Jassim's POV:

  The entire Qatar team now seemed to be functioning in survival mode. A single-minded, desperate scramble to keep the ball as far away from their own goal as humanly possible.

  Every single one of them was more exhausted than they should've been by this point, but the fear of conceding another goal was a powerful motivator.

  A painful motivator.

  The Qatari Number 2, Tarek was on to Jae-il like a hound. He shadowed every step, every feint, every shift. A super-zealous watchdog. He only had eyes for him. He only saw Jae-il, that devil.

  And a devil he was.

  Jassim pointed towards Sung-tae, who was dangerously unmarked. Number 4 was on him immediately.

  The crowd roared as a pass was made towards Jae-il. That infuriatingly handsome boy seemed to float past his defenders, leaving Tarek the only man with enough constitution and determination left to stop him in his tracks.

  Tarek clenched his teeth and lunged, his leg overstretching, yet again falling short of his target. Jae-il flicked the ball under his heel with a flick of his toe and spun away from his opponent with a casual swipe, gracefully losing his shadow, before beginning the slow jog toward Jassim's domain.

  In a panicked haze, Tarek turned to rush after his fleeing mark, his legs pushing hard through the mounting exhaustion.

  Jassim found himself at eye-level with the forward. Was he going to shoot? His lips formed a thin, tense line. Sweat was pouring down the Korean pyer's face as his bright eyes fshed sharply towards the box. Number 4 arrived with his mighty body to put pressure on.

  Number 4 charged in, shoulders squared, boots chewing up turf as he closed the distance. A desperation py fueled by the terror of Jae-il's reputation. His timing was rotten as always—not the pyer's, but his own. Jae-il's momentum didn't stutter, even as Number 4 thundered towards him.

  Jae-il's timing for humiliating defenders was always impeccable. Number 4 might've tried to lunge a little too early, because the ball simply disappeared through his legs. Despite his state of utter disbelief, there was no one behind him besides Jassim to prevent the catastrophe that was about to happen.

  Apart from him. The South Korean rising star was approaching rapidly, about to leave Number 4 in the dust. And who would've been able to stop that right foot if that monster got any closer?

  Numer 4, as such, made a desperate grab for Jae-il's shirt, cws digging in and yanking him off bance into a clumsy lunge. Jae-il tried to keep going, but it was clear Number 4 was trying to drag him down at all costs.

  Jassim shook his head as the referee's whistle pierced the air.

  The entire stadium buzzed.

  The referee, a tall, stern figure in bck, jogged over quickly. He pointed directly at the spot where Number 4 had yanked Jae-il down—just outside the penalty area, about twenty or so yards from goal.

  Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a red card, holding it high up in front of him.

  Number 4 froze mid-protest, arms half-raised, mouth open. His teammates nearby turned to look, disbelief washing over their faces.

  Tarek put both hands on his head, staring at the ref as if begging him to change his mind.

  Jassim, still in his goal, let out a long, defeated breath and looked down at the grass. He wasn't disappointed by the card, more by the inevitable outcome that'd result from it. "Fuck..."

  ?Dae-hyun and Sung-tae had to physically hold Jong-su from confronting Number 4. The rest of the South Korean wasn't happy about it either, but everything was quickly settled once the victim himself pcated them.

  Number 4 was sent off the field amidst weak protests.

  It was a clear goal-scoring opportunity that Number 4 stopped with a foul. The rules were the rules. And for the already struggling Qatar, this was basically a death sentence.

  The Qatari coach threw both hands up in the air, and then started yelling instructions.

  Jae-il didn't even waste his breath looking exasperated anymore. He just retrieved the ball and started the dreadfully familiar trot towards the freekick spot. He never once compined about any injustice that may have been committed.

  The wall of Qatar defenders shuffled into position, Tarek at its head.

  Four men, arms linked, creating a fragile barrier in front of the goal.

  Jassim took his stance, chewing the inside of his cheek. He saw two walking nightmares surrounding the ball. Jae-il and Jun-hwan—both freekick specialists. The rest of South Korea's team remained gathered around the wall. A brief conversation began between those two, before Jae-il shrugged and retreated, conceding the freekick to his teammate.

  One of South Korea's defenders was there with him, the buoyant smile on his face all too telling that the confidence the entirety of their team pced on those two was off the charts.

  And for a good reason too, Jassim had seen the clips.

  The referee slowly moved away.

  Jun-hwan locked eyes with Jassim, his face bereft of emotions, then took three steps back.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Jassim exhaled, his heart hammering in his chest. His fingers twitched.

  The wall in front of him stayed motionless. They had taken a stance, they were prepared. And their expressions seemed to all share the same, tense anxiety.

  The whistle blew. Jassim didn't dare blink.

  And so Jun-hwan came for them. With three strong strides, he whipped his boot clean against the sphere, and the ball zipped up into the air, rotating in an upward trajectory, flying high over the wall of Qatari defenders as if unched by a cannon.

  The collective Qatar defenders whirled in panic.

  For one miraculous second, the ball looked like it might've just sailed over the net and to the side. For one second, everyone hoped that the Korean genius had overshot the target. That there would be a chance for Qatar to pick themselves up again and come back swinging despite being one man down.

  And for that split second, everyone breathed a moment of relief.

  But then, gravity reasserted its primal right and the ball descended, beginning its inward curve. Jassim dived, willing his entire essence to a singur goal—to make sure that ball didn't go in. To deflect it. Catch it. Anything.

  Anything, if only he could just prevent South Korea from getting that fucking—

  His hand barely touched the surface, and Jassim watched helplessly as the white sphere struck the back of the net and bounced, rolling away to the other side.

  "......"

  Jassim didn't pick himself up when the stadium erupted in a deafening cheer. He just sat there, on his knees, clutching the grass with all his might.

  2-0

  A couple of his own teammates walked up towards him, cheering despite the damning result.

  "Sorry, Jassim..."

  Number 2 said, bitterly, his hand on the goalkeeper's back.

  "It's not your fault, Tarek." Jassim replied, sighing. It wasn't really anyone's fault. Qatar had fought tooth and nail to reach the final, whilst South Korea breezed through it all, annihiting every opposition with uncanny ease.

  And now that he was pying against them on the pitch, he only realized how fucking scary they were.

  One-on-one duels between the opposing defenders and their attackers—all of them utterly steamrolled in each instance. Number 4 had to commit a deplorable foul to stop Jae-il. A sacrifice that didn't really do anything to stop the tide.

  It wasn't hard to imagine why the rest of the U-17 were completely overshadowed by these two titans. The duo who stole all the spotlight were truly fucking monsters.

  They didn't belong in this pitch, in this category. Jassim had been called Qatar's jewel, the ace of the team, a bright star that was supposed to elevate the country's standing in the world stage.

  He felt none of that now.

  "... What a beast. That Kim Jun-hwan." Tarek said, gritting his teeth.

  Jassim's eyes shifted from his keeper gloves and slowly traveled over the entire pitch, taking note of every position of his pyers, all of them looked utterly depleted.

  The Koreans had piled upon Jun-hwan before they extricated themselves, helped the guy up, and slowly jogged back to their own half. It took a fucking goal to see the South Koreans going back to their own turf.

  Jassim stood up with the help of Tarek, who gave him a st apologetic pat on the back.

  "You..." Tarek began.

  "No." Jassim shook his head, forcing a smile. "You're doing great. Just keep it up, alright? Come on! Come on! You guys, don't stop!"

  Tarek blinked, taken aback.

  "We can still make it!" Jassim patted his friend in the chest, a more determined smile crossing his face as he beheld all the remaining defenders looking at him. "I promise I'll block the next one, so please! Please, do your best!"

  Tarek clenched his fists, nodding sharply. As did everyone else around them. The crestfallen expressions didn't vanish. They still looked dejected and weary, but there was a gleam of vitality in their eyes, as if Jassim's spirit had just breathed life into them.

  The hope wasn't gone. Not yet. And they all gathered together for the restart.

  Everyone was back in position.

  The referee blew the whistle.

  Jassim pounded his gloves together.

  ...

  … And just like that, the spark he'd tried to kindle guttered out in the space of a single heartbeat.

  The restart sted all of forty seconds.

  Forty-fucking-seconds.

  Jae-il wasn't human. He couldn't have possibly been human. Humans just didn't dribble the ball like he did.

  All the tackles came and went like an oncoming storm—and still, there he was, walking with the ball, totally unfazed. He passed it to Jun-hwan, who was being closed down by a single defender.

  And that, for a moment, seemed to be an opening for Qatar. A moment where they could wrestle back control.

  Then Jun-hwan's eyes met Jae-il's. And without a word, he pyed a one-two with Jae-il. With a simple through pass, he sent the ball right back into the path of the approaching monster.

  Qatar's Number 6 ran ahead full speed, attempting to mark his man, arms spread like wings, his eyes bloodshot.

  Jassim squeezed the padded material in his hands. 'Come on, you can get to him!'

  Jae-il didn't stop. A subtle drop of the shoulder left, hips swaying like a pendulum, before a simple chop to the side sent the ball sprinting just ahead, leaving Number 6's toe to awkwardly swipe in vain at the grass. Jae-il took off like a missile.

  Jassim felt his stomach drop.

  Now only Number 2, Tarek, remained between Jae-il and the box.

  Tarek backpedaled furiously, jockeying side to side, trying to force him wide. Jae-il didn't slow. He feinted a burst outside, drawing Number 2's weight onto his left foot, then chopped viciously inside. Tarek blinked, trying to regain his bance, but Jae-il was long gone.

  The stadium's noise roared in his ears. He watched the devil charge on towards him.

  It was happening. Again.

  The penalty area yawned open in front of Jae-il now, eighteen yards of green hell.

  Jassim's instincts screamed. He rushed off his line, narrowing the angle, spreading himself big, eyes locked on the ball.

  Jae-il was twenty yards out, then fifteen, then twelve. He glided, almost casual, like he had all the time in the world.

  Then...

  Jassim committed, charging out to close the space, trying to force the early shot. Jae-il looked up once—those sharp, calm eyes meeting Jassim's for a split second—and that was enough.

  A tiny shift of weight, a fake to drive low, and Jassim bit, dropping his weight toward the near post.

  Jae-il's left foot opened up, caressing the ball with the tip. It was a soft touch. The ball rose up in the air in a perfect lob, and Jassim, now on the ground and scurrying back for a miracle, watched as the ball vaulted over him, its shadow flying over his defeated expression, before gently settling into the net.

  Forty seconds…

  That's all it took for South Korea to score again.

  3-0

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