"SEE?!" Lamine Yamal jumped up. "He just appears out of nowhere!"
Pedri's voice stayed calm.
"No."
A beat.
"He arrives exactly when the game needs him."
Bunny clicked his tongue.
"…Annoying."
Cassian leaned forward slightly.
Eyes locked.
A faint grin.
"…That's what he does."
43rd minute.
The game accelerated.
Left wing—
Vinícius Júnior.
One defender.
Gone.
Second—
Gone.
Yamal stood halfway out of his seat.
"NAH THAT'S ILLEGAL"
Bunny grinned.
"…That's a predator."
Liverpool struck back.
1–1
The ball rolled into space.
Karim Benzema.
No rush.
No panic.
Just—
Time.
Touch.
Shift.
Finish.
Goal.
Pedri nodded slightly.
"That's experience."
Bunny shook his head.
"…And patience."
Cassian didn't blink.
"…Control."
Then it happened.
Once.
Twice.
And again.
2–1.
2–2.
3–2.
Tension climbed.
Then snapped.
Final attack.
Clinical.
Unstoppable.
4–2.
The stadium erupted.
On the pitch—
Jude Bellingham stood tall.
Breathing slow.
Game over.
Then—
He looked up.
Straight at the stands.
At them.
No smile.
No gesture.
Just recognition.
Cassian didn't react.
Didn't move.
He just nodded—as if Jude could see him.
The final whistle blew.
And that night—
A name was born.
"Ramadan Karim."
And just like that—
The future had chosen its battlefield.
Final.
The stadium was still breathing.
Even after the whistle, the noise refused to die. It lingered in the air—echoing through the exits, vibrating through the concrete.
Outside—
The night had settled over Madrid.
Cool.
Alive.
Cassian stood near the private exit, hood up, hands in his pockets.
Beside him, Pedri leaned against the railing, calm as always.
Yamal wasn't.
"BRO THAT MATCH WAS INSANE—4–2?! Nah, I'm not sleeping tonight."
A beat.
"But two days later—El Clásico. That's when we show them who runs this city."
Bunny Iglesias sat on the edge of a barrier, one leg swinging lazily.
"Relax," he muttered. "You say that every time."
"I MEAN IT THIS TIME."
"…You said that last week."
Cassian wasn't listening.
His eyes stayed on the tunnel exit.
Waiting.
Then—
Movement.
Jude Bellingham stepped out.
Just him.
For a moment—
No one spoke.
Jude walked toward them.
Stopped a few steps away.
His gaze landed on Cassian.
"You were watching."
Cassian didn't look away.
"…Yeah."
A pause.
Jude's expression didn't change.
"Final."
Cassian nodded once.
"Yeah."
Silence.
They were close friends.
But not here.
When it came to winning—
Neither of them would back down.
Yamal clapped suddenly.
"Alright, that was dramatic—are we going or what?!"
Bunny slid off the barrier.
"Finally."
Pedri straightened.
"Let's move."
Outside the parking area—
Engines waited.
Two bikes.
One car.
Jude tossed a helmet.
Cassian caught it easily.
"You ride?" Jude asked.
Cassian glanced at the bike.
Then at him.
"…I'll drive."
A brief pause.
Then—
A faint smirk from Jude.
"Don't crash it."
Cassian put on the helmet.
"I ride better than you."
Yamal jumped on behind him.
"AYO DON'T KILL ME BRO—"
Cassian smirked slightly.
"No promises."
"WHAT?! YOU BASTARD—"
The engine roared.
Beside them—
Pedri mounted his bike.
Jude stepped on behind him.
Calm. Balanced.
Bunny leaned against his black Mustang GT 5.0, twirling his keys.
"Try to keep up."
Yamal shouted back:
"At least we don't need our dad's car!"
Bunny grinned.
"At least I've got one."
Engines ignited.
And then—
They were gone.
Madrid blurred around them.
Lights stretched into streaks.
Wind cut sharp.
No cameras.
No pressure.
Just speed.
Cassian leaned into a turn.
Perfect control.
No hesitation.
For a moment—
There was no match.
No final.
No world watching.
Just teenagers—
being teenagers.
They slowed near a low-lit entrance.
Private.
Hidden.
Music pulsed faintly inside.
Bunny was already there.
"Took you long enough."
Cassian removed his helmet.
"…You talk too much."
Inside—
Dim lights.
Low bass.
Not crowded.
Not chaotic.
Controlled.
They took a corner booth.
No one bothered them.
Or maybe—
No one recognized them.
Yamal dropped into his seat.
"I'm starving."
"You're always starving," Pedri said.
"That's not the point."
Bunny leaned forward.
"So."
He looked around.
"Final."
Silence settled.
Heavier this time.
Jude rested his arms on the table.
Eyes steady.
"You think you guys win?"
No arrogance.
Just—
Direct.
Cassian didn't hesitate.
"…We will."
No one laughed.
Pedri glanced between them.
Calm.
Measured.
Yamal leaned forward.
"Bro, before Cassian—you have to deal with me."
A grin.
"You think I'm letting you through? This year at Camp Nou… you'll see what Barcelona really is."
Jude smirked.
"You always talk big."
A beat.
"We've got 35 league titles. You've got 27."
Yamal didn't flinch.
"History doesn't win the future."
Bunny leaned back.
"…I just want chaos."
Cassian exhaled softly.
A faint smile.
"Then don't blink."
Silence again.
Then—
Yamal suddenly pointed.
"Yo—look at her. My type."
A blonde girl dancing nearby.
Bunny snorted.
"No chance she goes for you."
"Watch me."
"You'd need to show your bank account first."
Bunny shrugged.
"I could. But I won't."
A glance.
"Too much makeup. Too many guys around her."
"Red flag."
Yamal looked at Cassian and Jude.
"What about you two?"
Cassian:
"Not interested. Bunny's got a point."
Jude:
"I've got a girlfriend."
Outside—
The city kept moving.
Unaware.
Inside—
The future of football sat at one table.
Talking nonsense.
Laughing.
Waiting for what comes next.
–––
The screen behind them froze on the final score:
4–2.
The stadium noise still echoed faintly through the broadcast.
Thierry Henry leaned back slightly.
"Let's not overcomplicate this.
This was control."
Micah Richards laughed.
"Control? That was domination, man!"
Cesc Fàbregas leaned forward.
"It started in midfield. Everything flowed through one player."
The screen zoomed in:
Jude Bellingham.
Henry nodded.
"One goal. Two assists."
A pause.
"But that's not the real story."
Fàbregas pointed.
"Look at his timing."
A beat.
"He arrives exactly when the game needs him."
Micah grinned.
"And he makes it look easy!"
Henry added calmly:
"That's intelligence.
That's awareness.
That's world-class."
The replay switched:
Karim Benzema.
Micah leaned back.
"Hat-trick. Different level."
Fàbregas shook his head.
"That's masterclass finishing."
Henry:
"He doesn't chase chances…
He waits."
A pause.
"And when they come—he doesn't miss."
The screen showed the goalkeeper's saves.
Micah pointed.
"HEY—don't forget him!"
Henry nodded.
"At 1–1, that save changes everything."
Fàbregas:
"Big teams need moments like that.
Tonight—he delivered."
The tactical board appeared.
Fàbregas gestured.
"Madrid didn't avoid the press.
They played through it."
A tap.
"That's the difference."
Henry:
"Once Liverpool stretched—
Bellingham exploited the space."
Micah:
"And Benzema finished the job!"
The screen changed:
Next Match — El Clásico (La Liga Final)
Real Madrid vs FC Barcelona
Micah leaned back.
"Oooooh… now THAT is a game."
Henry smiled slightly.
"Momentum versus identity."
Fàbregas added:
"And pride."
The screen shifted again:
UEFA Champions League Final
Real Madrid vs AC Milan
Silence.
Then Henry said quietly:
"Europe is about to ignite again."
Silence settled across the studio—
heavy with what was coming next.