"Goal! A last-minute winner! It's in!"
"We've taken it! We've actually taken the lead!"
"Ren! It's that kid! I saw it clearly—another assist!"
The stands at the Marassi were a sea of trembling limbs and raw noise. The Fiorentina faithful, who had spent the last eighty minutes biting their nails down to the quick, were now in a state of pure delirium.
"Are you certain he's only sixteen? That chip... that through ball... that was master-class. Pure filth!"
The anxiety that had suffocated the traveling fans just moments ago evaporated. Against Genoa's bruising, low-block defense, a draw had felt like the only inevitable conclusion. But in the dying embers of the match, the script had been shredded.
Mario Gomez, the man who had ghosted into the box to hammer home the winner, didn't head for the corner flag. Instead, he sprinted toward the touchline, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated relief. When Ren caught up to him, the German international didn't just high-five him—he scooped the teenager into a crushing bear hug.
"Ren! You're a genius, you know that?" Gomez shouted over the roar of the crowd, his voice thick with adrenaline. "That ball... I didn't even have to break stride. Promise me, kid—keep feeding me like that. Just keep them coming!"
For Gomez, this wasn't just another goal. Since his high-profile move from Bayern Munich, the "Super Mario" of the Bundesliga had felt like a ghost of his former self. At Bayern, he was fed by a world-class engine room; at Fiorentina, he had spent the last year starving for service. Last season's haul of fourteen goals had been mocked by the Italian press, and a string of nagging injuries this season had only darkened his mood.
Before today, he had managed a meager eight goals. With Valero—the team's creative heartbeat—sidelined with a long-term injury, Gomez had begun to fear his time at the top was over.
But as he looked at the grinning sixteen-year-old in front of him, he realized he had found his lifeline. This was his first brace in a Viola shirt since arriving eighteen months ago. It was an indictment of the team's previous lack of vision, but more importantly, it was a testament to the boy standing in the center circle.
On the sidelines, Vincenzo Montella was vibrating with energy. He pulled his assistant coaches into a frantic, triple-embrace, his eyes wide.
"I knew it!" Montella barked, though his heart was still hammering against his ribs. "I told you the kid had something special. That vision... it changes everything!"
Inwardly, Montella exhaled a breath he felt he'd been holding for an hour. Ten minutes ago, he had been mentally rehearsing his apologies for the post-match press conference, preparing to explain away another dropped three points.
Across the technical area, Gian Piero Gasperini stood frozen. The Genoa manager looked as though he had seen a specter.
"What happened?" Gasperini muttered, gesturing wildly at his backline. "How does a substitute come on in the 70th minute and carve us open twice? Who is he?"
His assistant checked his notes, his brow furrowed. "Ren. He's a loanee. Coach... this is his professional debut."
Gasperini's face went pale. A debut? No professional minutes, yet he was playing passes that required a decade of top-flight experience to master. It felt like a glitch in the system.
The final whistle blew after five minutes of frantic, desperate Genoa pressure. The Viola had held firm. It was their first win in over a month, a hard-earned spark to ignite the second half of the season.
The moment the game ended, the Fiorentina squad swarmed Ren.
"An assist brace on your debut? You're trying to make the rest of us look bad, Renny!" Juan Cuadrado joked, jogging over while clutching the match ball tightly to his chest. He shoved the leather into Ren's hands. "Here. You're taking this home."
Ren blinked, looking at the ball. "Wait, really? Don't you need a hat-trick for this?"
"Usually," Manuel Pasqual said, clapping Ren on the shoulder with a captain's authority. "But Cuadrado spent the last three minutes sweet-talking the referee. For once, his big mouth actually did something useful."
"Hey! I told the ref it was a historic performance," Cuadrado grinned, leaning in. "But seriously, Ren... if you want to thank me, just look for my run on the right wing next Sunday, yeah?"
The circle of players erupted into laughter. Ren nodded, a quiet, confident smile playing on his lips as he tucked the ball under his arm.
He had entered the pitch as a gamble, a desperate roll of the dice by a manager under pressure. He left it as the Man of the Match, having shattered a century-old club record. He was now the youngest player in the history of the Gigliati to record two assists on his debut—and the city of Florence finally had a new artist to adore.