Five Finals [8]

The Reale Arena was a battlefield.

Valencia had dragged themselves back from the edge of the abyss, but Real Sociedad were far from done. The game had reached a fever pitch—chaos, pure and unfiltered.

On the touchline, Rubén Baraja stood with arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the pitch, but his mind was elsewhere.

He could feel it.

Something was missing.

His team had fought like warriors, clawing their way back from the brink, but they still lacked the one spark that could tilt the game fully in their favor.

His gaze drifted toward the bench.

Toward Izan.

The boy sat still, elbows resting on his knees, his expression unreadable. He wasn't fidgeting. He wasn't whispering to his teammates. 

He wasn't slumped in frustration like some of the other substitutes. He was watching, almost boring holes into the pitch with his stares.

Waiting.