If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
______________________________
(A/N: Hello everyone, I have a new novel out named Transmigrated As High Elf In Skyrim go check it out! I know I know I have to much now, literally six novels, but hey as long as I can make it and give it to you guys, who am I to protest right?! Of course this also actually helped clear my head because I have a new source to made, so don't worry and please give me your comments or reviewed if you like it, have a constructive criticism, and lastly, please no need for personal insult if doesn't like it thank you! Oh also don't forget the power stones and put in you library for support if you like it!)
Then He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and stepped out onto the terrace, the cool air brushing against his skin. From here, the city felt distant. Muted. The kind of distance that let you breathe.
Then the days did not rush.
They layered themselves gently, one over the other, like careful brushstrokes rather than broad swipes. Recovery. Tactical meetings. Video sessions where Atlético Madrid appeared again and again on the screen with compact lines, brutal efficiency, the way they turned patience into a weapon. Training sharpened. Conversations shortened. Smiles became rarer, but more meaningful when they appeared.
And then, suddenly, it was 3 May 2017.
The day arrived not with drama, but with inevitability.
Evening settled over London with a kind of deliberate calm, the sky darkening into deep blues and bruised purples as the Arsenal team bus rolled out of London Colney. Inside, the atmosphere was subdued but charged, that particular quiet that only existed before matches of real consequence.
No music blaring.
No jokes shouted across rows.
Just low murmurs. Headphones. Focus.
Francesco sat near the front, window to his left, the city lights beginning to flicker on as they passed. He wore the captain's armband already, snug around his arm beneath his jacket, the fabric a constant reminder of what tonight demanded from him.
He stared out at the road, not really seeing it.
He felt the weight again.
But this time, it didn't sit beside him.
It settled into him.
Across the aisle, Özil leaned back with his eyes closed, lips moving faintly that counting patterns, maybe, or replaying sequences only he could see. Xhaka sat upright, hands clasped together, jaw tight but steady. Kanté was further back, legs bouncing slightly, energy contained but humming.
Walker sat a few rows behind Francesco, headphones on, gaze fixed straight ahead. He looked calm. Ready.
The bus slowed.
Turned.
Then stopped.
The Emirates Stadium rose in front of them, illuminated against the night sky, glass and steel glowing under floodlights that felt almost ceremonial. Even empty, it carried presence. Tonight, it would be full. Loud. Demanding.
The doors opened.
Cool night air rushed in.
One by one, players stood, adjusted jackets, slung bags over shoulders.
As Francesco stepped down from the bus, the noise hit him immediately.
Not the roar yet.
But the murmur.
Thousands of voices blending together outside the stadium, anticipation vibrating through the air. Camera flashes popped. Stewards called instructions. Security guided them forward.
Francesco didn't look around much.
He walked.
Purposeful.
Focused.
Inside, the tunnel swallowed the noise slightly, replacing it with echoes of footsteps and distant chants reverberating through concrete. The Arsenal dressing room awaited them, already prepared with shirts laid out precisely, boots aligned beneath benches, names printed clean and sharp.
Francesco found his place.
LEE 9
He ran his fingers briefly over the fabric.
Tonight, it meant more.
They changed into training kits without ceremony. Movements practiced. Automatic. The kind of routine that anchored nerves instead of inflaming them.
When they stepped out onto the pitch for warm-ups, the stadium greeted them fully for the first time.
A roar.
Not explosive yet, but deep. Constant. The Emirates breathed them in.
Floodlights bathed the grass in white brilliance, every blade visible, pristine. Francesco jogged lightly, eyes scanning the stands. Red everywhere. Scarves held aloft. Flags waved rhythmically.
This was home.
Warm-up drills began.
Short passes.
Stretching.
Acceleration bursts.
The ball felt perfect underfoot. Responsive. Alive.
Francesco struck a few shots during finishing drills, the sound of the ball meeting the net sharp and satisfying. Each connection settled him further, grounding nerves into muscle memory.
From the opposite half, Atlético Madrid emerged.
Black and red.
Compact even in warm-up.
Focused, severe.
Diego Simeone stalked the touchline, already intense, arms crossed, eyes locked on every movement. His players mirrored him with sharp passes, aggressive presses even in drills, bodies colliding deliberately.
This was no friendly warm-up.
This was a warning.
When warm-ups concluded, Arsenal jogged back toward the tunnel, applause following them like a tide. Francesco clapped back briefly, then disappeared inside.
The dressing room felt different now.
Tighter.
Quieter.
Players pulled on match kits with care. Jerseys slid over shoulders. Shin pads secured. Boots laced again, this time tighter.
Wenger stood at the front.
Waiting.
When everyone was seated, he spoke.
His voice was calm.
Measured.
But it carried.
"Tonight," he said, "we do not play against a team that wants the ball. We play against a team that wants control."
He gestured to the board.
"4-3-3," Wenger continued. "Structure first. Discipline always."
He began naming the lineup.
"Petr, you start."
Čech nodded once.
"Nacho. Virgil. Laurent. Hector."
Van Dijk rolled his shoulders, already locked in. Koscielny's eyes never left Wenger.
"N'Golo, you anchor us," Wenger said. "Granit, you manage the rhythm. Mesut, you find the spaces they don't want you to find."
Özil smiled faintly.
"Alexis, Theo, you stretch them. You hurt them when they step out."
Sánchez's jaw tightened with intent. Walcott bounced lightly in his seat.
Wenger turned last to Francesco.
"Francesco," he said, voice softening just slightly. "You lead. You finish. You stay patient."
Francesco met his gaze.
"I will," he said.
"And you are captain tonight," Wenger added, unnecessary but deliberate.
The armband felt heavier now.
"Substitutes," Wenger continued. "Ospina. Mustafi. Per. Aaron. Santi. Serge. Olivier."
Heads nodded.
"This match," Wenger concluded, "will not be decided by who runs more. It will be decided by who thinks clearer when it hurts."
Silence followed.
Then Wenger stepped back.
"That is all."
The players rose.
One by one.
The tunnel awaited.
They lined up behind the referees, boots tapping softly on the floor. The Champions League patch gleamed on sleeves. Francesco stood at the front, armband visible, Atlético Madrid players beside them.
Directly in front of him stood Gabi.
Atlético's captain turned slightly, eyes sharp but respectful.
"Big night," Gabi said quietly.
Francesco nodded. "Always."
They stood shoulder to shoulder as the referee glanced back, then raised his hand.
The signal.
The tunnel opened.
Night air rushed in.
The roar exploded.
The Emirates Stadium greeted them fully now with lights blazing, noise crashing down in waves, red scarves rippling like a living thing.
Francesco stepped onto the pitch.
For a split second, he took it all in.
Then he focused.
They lined up beside the referees. Cameras flashed. The Champions League anthem began, swelling through the stadium, heavy and ceremonial, vibrating in Francesco's chest.
He stared straight ahead.
When it ended, handshakes followed. Firm grips. Brief eye contact. Mutual acknowledgment of what this stage demanded.
The teams posed for photographs.
Eleven men standing shoulder to shoulder.
Then the captains walked to the center circle.
Francesco and Gabi faced the referee beneath the floodlights.
The coin was tossed.
It spun.
Caught.
Gabi chose.
"Right," he said.
Atlético Madrid would kick off.
Francesco nodded once.
He turned back toward his half, heart steady, mind sharp.
The whistle hovered.
The night waited, as the match was about to begin.
The whistle came.
Sharp. Clean. Unforgiving.
And the match began.
Atlético Madrid took the kickoff exactly the way everyone expected them to not with flourish, not with hesitation, but with intent. A short touch backward, a quick recycle through midfield, and immediately their shape snapped into place like a mechanism clicking shut.
Compact.
Narrow.
Hungry.
Gameiro and Griezmann moved as a pair rather than two individuals, one dropping, one stretching, constantly testing the line between Virgil van Dijk and Laurent Koscielny. Carrasco and Koke flanked them, not hugging the touchline but hovering just inside, ready to dart infield or explode wide depending on where Arsenal showed weakness.
From the very first minute, Atlético attacked Arsenal with everything they had.
Not recklessly.
Relentlessly.
The first warning came early.
A sharp diagonal from Gabi into Carrasco's path pulled Bellerín wider than he wanted to go. Carrasco took one touch, accelerated, and whipped an early ball toward the near post. Griezmann was already there, ghosting between Van Dijk and Koscielny.
Petr Čech reacted instantly.
He stepped off his line, hands high, fists strong, punching the cross clear just before Griezmann could make contact. The ball skidded away, Xhaka sweeping it up and driving it forward with a clearing pass that gave Arsenal a moment to breathe.
The Emirates roared.
Not in celebration.
In encouragement.
Atlético pressed again.
Gameiro chased everything. Griezmann drifted intelligently, pulling defenders out of shape, always looking for the blind side. Koke dropped deeper to help Gabi and Saúl Ñíguez crowd the midfield, turning every Arsenal possession into a contest rather than a comfort.
Özil, Kanté, and Xhaka were immediately under pressure.
Kanté buzzed like a live wire, snapping into tackles, stealing half-seconds of space that Atlético wanted desperately. Xhaka anchored himself, positioning carefully, choosing when to step up and when to hold. Özil floated, searching for pockets that appeared and disappeared almost instantly.
It was chess played at sprinting speed.
Ahead of them, Francesco felt the back line's attention before the ball even reached him.
Godín stayed tight. Savic hovered close enough to contest but far enough to recover. Filipe Luís watched Theo Walcott like a hawk, refusing to overcommit, while Hernández mirrored Sanchez's runs stride for stride.
And behind them all stood Jan Oblak.
Still.
Balanced.
Unmoved.
Arsenal's first real spell of possession came around the fifth minute.
It wasn't flashy.
It was deliberate.
Monreal recycled play backward rather than forcing a cross. Van Dijk switched the ball calmly, drawing Atlético's block a step wider. Xhaka dropped between the center-backs, freeing Kanté to step higher and disrupt Saúl's positioning.
Then Özil found space.
Just a sliver.
But a sliver was enough.
He took the ball on the half-turn, head already up, scanning. Walcott sprinted wide right, dragging Hernández with him. Sánchez cut inside aggressively, forcing Godín to take a step toward him.
And Francesco moved.
Not toward the ball.
Away from it.
He drifted slightly left, pulling Savic with him, then spun back sharply into the channel Godín had vacated.
Özil saw it instantly.
The pass was threaded, weighted perfectly, splitting two red-and-white shirts by inches.
Francesco took one touch.
Then another.
Then struck.
Low.
Across goal.
Past Oblak's outstretched hand.
Goal.
For a heartbeat, the stadium went silent.
Disbelief.
Then the Emirates erupted.
Noise crashed down from every stand, a wall of sound that seemed to shake the air itself. Francesco turned, arms wide, mouth open in a shout that was half joy, half release.
His teammates swarmed him.
Özil hugged him tightly, whispering something into his ear that was lost in the roar. Walcott thumped his back. Sánchez screamed toward the stands, fists clenched.
Francesco pointed briefly to Özil.
Acknowledgment.
Then he jogged back toward the center circle, chest heaving, eyes already sharpening again.
9th minute.
Arsenal 1–0 Atlético Madrid.
Atlético did not panic.
They never did.
They restarted calmly, Gabi clapping his hands once, barking instructions. Simeone paced furiously on the touchline, arms slicing the air as he demanded more aggression, more intensity.
And Atlético responded.
The next ten minutes were suffocating.
Wave after wave.
Carrasco isolated Bellerín repeatedly, testing his stamina and discipline. Koke drifted centrally, overloading the midfield, forcing Kanté to choose between pressing and covering space.
In the 14th minute, Griezmann dropped deep, received the ball with his back to goal, and flicked it first-time into Gameiro's run. Gameiro broke past Koscielny, winding up for a shot.
Only for Van Dijk to slide across with perfect timing, blocking the strike with his thigh and sending the ball skidding wide.
The Emirates exhaled.
Čech shouted instructions, pointing, organizing.
"Stay compact!"
"Don't step!"
Arsenal absorbed pressure, bent without breaking.
Then, at the 21st minute, they struck again.
This time, it was ruthless.
It started with Kanté.
A simple interception.
A half-step faster than Saúl.
He won the ball cleanly and immediately played it forward to Xhaka, who didn't dwell, didn't hesitate. One touch. Then a diagonal switch toward the right flank.
Bellerín was already sprinting.
He surged forward, eating up space, forcing Carrasco to track back hurriedly. Hernández shifted wider to cover, leaving a gap between himself and Savic.
Bellerín didn't slow.
He crossed early.
Low.
Fast.
Hard.
The ball zipped across the six-yard box like a blade.
Francesco lunged, dragging Godín with him, just enough to disrupt the line.
And Alexis Sánchez arrived.
Unmarked.
Ferocious.
He met the ball with his left foot, smashing it high into the net before Oblak could react.
Goal.
2–0.
The Emirates exploded again, louder this time, belief flooding through the stands like electricity. Sánchez sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees, veins bulging, scream ripping from his throat.
Bellerín raised both arms, roaring back at the crowd.
Francesco jogged over, grabbing Sánchez by the head and pulling him into a tight embrace.
"Vamos," he shouted.
Simeone stopped pacing.
For the first time, he stood still.
Arsenal had done what few teams managed against Atlético Madrid.
They had punished them.
But Atlético Madrid were not finished.
They never were.
The remainder of the half became a battle of will.
Atlético pushed higher, pressing more aggressively, taking risks they normally avoided. Godín stepped into midfield to win duels. Saúl began making late runs into the box, testing Kanté's tracking.
In the 37th minute, they came agonizingly close.
Carrasco beat Bellerín with a sudden burst of acceleration and lifted a perfect cross toward the far post. Griezmann timed his run beautifully, slipping between defenders and meeting the ball with a controlled header aimed down and inside the post.
For a split second, it looked destined for the net.
Petr Čech reacted on instinct.
He threw himself to his right, fingertips stretching impossibly far, and parried the ball away with a strong hand. It bounced dangerously across the six-yard box before Koscielny hacked it clear.
The Emirates roared Čech's name.
He rose slowly, jaw clenched, eyes fierce.
That save mattered.
Atlético felt it.
They pressed again.
Six minutes later, another chance.
Gameiro broke through on the counter, exploiting a rare moment where Arsenal's midfield had pushed too high. Griezmann slipped him in with a perfectly weighted through ball, splitting Van Dijk and Koscielny.
Gameiro was clean through.
Bellerín chased.
Full sprint.
No hesitation.
Gameiro shot.
Bellerín slid across, throwing his body into the path of the ball, blocking it with his shin just before it could reach Čech.
Pain exploded through his leg, but he got up immediately, clenching his teeth, pounding the turf once in frustration and adrenaline.
The clock ticked on.
Atlético continued probing.
Arsenal continued resisting.
The half closed with tension thick enough to taste.
Every clearance was cheered.
Every interception applauded.
When the referee finally blew for halftime, it felt like a release.
Players walked off with heavy legs and focused faces.
2–0.
But nothing was finished.
Inside the dressing room, Wenger waited until everyone was seated before speaking.
His voice was calm.
But firm.
"This is good," he said. "But it is not enough."
He looked around the room.
"They will come harder in the second half. They will provoke. They will try to break your discipline."
He met Francesco's eyes.
"Stay patient."
Then he looked at the group.
"Stay together."
The players nodded.
Sweat dripped.
Breathing slowed.
Outside, the Emirates buzzed.
The second half awaited.
And Atlético Madrid were already preparing to fight back.
The second half did not creep in.
It arrived.
The players emerged from the tunnel into a wall of noise that felt different from the first that sharper now, heavier with expectation. The Emirates understood what was at stake. Two goals up in a Champions League semi-final was power, yes, but it was also danger. Atlético Madrid lived in moments like this. They thrived on dragging teams into discomfort, into chaos, into mistakes born from fear or overconfidence.
Francesco adjusted the armband once more as he jogged back into position, eyes scanning his teammates.
Everyone looked ready.
Everyone looked tense.
That was fine.
The whistle blew.
Atlético Madrid exploded out of the blocks exactly as Wenger had warned.
There was no pretense now. No patience. No slow build-up.
They pushed.
High.
Hard.
Uncompromising.
Simeone barked orders relentlessly from the touchline, arms pumping, voice carrying even through the noise. Gabi pressed higher alongside Griezmann. Koke tucked inside permanently, turning Atlético's midfield into a suffocating triangle with Saúl and Gabi hunting Kanté and Xhaka relentlessly.
Carrasco stayed wide now, pinning Bellerín deep. Filipe Luís began overlapping aggressively, forcing Walcott back more often than Arsenal wanted.
Within two minutes, Arsenal were defending inside their own third.
Cross after cross came in.
Van Dijk headed one clear.
Koscielny blocked another.
Monreal slid to intercept a cut-back aimed for Griezmann's feet.
Čech was busy immediately.
In the 48th minute, a vicious long-range effort from Saúl whistled toward the bottom corner. Čech dropped low, hands firm, smothering it cleanly before scrambling back to his feet and shouting his back line forward.
"Push! Push!"
Arsenal tried to settle things.
Özil dropped deeper to receive.
Xhaka recycled possession side to side.
Kanté chased shadows, plugging holes before they fully opened.
But Atlético's pressure didn't allow rhythm.
Every Arsenal touch was contested.
Every second on the ball felt borrowed.
Francesco found himself isolated more often now, Godín glued to his back, Savic stepping aggressively into midfield whenever he tried to drop. He felt the game shifting, felt the way Atlético were betting everything on momentum.
And momentum was dangerous.
In the 53rd minute, Atlético nearly found their reward.
A loose clearance fell to Koke at the edge of the box. He struck it first time, the ball skidding viciously through bodies. Čech saw it late, diving full stretch to push it wide with his fingertips.
The crowd roared again.
But beneath the noise, a tension crept in.
Atlético believed.
Simeone believed.
And belief, for Atlético Madrid, was fuel.
Then against the run of play, Arsenal struck.
It began at 57th minute with a clearance.
Not a hopeful one.
A calculated one.
Van Dijk rose highest from a corner, powering the ball clear toward the right flank. Walcott was already sprinting, anticipation sharp, legs pumping as he broke free from Hernández's grasp.
The ball bounced once.
Perfectly.
Walcott took it in stride.
Suddenly, Arsenal were running.
Two red shirts chasing.
Three Atlético players scrambling backward.
The midfield left exposed by their own ambition.
Walcott surged down the right, eyes flicking once toward the center.
Francesco was already moving.
He didn't sprint blindly.
He waited.
Let Savic commit.
Let Godín shift.
Let the space appear.
Then he exploded forward, cutting diagonally between the center-backs just as Walcott released the pass.
It was inch-perfect.
Weighted.
Timed.
Deadly.
Francesco took it on the run, one touch pushing the ball slightly left to open the angle. Oblak rushed off his line, narrowing the goal, arms wide.
Francesco didn't panic.
He never did.
He opened his body and slid the ball calmly past Oblak's right hand, into the far corner.
Goal.
3–0.
For a moment, the stadium didn't just roar.
It shook.
Francesco sprinted toward the corner, fists clenched, letting out a roar that felt primal, ripped straight from his chest. Walcott chased him down, leaping onto his back, shouting into his ear.
Van Dijk jogged over, pointing emphatically.
"That's it! That's it!"
Arsenal players flooded forward, belief surging anew.
Simeone turned away.
Hands on hips.
Jaw tight.
But Atlético Madrid still refused to die.
If Arsenal's third goal was clinical, Atlético's response was defiant.
At 63th minute, they poured forward again, desperation sharpening their movements rather than dulling them.
Koke drifted wider, pulling Xhaka with him.
Carrasco isolated Bellerín once more, this time dragging Monreal out of position too.
Then came the moment.
Koke received the ball just outside the box, head up, scanning. Griezmann darted across the line, dragging Koscielny with him, then abruptly checked his run.
For half a second, he was free.
Koke threaded the pass.
Griezmann met it first time, low and precise, striking across Čech before the goalkeeper could fully set himself.
The ball kissed the inside of the post and rolled in.
Goal.
3–1.
The away end erupted.
Simeone punched the air violently.
Griezmann sprinted toward the corner, sliding, fists pounding his chest.
Francesco stood near the center circle, hands on hips, breathing hard.
He felt it.
The shift.
One goal changed everything.
Now Atlético had something tangible.
Now the second leg mattered differently.
Francesco clapped his hands sharply, turning to his teammates.
"Reset," he shouted. "Now."
Arsenal needed control again.
Needed calm.
Needed leadership.
And Wenger responded.
Then at 70th minutes, board went up.
Three changes.
Alexis Sánchez.
Theo Walcott.
Mesut Özil.
Off.
The Emirates murmured in surprise, then understanding.
On came:
Olivier Giroud.
Serge Gnabry.
Santi Cazorla.
Francesco jogged toward Wenger briefly.
"You're left," Wenger said quietly. "Play narrower. Support Olivier."
Francesco nodded.
Giroud took the striker's position immediately, planting himself between Godín and Savic like a physical declaration. Gnabry took the right, pace fresh and fearless. Cazorla slipped into midfield, his presence instantly calming, his touch reassuring.
Simeone responded in kind.
Gameiro came off.
Saúl followed.
On came Fernando Torres and Nico Gaitán.
Experience.
Directness.
A final roll of the dice.
Atlético went for it.
The match stretched.
Not in space, but in nerves.
Atlético pressed relentlessly, now throwing crosses into the box with abandon. Torres bullied defenders, testing Van Dijk physically. Gaitán drifted dangerously between lines, forcing Kanté and Cazorla to communicate constantly.
Arsenal defended deeper now.
Not passively.
Intelligently.
Giroud became the out-ball, holding up play under pressure, bringing others into the game. Francesco worked tirelessly from the left, tracking back, doubling up on Carrasco when needed, then bursting forward whenever Arsenal cleared their lines.
The pressure did not fade.
If anything, it thickened.
Atlético Madrid sensed vulnerability not in Arsenal's structure, but in the margins, in fatigue, in split-second hesitations, in the emotional swing that followed Griezmann's goal. The match became something heavier now, something that demanded concentration not just from legs, but from nerve.
Every Arsenal defender felt it.
Van Dijk stayed half a step deeper, constantly checking Torres' position. Koscielny barked instructions without pause, his voice raw but unyielding. Monreal with Bellerin tucked inside more often, narrowing the gaps, trusting that Francesco and Gnabry would cover the wide spaces when needed.
And they did.
Francesco's lungs burned as he tracked back yet again, sliding across to double up on Koke, forcing him away from goal, into traffic. He didn't win the ball every time, but he slowed the game, disrupted rhythm, made Atlético work for every inch.
That was leadership too.
Atlético pressed with intent bordering on obsession.
Griezmann and Torres formed a partnership that felt almost predatory that Griezmann floating, probing, Torres crashing lines with brute force and experience. It was chaos by design. One dragged defenders out. The other punished the hesitation that followed.
In the 72nd minute, Torres nearly made it count.
A looping cross from Gaitán sailed toward the penalty spot. Torres muscled past Van Dijk just enough to get his head to it, directing the ball downward.
Čech reacted again.
Not spectacularly.
Efficiently.
He got his body behind it, smothering the ball before Torres could pounce on the rebound. As he rose, Čech slammed the ball into his chest once, shouting with a sharp, defiant sound meant as much for himself as for the defenders in front of him.
The Emirates answered.
A chant rolled through the stands, swelling and repeating, lifting Arsenal back onto their toes.
But Atlético would not be lifted off theirs.
They came again.
And again.
Gaitán slipped past Kanté in the 75th minute, cutting inside onto his left foot and curling a shot toward the far corner. It missed by inches, grazing the outside of the post. Čech didn't move this time. He trusted his judgment.
Francesco exhaled sharply, hands briefly on his hips.
Stay focused.
The game hovered on a knife edge that not because Arsenal were losing control, but because Atlético lived for moments like this. One mistake, one loose clearance, one lapse of communication, and the entire tone of the tie could shift.
Then Arsenal struck again.
It began quietly.
Almost invisibly.
At the 77th minute, it began with a simple recovery by Cazorla near the center circle, his body already half-turned before the ball reached him. One touch to settle. Another to draw pressure.
Gabi stepped forward.
That was all the invitation Arsenal needed.
Cazorla slipped the ball wide to Gnabry with a pass so casual it felt almost dismissive. Gnabry took it on the run, his first touch aggressive, his second decisive.
He drove at Filipe Luís.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Just speed.
Filipe Luís backed off, wary of being beaten outright. Savic shifted across, leaving Giroud momentarily unmarked in the box.
Gnabry saw it.
He whipped the cross in early.
Not high.
Not hopeful.
Perfect.
Giroud attacked it with everything with strength, timing, intent. He rose between Godín and Savic, outmuscling both, neck muscles straining as he powered the header downward.
Oblak reacted instinctively, but the ball was already past him.
Net.
Goal.
4–1.
The Emirates detonated.
Noise poured out of the stands like a tidal wave, pure and unrestrained. Giroud roared, fists clenched, sprinting toward the corner before being swallowed by teammates.
Gnabry dropped to his knees in disbelief, hands on his head, eyes wide.
Francesco arrived last, pulling Giroud into a fierce embrace.
"That's it," he said into his ear. "That's it."
On the touchline, Wenger finally allowed himself a smile.
Not wide.
Not celebratory.
But real.
Simeone didn't look away this time.
He stared at the pitch, expression unreadable, jaw set in stone.
After the Fourth
The goal didn't kill the match.
But it changed it.
Atlético still pushed as they had no choice, but the edge dulled just slightly. The belief remained, but the urgency twisted into something closer to frustration.
Arsenal sensed it.
And adapted.
They dropped deeper, lines tighter, movements more conservative. Possession was no longer a priority. Control was.
Every clearance went long toward Giroud.
Every loose ball was contested like it was the last of the match.
Every second was managed.
Francesco stayed wide left now, less explosive, more calculated. When he tracked back, it wasn't frantic but it was disciplined. When he pressed, it was selective. He gestured constantly, pointing, directing, urging patience.
In the 82nd minute, Atlético nearly pulled one back again.
A clever one-two between Griezmann and Gaitán carved a narrow opening. Griezmann slipped the ball into Torres' path, and Torres struck first time.
Van Dijk threw himself across the shot.
Blocked.
The ball ricocheted high into the air, spinning dangerously toward the box.
Koscielny cleared it decisively, not caring where it landed.
The Emirates applauded wildly.
And then at 86th Minute
The board went up again.
Atlético substitution.
Griezmann's number.
Antoine Griezmann jogged off, sweat-soaked, expression conflicted with frustration, fatigue, calculation. He knew his work was done. Simeone clapped him firmly on the shoulder.
On came Ángel Correa.
Fresh legs.
Fresh chaos.
But the message was clear.
Atlético were thinking ahead now.
The second leg loomed.
Correa tried to inject urgency immediately, darting into pockets, attempting to run at tired defenders. He won a free kick near the corner flag in the 88th minute, drawing a collective inhale from the stadium.
The ball came in.
Cleared.
Again.
And again.
Arsenal refused to break.
The clock ticked.
Ninety minutes.
Then stoppage time.
Three minutes.
They passed slower than the rest of the match combined.
Francesco felt every one of them.
His calves screamed.
His lungs burned.
His vision narrowed to the essentials.
Clear.
Hold.
Reset.
When the referee finally lifted the whistle to his mouth and blew.
Arsenal 4–1 Atlético Madrid.
The sound that followed wasn't just joy.
It was release.
Players collapsed to the turf.
Some laughed.
Some stared upward.
Some simply stood still, hands on knees, absorbing what they'd done.
Francesco removed the armband slowly, pressing it briefly against his chest before handing it to the kit man. He stood near the center circle for a moment, looking around the Emirates at the stands, the lights, the pitch still marked by the violence of ninety minutes.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, and Euro 2016
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 48
Goal: 77
Assist: 3
MOTM: 12
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9