate, so precise, that the ball obeyed him as if bound by unseen strings.
The stadium gasped.
The French defense barely had time to react before Izan shifted his weight, balancing on the very edge of the pitch, his mind calculating.
Lamine Yamal called for the ball, but the look on Izan's face said it all.
The distance. The trajectory. The impossible angle.
A normal player would recycle possession. Play it safe. Look for options.
But Izan wasn't thinking about passing.
His Rocket Trait flared to life.
