34th Minute – The Back-Heel

Tolói collected the ball deep in his own half under immediate pressure from Lecce's forward press, and rather than go long he played it short to Demien who had dropped all the way to the edge of his own box to receive, and two yellow shirts closed instantly because Lecce's game plan hadn't changed even with the lead.

Hjulmand came from the right, Blin from the left, both converging with aggressive body shapes designed to force a mistake or win the ball, and Demien's first touch took him slightly forward into the trap they'd set, his back to goal, both defenders closing the remaining space.

The back-heel came instinctive and perfect.

Demien's standing foot planted, his right heel flicked the ball backward through his own legs without looking, and Koopmeiners had already read the movement, his late run arriving perfectly as the ball rolled straight into his path ten yards away with space opening in front of him.

Blin realized the danger too late, his momentum already committed forward, and he lunged desperately with his studs raised, catching Koopmeiners' trailing leg rather than the ball, and the Dutch midfielder went down hard as the whistle blew sharp.

Free-kick, thirty yards out, central position.

"Brilliant vision from Walter!" Caressa said, his tone shifting to appreciation. "The back-heel found Koopmeiners perfectly, and Blin had no choice but to bring him down. Dangerous position for Atalanta now."

The crowd roared its approval, the frustration from the goal temporarily forgotten as Højlund stood over the ball, his presence commanding, and the Lecce wall organized quickly with five men packed tight while Wölfli bounced on his line, calling instructions.

Højlund's run-up was short and powerful, the strike clean but rising too much, and the ball smashed into the wall's upper bodies with a dull thud before bouncing clear, cleared by Baschirotto's header toward the touchline.

The chance was gone but the momentum had shifted slightly.

37th Minute –

De Roon won the ball in midfield and played it sideways to Demien, a simple square pass that arrived with weight, and Demien received it facing his own goal with Baschirotto and Hjulmand already converging from different angles, their positioning coordinated to trap him.

The Press Resistant shard triggered without conscious thought.

Demien's body already knew the spin before his brain finished processing the threat, his center of gravity dropping low as his right foot dragged the ball across his body, and Baschirotto arrived half a second too late, his challenge meeting empty space as Demien pivoted around him with balance that shouldn't have been possible under that pressure.

Hjulmand tried to recover, lunging in from the other side, but Demien was already gone, surging forward with the ball at his feet, twenty yards of space opening ahead as Lecce's midfield structure broke momentarily, and Lookman had read the movement perfectly, his run timed to perfection as he sprinted into the channel between Lecce's left center-back and full-back.

The through ball came weighted perfectly, clipped with the outside of Demien's right foot to bend around Gendrey, and Lookman was through on goal for half a second before the linesman's flag shot up on the far side, sharp and immediate.

Offside by a stud.

Lookman threw his head back in frustration, his hands on his head, the chance gone, and Demien just raised one hand in apology without breaking stride as he jogged back to position because the flag had been tight and there was no point arguing.

"Walter is starting to impose himself now," Caressa said, his voice carrying renewed energy. "That turn was pure silk, two men beaten in one movement, and the pass was inch-perfect. Lookman just fractionally ahead of the last defender."

"Che giocata!" the co-commentator added. "What a play! He's taking control now."

The crowd felt it too, every completed pass from Demien now getting a roar of approval that built in volume, the temperature rising inside the Gewiss as twenty-three thousand people sensed something shifting, the Curva Nord smelling blood because their number eight was starting to impose himself on the match.

39th Minute

Tolói played another long diagonal from deep, the ball hanging in the air for two seconds as it crossed forty yards toward the right channel where Demien had drifted, and he watched it come down while three yellow shirts tracked his movement, Lecce's defensive discipline still holding despite the pressure.

The chest control was clean, Demien cushioning the ball dead as it dropped, his first touch perfect, and his second touch set him up to turn, but Gallo had already committed to the challenge.

The Lecce left-back came flying in with studs high and dangerous, his timing late and his angle reckless, and the contact caught Demien square on the ankle, sharp pain exploding through the joint as both feet left the ground for a moment before he crashed down hard onto the turf.

He stayed there for five seconds, not moving, his face twisted as he clutched the ankle, and the Curva Nord exploded in outrage while the physio sprinted from the touchline with his bag already open.

The referee finally reached for his pocket, the yellow card emerging at last, and he showed it to Gallo with a stern word while the defender raised both hands in weak protest before backing away.

First booking of the match.

Thirty-nine minutes to get one.

The physio dropped beside Demien and reached for the injured ankle, but Demien waved him off before he could even start examining it, his hand raised firmly, and he stood alone without assistance, testing the weight, his eyes cold and hard as he stared at Gallo who wouldn't meet his gaze.

No limp when he walked away.

Just controlled fury.

"And now Lecce are rattled," Caressa observed, his tone sharpening. "First booking of the game, Walter refusing treatment, and you can see it in his eyes—something's changed. He's not backing down anymore."

"Adesso è guerra," the co-commentator said quietly. "Now it's war."

Every completed pass from Demien after that got a roar from the stands, the noise building with each touch, each turn, each progressive movement forward, and the temperature inside the Gewiss Stadium was rising minute by minute as the crowd sensed their number eight was about to break through.

A/N

Thanks for the powerstones and golden ticket. i really do appreciated and this is an extra chapter because i did not upload yesterday.

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