The ball split again, rolling for an owner, and it found Saka, tracking back deep into his own half.

The latter pounced on the loose ball, hammering it clear upfield without aim, but two figures broke from the halfway line at full speed: Alejandro Balde and Izan Miura.

Balde had the advantage, like a full 20 metres ahead, maybe more.

His legs pumped, lean and explosive, his body angled perfectly to reach it first.

And he did.

But only for a moment.

Because as soon as his foot touched the ball, Izan arrived.

The left-back nudged it forward, trying to round the Arsenal captain and use his pace to burst free, but Izan was already reading it.

He pivoted on a dime, muscles coiled and released in a single heartbeat, spinning and exploding back into stride.

The turn was unreal as he caught up in three steps, his shoulder brushing against Balde's, then pressing harder, forcing the defender slightly off balance.

Balde tried to hold his ground, tried to shield, but Izan's strength was deceptive and his balance perfect.

They collided, sending the left-back past the touchlines, but no foul was given, though hands shot up instantly from the Barcelona bench.

The ball broke loose to the right flank, and Izan was gone again, tearing down Barcelona's left side, a blur of red streaking toward the horizon of blue and garnet.

"And he's away again!" Tyler shouted, half in disbelief.

"Miura just bullied Balde off the ball! That's power, that's anticipation, nd Arsenal are flying forward!"

The noise from the remaining Arsenal fans surged back to life, faint but rising, a rumble swelling under the Munich sky.

Flick was roaring now, waving his arms, but the touchline couldn't stop the storm.

Arsenal were alive again, and Izan, their heartbeat, was already sprinting into the chaos ahead.

He tore down the flank, the ball glued to his boots like a shadow that refused to leave him.

Balde was still there, desperate, breath rasping, chasing for pride as much as possession, but Izan had already shifted gears.

He leaned inward, cutting diagonally across the edge of the box, his movement sharp and deliberate, forcing Barcelona's back line to collapse toward him like a closing fist.

The crowd noise rose, tension thickening, voices stumbling over one another.

Then, in the tightest pocket of space, Izan slipped the ball outward, a perfect, seamless touch, and there was Saka, streaking into view on the right.

"How's he even there?!" Tyler almost laughed, voice cracking with the rush of disbelief as the Englishman took one deft touch, raised his head, shaped his body for a cross, feinted once, freezing Martínez, and then whipped in the real one, a curling delivery with venom.

But Koundé was there.

The defender launched himself high, body twisting mid-air, heading it clear just before it could reach Havertz at the far post.

The ball dropped awkwardly at the top of the box, spinning, bouncing once.

And Nwaneri was first to react.

Face lit with fierce concentration, he struck it full force, the sound of the ball erupting towards goal before the shot ricocheted off a thicket of garnet and blue.

Barça's defenders threw themselves into it, bodies crashing, desperate blocks everywhere.

The rebound skidded sideways before Cubarsí hooked it away, but not far enough.

Declan Rice caught it mid-air, chesting it down with authority, immediately sliding it across to Izan.

And when Izan received it, everything slowed.

Ferran was charging from behind, Pedri from the side.

Izan feinted left, drew them in, then twisted the ball through his feet, a tiny touch, but enough to carve space, before skipping through the two that had tried to sandwich him.

He lifted his head once.

He saw it, a tiny sliver of daylight between Barcelona's defenders and the pass that followed cut right through.

A slicing, angled ball that ripped through the defensive line, curving perfectly through the mess of limbs and shadows.

And sprinting through that gap, timing it like instinct itself, came Martinelli, and for once in the game, Arsenal were onside, and he was through.

"MARTINELLI!" Drury's voice erupted, carried by disbelief as the Brazilian reached the ball on the stretch, clipped it first-time across the face of goal and once again, bursting from the sea of bodies, a flash of white and red slicing through chaos, from nowhere, Havertz arrived like a hammer.

And,

Bang!

The net bulged, the ball bouncing back at the feet of Havertz, who immediately picked it up as the stadium exploded.

"HAVERTZ!" Tyler's shout cut through the noise, raw, alive. "4–3! Arsenal have another! And it's just past the 90th minute!"

Red shirts rushed together, arms thrown around one another in a frenzy that just was.

Martinelli was on his knees, screaming into the turf while Saka had both arms raised to the sky.

The few Arsenal fans left inside the Allianz were shaking the stands themselves, flags waving like fire.

You could hear their song breaking through again, hoarse, desperate, but alive.

Outside the stadium, the departing fans, as well as the others who had decided to linger just until the match ended, froze.

Some had just reached the bus stops, others were scrolling through their phones, but then they saw it.

4–3.

The numbers glowed on every screen, and disbelief rippled through the night.

A few turned toward the stadium, eyes wide, laughter breaking through tears.

Inside, though, it didn't matter.

The cameras caught faces again, those same faces that had looked broken ten minutes ago, now lit with wild, trembling hope.

"It was supposed to be done and dusted just 8 minutes ago. Now, we are past ninety minutes in Munich… and Arsenal are one goal away. They were gone, buried, finished. And yet here they are, clawing, believing. Is there still time… for the impossible?"

The Allianz Arena felt like it was holding its breath.

Barcelona's players looked at one another, rattled.

Flick turned towards his assistant, mind racing as he turned back to the field.

On the opposite side of the touchline, Arteta stood, clapping and gesturing at his players on the pitch.

It was safe to say that he had nothing more to give, as he stood with the rest of the bench players as mascots for the players on the field.

The referee's whistle cut through the tension like a blade, the ball rolling to the centre spot again as the stadium's noise never truly died.

The fourth official's board flashed +6.

Only six minutes.

A sigh of relief rippled through the Barcelona end, whistles, claps, fists raised skyward, while in the corner where red-and-white still stood, hands clutched heads, jaws clenched.

Six minutes felt like theft, for all the time wasted on medic checks.

Barcelona restarted with the kind of casual arrogance only they could summon.

Raphinha barely trotted, nudging it back toward De Jong, who took two deliberate touches before sending it sideways.

The message was clear: run all you want, chase all you like.

We'll make you wait for the ball.

By the 91st minute, they were already peeling back the tempo.

Cubarsí stood over every free-kick as if it were sacred art, while Balde walked to every throw-in like a man counting his steps.

Then came the goalkeeper, Szczęsny, his years of experience dripping in every wasted second.

When he stretched to parry Saka's curling effort around the post, he stayed there, lying flat on his back, arms spread wide, as though he'd just saved Barcelona's season.

"Get up!" Rice barked, storming toward him as Havertz joined in, waving his arms furiously.

But Szczęsny only smirked, squinting at the clock on the far end before slowly rolling over, gathering the ball, and dusting his gloves.

"Barcelona, dragging time into their favour now, and Arsenal are furious, but helpless as the minutes drip away like rain down glass."

Arsenal's protests earned nothing but warnings.

The referee pointed to his wrist, then raised his palms: I'm watching it.

But everyone knew, time was gone for those in red.

Izan stood near the halfway line, hands on hips, breathing slow, controlled.

Around him, the chaos churned, Havertz throwing his arms up, Martinelli trying to gee up the crowd, Arteta pacing the edge of his technical area like a caged animal.

Yet Izan's eyes had drifted, distant.

His mind had gone quiet.

He thought of it, that flicker deep in his consciousness, the system's offer, the one-time card glowing faintly in the corner of his vision.

"Guaranteed goal."

It was there. Waiting. Tempting.

His pulse quickened.

He could end this right now.

He could rip the script apart.

But then came the doubt.

Three left. Only three. You don't even know if you'll ever get more.

He drew in a long breath, shutting his eyes for half a heartbeat.

"No," he whispered to himself. "Not for now."

The world returned to him with the clock now at 94.

Then, a sudden collective groan shot from the Barcelona crowd.

Yamal had twisted onto his left, twenty yards out, slicing a vicious shot toward goal, but Raya punched it away, hard, over the bar.

"Ooooh, and Raya with a strong hand! Keeps Arsenal alive for another few seconds!" Martin Tyler called, voice rising over the din.

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