"Yes and it's Lukas Brandt, once again, showing why he's the most talked about player in the country right now. The way he glides past players, even in the rain, is mesmerizing to watch. Mourinho had obviously given his team the instructions to not let him see the ball as much as possible. And for a while, they saw to that task faithfully. But you can't keep a player like this quiet for long."

"It's all square at halftime, with 45 minutes left to decide the tie. But Frankfurt, still with their 2-goal advantage from the first leg, are the clear favourites to advance.

This is football, though, and anything can happen in 45 minutes."

There was nothing wrong with the commentary, but only 15 minutes into the second half, it will be clear that this game was not going to be included in the "Famous Comebacks in Europa League history" compilation videos online.

* * *

The air in the dressing room was thick with humidity and tension. The players sat scattered along the benches, shirts clinging to their backs, steam rising faintly from their shoulders. The rain had soaked through everything — boots, socks, even the mood — but Toppmöller's voice cut clean through it all as he wrapped up his halftime team talk.

"Good first half," he said, pacing slowly in front of them. "You handled the press well, and we're still in control. Just… stay sharp. Don't give them cheap transitions. We're not here to survive; we're here to finish the job."

He stopped, turned to face the trio sitting together on the far side — Lukas, Götze, and Bahoya. "You three," he said, pointing at them. "I want fluidity. Switch positions when needed. Don't let Mourinho's man-marking get comfortable. Lukas, if they follow you, drag them out. Bahoya, Götze — fill the space. Keep them guessing. Got it?"

All three nodded. Lukas could feel the faint buzz in his chest — that familiar mix of excitement and focus. This was where he thrived: when the rules bent, when the structure broke just enough for creativity to spill through.

When they walked back out, the weather had softened. The floodlights glistened off a damp pitch, but the rain had finally stopped. You could smell the wet grass in the air, the faint earthy scent that always came after a storm. The stadium hummed, still packed, still roaring, the ultras behind the goal waving their drenched flags as the second half began.

"And we're back underway at Deutsche Bank Park. The rain has stopped, but the energy in here hasn't. Frankfurt lead 3–1 on aggregate, and they've looked the better side for much of the tie."

Frankfurt kicked off the second half, and although Fenerbahçe tried to take control of the early moments of the second half as they did the first, the home team was not going to let that happen as they seized the match, passing with intent.

"This game is right on a knife edge. You get the feeling that any team that scores first in this second half will come out on top at the end of the night, the away have to score a goal as soon as possible to keep any hopes of a comeback alive."

It won't be Fenerbahçe who scored the next goal, though.

In the 48th minute, the ball found its way to Lukas on the left. Kostić closed in first, then Szymański came doubling up.

Lukas slowed his steps, body loose, like a dancer waiting for the beat. The ball rolled under his studs once, twice. Kostić lunged, and Lukas flicked it past with the outside of his boot, spinning around him. The rain-slicked turf made every touch glide, every movement look effortless. Szymański tried to cover, but Lukas faked a drive inside and instead burst down the flank, leaving both men stumbling.

"Oh, that's filthy from Brandt! They just can't seem to get near him tonight!"

He took one more touch to steady himself near the byline and whipped in a cross — curling, wicked, perfect. It hung for a moment in the air before Bahoya arrived, thundering in from the right and meeting it with a header that smashed into the top corner.

"GOALLLL!! JEAN BAHOYA PUTS FRANKFURT AHEAD IN THE NIGHT AND THREE GOALS CLEAR ON AGGREGATE! What a start to the second half!"

"Bahoya with the finish! But that's all about Lukas Brandt — devastating footwork, and the awareness to pick out that back-post run."

The stadium erupted. Fans on their feet, clapping above their heads, chanting his name in unison. Toppmöller punched the air on the touchline while Mourinho just folded his arms, shaking his head slightly, rainwater dripping from the brim of his coat.

Now it was 2–1 on the night, 5–2 on aggregate, and Frankfurt smelled blood.

Lukas drifted centrally now, switching with Götze as instructed. Ten minutes later, the ball came again, this time from Larsson, sharp and precise into Lukas's feet just outside the box. Lukas took one touch, turned toward goal, and let his body feint like he was about to shoot. Skriniar lunged to block, sliding across the wet grass.

But instead of striking, Lukas rolled the ball calmly sideways — perfectly timed — back into Larsson's path. Larsson didn't hesitate. He powered through the shot, a low rocket that zipped across the greasy turf and into the bottom corner.

"It's Larsson— It's three! Frankfurt are flying! Powerful strike from Hugo Larsson. The goalkeeper was getting nowhere near that. And it's Lukas Brandt again with the assist — the vision, the disguise, the calmness of a veteran!"

The camera panned to Toppmöller, grinning now, clapping once and shouting to the bench. Lukas was mobbed by his teammates, Larsson pulling him into a hug. The fans were chanting louder than ever, the stands trembling with noise.

"That's a hat-trick of assists for the 16-year-old. Three different ways, all the same brilliance. You can't coach that."

By the hour mark, Frankfurt led 3–1 on the night, 6–2 on aggregate. The dream of a Fenerbahçe comeback had evaporated under the cool, creative cruelty of one player.

By the 72nd minute, the game had slowed into a steady rhythm. Frankfurt were cruising, their control absolute. The drizzle had returned — just a faint mist this time — softening the floodlight glare that shimmered over the pitch. The crowd was in full song now, singing with the easy joy of a night already won.

Lukas picked up the ball again down the left. The stands immediately lifted in anticipation, knowing what usually followed. Fred was on him this time, the Brazilian had been growing visibly irritated after being beaten time and again by the teenager's quick feet and clever turns.

Lukas dropped his shoulder and pushed the ball inside. Fred stayed with him. A step-over, then another. Lukas shifted right, then snapped the ball left with his instep, darting past Fred before the midfielder could react.

"Brandt again, toying with Fred down that flank! He makes it look so easy, doesn't he?"

The fans cheered as Lukas drove toward the box, water spraying from his boots with each stride. Fred gave chase, but frustration finally took over. He lunged — late, reckless — and clipped Lukas's shin from behind.

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