"Two in three minutes," a Dutch voice murmured behind the broadcast mics, not disbelief—just reluctant admiration.
"He scored the first, created the second… and it's only half an hour in."
In the Philips Stadion stands, the sound was strange now.
It was never quiet in Eindhoven, but there was a thinning at the edges.
A kind of nervous shuffle rippling through the home end.
Chants that had started loud were now broken across rows, patchy and uneven.
Still hopeful, but hopeful felt fragile now.
Down on the pitch, Arsenal moved like a machine just getting warmed up.
They were precise.
Saka's touch was silk on granite.
Ødegaard dictated space like he had drawn the pitch himself.
And Izan? Izan was gravity, like the commentator had said earlier.
Every pass flowed to him.
Every decision pivoted around him.
And PSV could feel it.
Peter Bosz stood at the edge of his technical area, arms crossed, fingers biting into his elbows.
He shouted, but only once.
