Alex sat in the art room on Tuesday afternoon. It was quiet, except for the scratching of charcoal on paper.

The assignment was "Perspective."

Alex looked at the bowl of fruit in the middle of the room. He squinted.

To him, the apple wasn't just a fruit. It was a ball. The banana was a curved run. The grapes were a defensive cluster.

He drew lines. Arrows. X's and O's.

"Mr. Finch," the art teacher, Mrs. Higgins, said, looking over his shoulder.

"Yes, Miss?"

"I asked you to draw the fruit. You have drawn... a 4-3-3 formation attacking a pear."

"The pear is the goalkeeper, Miss," Alex explained. "It has a low center of gravity."

Mrs. Higgins sighed. "It is creative, I suppose. But please, try to add some shading. Shadows are important."

"Shadows," Alex whispered.

He thought about the next game.

Champions League. Round of 16.

Atletico Madrid. Away.

The masters of the shadows. The kings of the "Dark Arts".

"I will study the shadows, Miss," Alex said seriously.

School finished. Alex walked out to the car park.

He was expecting a loud car. Or a scooter.

Instead, he saw a long, black, shiny vehicle.

A hearse.

A funeral car.

Mark was sitting in the driver's seat. He was wearing a black suit and dark sunglasses. He looked very solemn.

"Get in, Professor," Mark whispered loudly.

Alex stared at the hearse. "Mark. Is someone dead?"

"Football is dead," Mark said gravely. "We are going to play Atletico Madrid. They kill the joy. We are the undertakers."

"Milo rented a hearse?"

"He bought it!" Mark grinned, breaking character. "It has a Playstation in the back where the coffin goes! Hop in!"

Alex climbed into the passenger seat. "This is morbid, Speed."

"It is psychological warfare!" Mark yelled, revving the engine. "We are bringing the doom!"

The flight to Madrid was tense.

Steve, the manager, gathered them in the video room at the hotel.

He turned off the lights.

"Atletico," Steve said. The word hung in the air like a bad smell.

"They do not play football," Steve said. "They play... suffering."

He clicked the remote.

The screen showed the Atletico team. They were tackling hard. They were surrounding the referee. They were wasting time.

"They want you to get angry," Steve said. "They want you to lose your head. If you fight them... you lose. If you try to be fast... they break your legs."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. This is a test of your brain. You cannot out-run them. You cannot out-muscle them. You have to... out-wait them."

"Patience," Alex said.

"Extreme patience," Steve nodded. "They are a wall. You have to wait for a loose brick."

He looked at Mark.

"Speed. Do not run until I say so. If you run early, they will eat you."

Mark gulped. "I do not want to be eaten."

Wednesday night. The Metropolitano Stadium.

It was a cauldron. The Atletico fans were loud, hostile, and whistling every time Arsenal touched the ball during warm-ups.

Alex stood in the tunnel.

The Atletico players were staring at them. They weren't looking at their faces. They were looking at their ankles.

Their captain, Koke, leaned towards Alex.

"School is out, boy," Koke sneered. "Welcome to the street fight."

Alex adjusted his shin pads. "I grew up on the streets of London," he lied (he grew up in a very nice suburb). "I am ready."

Antoine, standing next to Alex, whispered. "They are pinching me already, Professor. I felt a pinch."

"Stay calm, Magician," Alex said. "Do not react."

The whistle blew.

It wasn't a football match. It was a wrestling match with a ball occasionally involved.

Atletico sat deep. Two lines of four. A fortress.

When Arsenal had the ball, Atletico kicked them.

When Atletico had the ball, they fell over if an Arsenal player breathed on them.

In the 10th minute, De Paul smashed into Jude.

THUD.

Jude stumbled, but he didn't fall. He was the Power.

"Is that all?" Jude roared.

De Paul looked surprised. He wasn't used to players staying up.

But the game was ugly. Stop. Start. Foul. Whistle.

Alex couldn't get a rhythm. He tried to pass, but there was no space.

Mark was getting frustrated. He was standing on the wing, freezing cold, watching the ball get kicked into the stands.

"I am bored!" Mark yelled. "Let me run!"

"Stay!" Alex ordered.

Halftime. 0-0.

It was exactly what Atletico wanted. A ugly, scoreless draw.

The locker room was angry.

"They are pulling my hair!" Antoine complained, checking his reflection. "My hair is sacred!"

"They are stepping on my toes," Harry Kane grunted. "They have sharp studs."

Steve stood in the middle.

"They are dragging you into the mud," Steve said. "Do not get muddy."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. They are aggressive. They chase the ball carrier like wolves."

"Yes," Alex said. "They swarm."

"So," Steve said. "Use the swarm."

"How?"

"Bait them," Steve grinned. "Pretend to be weak. Pretend to lose control. Make them think they can steal the ball. When they lunge... they leave a hole."

Alex nodded. The False Mistake.

"And Mark," Steve said. "When they lunge... that is when you run. Not before. Only then."

Second half.

The game continued. Ugly. Slow.

55th minute.

Alex got the ball deep in midfield.

He saw Koke coming towards him.

Alex slowed down. He looked at his feet. He let the ball roll a little too far away from him.

He looked... clumsy.

Koke's eyes lit up. The kid is tired. He made a mistake.

Koke sprinted. He dove in to steal the ball.

Behind him, Saul, another midfielder, moved up to help.

The trap was set.

Just as Koke slid... Alex moved.

He didn't panic. He didn't clear it.

He did a "V-drag".

He pulled the ball back with his sole, then pushed it forward to his other side.

Koke slid past him, tackling nothing but air.

Alex was free.

And because Saul had moved up... there was a gap.

A tiny, beautiful gap in the wall.

Alex looked up.

"SPEED!" he yelled.

Mark saw it. The trigger.

He exploded.

He ran from the wing, cutting diagonally across the center back.

Alex hit the pass.

It was a ground pass. Hard. Fast. Surgical.

It went through the gap. It went past the defender's toes.

Mark ran onto it.

He was one on one with Oblak, the Atletico keeper.

Mark didn't have time to think.

He didn't shoot with power.

He poked it.

The "Toe-Poke of Doom".

The ball rolled past Oblak.

It hit the post.

CLANG.

It bounced across the line.

And went in.

GOAL!

One zero. Arsenal.

Mark ran to the corner. He pretended to dig a grave.

"R.I.P!" Mark screamed. "THE ARROW STRIKES!"

Alex ran over. "The trap worked! They bit!"

Jude grabbed them both. "Dirty win! I love dirty wins!"

Now, Atletico was furious.

They stopped defending. They attacked.

They threw everything at Arsenal. Elbows, long balls, shouts.

The stadium was a cauldron of noise.

75th minute.

Alex was the Shield. He was blocking everything.

Griezmann shot. Alex blocked it with his hip.

Morata headed it. Bastian headed it back.

It was a siege.

88th minute.

Atletico corner.

The keeper came up. It was chaos.

The ball came in.

Alex was on the post.

He saw the ball. It was going in.

He couldn't reach it with his head.

He threw his leg up. High.

He bicycle-kicked the ball off the line.

A goal-line clearance.

The ball flew out to Antoine.

Antoine controlled it. The pitch was empty.

He ran.

He ran the whole length of the field.

He rolled the ball into the empty net.

GOAL.

Two zero.

Game over.

Antoine bowed to the angry Atletico fans. "Merci," he whispered.

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. Atletico 0.

They had survived the street fight.

Alex walked off the pitch. He was limping. He had a cut on his knee.

Milo was waiting. He was wearing a suit made of... black feathers?

"THE RAVEN!" Milo shrieked. "NEVERMORE! ALEX! THE TRAP! THE CLEARANCE! I AM SELLING SHIELDS! 'THE FINCH FORTRESS'!"

"Milo, you look like a sad bird," Alex said.

"I AM A SYMBOL OF DOOM!" Milo yelled.

Steve hugged Alex.

"You were tough today, Professor. You took the hits."

"I have the bruises to prove it," Alex smiled.

He walked into the locker room.

Mark was sitting there, looking at his shin pads. They were cracked.

"They hit hard," Mark said.

"But we hit back," Alex said. "With goals."

He checked his phone.

A text from Mrs. Higgins, the art teacher.

"I saw the match. The geometry of your pass was exquisite. But remember, perspective drawing is due tomorrow. Don't forget the shadows."

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