Jin thought the goal would change things. Sixteenth minute, 1-0, the stadium rocking. Time to push forward, apply pressure, kill the game.
Instead, Schalke adjusted.
Every time Jin touched the ball now, two defenders appeared instantly. Then three. They weren't just marking him—they were hunting him. Left winger Levan Kobiashvili tracked his every move. Left-back Pandèr sat tight, waiting. Defensive midfielder Fabian Ernst prowled nearby, ready to pounce.
Jin saw the pattern. They were terrified of him. And in their fear, they were leaving space elsewhere.
If I can just—
A Schalke attack fizzled out. Farfán's shot sailed high. Weidenfeller placed the ball for a goal kick, Hummels received, passed to Şahin.
Şahin had been excellent so far. Composed, intelligent, always available. The coaching staff had worried about starting two teenagers, worried about inexperience, about being overpowered. Twenty minutes in, Şahin hadn't lost the ball once.
On the sideline, Dick Fuhren nodded approvingly. "The academy still produces them."
Doll said nothing, pacing, hands shoved in his coat pockets. Tinga was experienced, reliable. But these kids... they were unpredictable. And unpredictability made him nervous.
Like now.
Şahin had the ball, midfield, time to slow things. 1-0 away from home, control the tempo, keep possession. That was the instruction.
Then Jin dropped deep, into his own half, waving for the ball.
Şahin hesitated half a second. Then passed.
He must have a plan.
>>>
The moment the ball left Şahin's foot, he regretted it. Levan was already pressing. Pandèr was moving up. Ernst was closing from the middle. Three players, converging on one fifteen-year-old.
Doll's heart stopped. "No—"
Jin saw them coming. Saw the angles, the trajectories, the split seconds of opportunity. He took two quick steps back, away from Levan's reach, and positioned himself to receive.
Levan was on him instantly, body against body, trying to prevent the turn. Jin let him make contact, felt the pressure, then—shoulder dropped left, weight shifted, and exploded right.
Levan stumbled, grabbing at air. Jin was past him, ball at feet, charging forward.
"HE DIDN'T EVEN TOUCH IT!" Scholl's voice cracked with excitement. "A dummy! He sold the dummy without touching the ball!"
It was true. Jin had faked the movement so convincingly that Levan committed—and by the time he realised the ball was still behind him, Jin was already gone.
But the danger wasn't over. Levan recovered, chasing. Pandèr was ahead, angling to cut him off. Ernst was coming from the side, fast, shoulders low, ready to hit.
Three against one.
"Pass it back!" Doll was screaming from the sideline, unheard in the chaos. "Reorganise! Slow it down!"
Jin had no intention of slowing anything down.
Ernst arrived first, launching himself like a missile, aiming to body-check the teenager off the ball. It would be a foul, probably, but Ernst didn't care. Stop the attack. Send a message.
Jin stopped. Dragged the ball back. Ernst flew past, carried by momentum, straight out of play.
One down.
Levan was next, catching up, grabbing Jin's shoulder, trying to slow him, turn him, something. Jin dropped his weight, changed direction sharply, cutting inside. Levan scrambled to recover, throwing himself across the path.
Pandèr read the move, sliding over to meet him. Two defenders, closing the door.
Through them.
Jin's body took over. No thought. No plan. Just instinct.
He feinted left. Levan bit, shifting weight. Then—elastico. The outside of his right foot pushed the ball right, his body following, the movement so sudden and sharp that Levan's legs tangled beneath him.
Pandèr saw it happening, lunged to block—
The ball went through his legs. A nutmeg. Clean as a whistle.
Three seconds. Three defenders left behind.
>>>
Nothing ignites a stadium like a solo run.
Jin Hayes had just left three defenders on the turf, and the Westfalenstadion was howling. Eighty thousand voices, raw and primal, screaming his name.
Schalke's defenders scrambled. Westermann slid across to cover. Bodén dropped onto Frei, marking the striker, expecting a shot.
Jin crossed.
His right foot, still humming from the dribble, connected perfectly. The ball arced over Westermann's desperate lunge, curved away from the keeper's reach, and dropped towards the far post.
Klimowicz rose.
Thirty-three years old, not the quickest, not the flashiest. But in the air, he was still a threat. He met the ball cleanly, directing it past Neuer's outstretched hand.
2-0.
"KLIMOWICZ! And what a pass from Jin Hayes! He's torn Schalke apart single-handedly!"
The stadium erupted again. Klimowicz ran to the corner flag, arms wide, accepting the adoration. Jin was mobbed by his teammates—Şahin first, then Hummels sprinting the length of the pitch to join.
On the sideline, Dick Fuhren punched the air. Beside him, Thomas Doll finally exhaled. His heart was still racing. That run—that insane, reckless, brilliant run—had nearly given him a heart attack.
But it had worked.
He said he could do it, Doll thought. And he did.
>>>
The replay ran on screens across Germany.
Jin, surrounded by three blue shirts. Ernst flying past, missing everything. Levan stumbling, wrong-footed by the elastico. Pandèr lunging—and the ball sliding through his legs, a nutmeg so tight it looked impossible.
Elastico, then heel-flick, then acceleration. Three seconds. Three defenders left behind.
"Unbelievable," Scholl breathed. "He's toying with them. Playing a different game entirely."
>>>
The director cut back to live action, but fans barely noticed. They were still watching the replay in their minds, still marvelling at what they'd seen.
>>>
On the pitch, Doll allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Two-nil, twenty minutes in, derby day. This was going to be—
"OHHHH—FARFÁN!"
The shot came from nowhere. Forty yards out, an angle that shouldn't have been possible, and the Peruvian just... hit it. Clean. Perfect. Swerving.
Weidenfeller didn't move. Couldn't move. The ball was past him before he reacted, crashing into the top corner.
2-1.