He struck the dropping ball before it even kissed the grass.
A half-volley.
A whip of pure, violent technique.
His entire body twisted with the motion—hips snapping, shoulders rotating, boot slicing upward through the ball with frightening precision. The sound echoed like someone had slammed a hammer on a metal plate.
The ball exploded off his foot, rising and bending simultaneously, a blur of white slicing through the air.
Zetterer didn't dive.
He didn't even move.
He only turned his head as the ball flashed past him, ripping into the top-right corner with unstoppable force.
THUNDER. PURE THUNDER.
For one full heartbeat, the entire stadium froze.
Then the commentator's voice shattered the silence:
"UNBELIEVABLE! LUKAS BRANDT—FROM OUT OF NOWHERE! A SENSATIONAL HALF-VOLLEY INTO THE TOP CORNER! THE SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD HAS JUST SILENCED THE WESERSTADION!"
The net bulged violently. The ball rattled against the stanchion. Zetterer landed on his heels, stunned.
And the boos?
