[CLOSE CONTROL LV 2 Activated]
The ball snapped through the defender's legs, leaving only a puff of mist and gasps in its wake.
The home crowd was now on their feet.
The fans of both teams seemed to have forgotten their seats.
Phone screens lowered as they held their breaths in anticipation of what was to come next and it might have been uncanny, but they all seemed to thinking the same thing.
"A goal," one of the fans in the stands muttered as another Shakhtar player charged towards Izan.
The corner of the box came closer, and Izan was at its edge now.
One last man to beat. His mates near the box kept calling for the past, but they wouldn't be able to see the scene Izan was looking at now.
He raised his foot, winding his body as if for a pass or shot, and the third defender bit—too soon.
He dove in desperation, thinking he'd blocked the path.
But the shot never came.
Izan paused, let the slide go past, then peeled the ball away from his own planted foot, opened his hips—
