Izan escaped.
For the first time since the second half began, he had shaken off Kanté—not by brute force, not by pace, but by pure instinct.
The murmurs in the crowd transformed into roars.
He was back.
Spain's number 21 didn't hesitate. The moment he turned away from Kanté, he accelerated, driving straight at France's defensive line.
Pedri surged forward in support. Nico Williams sprinted down the left while Lamine Yamal hugged the right touchline, waiting.
Izan was spoilt for choice—
But then, Kanté recovered.
Spain's young star had won the first battle, but the war had just begun.
Like a shadow reborn, Kanté chased, his movements eerily fluid, almost unnatural.
His small frame barely seemed to touch the ground as he covered impossible distances in seconds.
Izan sensed it—he had seconds before the Smiling Reaper struck again.
He feinted left—then cut sharply to his right.
Kanté followed.
Izan stopped abruptly, shifting his weight in a fraction of a second.
