"Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell," he whispered to himself, stumbling into the sunlight.

Mark was waiting.

He was not in the neon green car. He was not in the black SUV.

He was sitting on a bicycle. A tandem bicycle.

"Get on, Professor!" Mark yelled, ringing the little bell. "We are saving the planet! And saving our legs!"

Alex looked at the bike. It was bright red.

"Mark," Alex said tiredly. "It is five miles to the training ground."

"It is good cardio!" Mark insisted. "Also, Milo sold the green car. He said it was 'too aggressive for the brand'. He wants us to be 'eco-friendly warriors'."

Alex sighed. He put his school bag in the basket. He got on the back seat.

"Pedal, Speed," Alex said. "And do not crash."

They arrived at the training ground sweating and panting.

Bastian was watching them from the window. He shook his head.

"You look like a circus act," Bastian grunted as they walked into the locker room.

"We are eco-warriors," Mark wheezed, collapsing on the floor.

The mood in the room changed instantly when the door opened.

The Suit walked in.

The man from the ownership group. The man with the briefcase.

He didn't look at the players. He looked at his watch.

"Gentlemen," the Suit said. His voice was dry, like paper.

"Three weeks ago, I gave you a challenge. Top of the league. Champions League qualification. And... survival."

He looked at Alex.

"You beat Chelsea. You beat City. You beat Brentford. You have done... adequate work."

"Adequate?" Jude growled from the back. "We haven't lost."

"But you haven't finished," the Suit said.

He pointed a finger at the calendar on the wall.

"Tomorrow. Saturday. Tottenham. Away."

"If you lose... you drop to second place. If you lose... the deal is off. I have the contracts ready. Manchester City is waiting, Alex. PSG is waiting, Antoine."

He smiled. A cold, corporate smile.

"Do not disappoint the shareholders. Good luck."

He walked out.

The room was heavy. The silence was thick.

Steve, the manager, stood up. He didn't look scared. He looked furious.

"Shareholders," Steve spat. "He cares about numbers. We care about... this."

He pointed to the Arsenal badge on his chest.

"Tottenham," Steve said. "They are not just a team. They are the enemy. They know about the deal. They know if they beat us... they break us up. They will play like demons."

He looked at his four stars. The Diamond.

"Professor. Magician. Speed. Power."

"Tomorrow... you do not play for points. You do not play for a trophy."

He looked Alex in the eye.

"You play for each other. You play to stay together. Because if we lose... this family dies."

Alex felt a lump in his throat. He looked at Mark. Mark looked terrified.

He looked at Antoine. The Frenchman looked sad.

He looked at Jude. Jude looked angry.

"We won't lose," Alex said. His voice was quiet, but it filled the room.

"We won't lose."

Saturday. The Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.

It was a spaceship of a stadium. Huge. White. imposing.

The noise was deafening. Sixty-two thousand Tottenham fans screaming hate at the Arsenal bus.

"They are loud," Mark whispered, clutching his bag.

"They are scared," Jude said. "They scream because they fear the Hurricane."

Alex stood in the tunnel.

He looked at the Tottenham players. Son Heung-min, their captain, was there. He looked focused.

And there was Romero. The Argentine defender. The most aggressive, violent defender in the league.

Romero looked at Alex. He dragged his thumb across his throat.

"Subtle," Antoine whispered.

Alex just stared straight ahead. He was the Shield. He was stable.

But inside, he was vibrating.

This was it. Ninety minutes to save his life.

The whistle blew.

It was a war.

Tottenham didn't press. They attacked. They flew at Arsenal.

Romero smashed into Mark in the first minute. No foul.

"Welcome to the derby!" the crowd roared.

Arsenal couldn't get the ball. Tottenham was possessed.

In the 10th minute, Son got the ball. He cut inside. He curled it.

Ramsdale saved it.

In the 15th minute, Maddison shot. It hit the post.

Arsenal was hanging on. The Diamond was cracking.

Alex was running everywhere. He tackled. He blocked.

But he couldn't find the pass. Every time he looked up, a white shirt was in his face.

"They are suffocating us!" Antoine yelled. "I have no space!"

"They know the plan!" Jude shouted. "They are blocking the middle!"

Halftime came. Zero zero.

But it felt like a loss. Arsenal had zero shots. Tottenham had ten.

The Suit was probably in his box, uncapping his pen, getting ready to sign Alex away to Manchester City.

The locker room was like a morgue.

Steve stood in the middle.

"They are killing you," Steve said. "They are winning every battle."

He looked at Alex.

"Professor. You are thinking too much. You are looking for the perfect pass. There is no perfect pass."

"They are blocking the lanes, coach," Alex said, wiping sweat from his eyes. "They have three men on me."

"Then stop trying to be the playmaker," Steve said.

"What?"

"You are the distraction," Steve said. "Use their hate. They want to hurt you. They want to stop the 'Golden Boy'."

He looked at the rest of the team.

"Alex... you are going to run. You are going to run into the worst, tightest, most dangerous spots on the pitch."

"I am?" Alex asked.

"Yes. You will draw them in. You will be the honey for the bees."

Steve looked at Jude and Mark.

"When they swarm Alex... you kill them. Mark, you don't run wide. You run central. Jude, you don't drive. You wait."

"Wait for what?" Jude asked.

"Wait for the Professor to be crushed," Steve said grimly. "Then... pick up the pieces."

Second half.

Alex ran onto the pitch. He felt like a soldier going over the top.

He got the ball.

He didn't pass. He ran.

He ran straight at Romero.

Romero's eyes lit up. He charged.

Another midfielder came. And another.

Three Tottenham players surrounded Alex.

Alex held the ball. He shielded it. He took a kick to the ankle. A shove in the back.

He held it for three seconds. Four seconds.

He was crushed. He fell to the ground.

But as he fell... he poked the ball.

Out of the pile.

Into the open space.

Jude was there.

The Tottenham midfield was gone. They were all standing over Alex.

Jude drove.

He was a train. He ran forty yards.

He passed to Mark.

Mark was one on one.

He shot.

The keeper saved it.

"ARGH!" Mark screamed.

Alex picked himself up. He limped back to position.

"Again," Alex whispered.

He did it again. And again.

He ran into traffic. He got kicked. He got fouled.

He was the bait. The punching bag.

Seventy-fifth minute. Zero zero.

Alex was bruised everywhere. His new white boots were grey.

He got the ball in the center circle.

Romero was there. He was angry. He hadn't broken the kid yet.

Romero lunged. A two-footed, flying tackle.

Alex saw it.

His analyst brain calculated the impact. It would hurt. A lot.

But if he jumped... he lost the ball.

If he stayed... he won the foul. Or the advantage.

Alex stayed.

CRUNCH.

Romero hit him. Alex went spinning in the air.

But... he had flicked the ball. Just before contact.

The referee put the whistle to his mouth.

But he saw Jude.

Jude had the ball.

"PLAY ON!" the referee shouted. Advantage.

Jude ran. He was angry. He had seen his friend get hit.

He powered through the defense.

He saw Antoine.

Antoine was on the edge of the box.

Jude passed.

Antoine didn't shoot. He saw Mark.

Mark was making the run.

But Mark... stopped.

He did the "Fake Fake".

The defender flew past.

Mark was alone. Six yards out.

He didn't smash it. He didn't chip it.

He just... rolled it.

Into the corner.

GOAL.

One zero. Arsenal.

The away end exploded. Red smoke filled the air.

Mark didn't run. He didn't celebrate.

He turned and sprinted back to the center circle.

To Alex.

Alex was still on the ground. He was holding his shin.

Mark slid on his knees. He grabbed Alex.

"PROFESSOR! GET UP! WE SCORED! YOU DID IT!"

Jude arrived. He looked scary. He stood over Alex like a bodyguard.

"Are you alive?" Jude asked.

"I think so," Alex wheezed. "Is my leg still attached?"

"Yes," Jude said. "Come on. We have ten minutes. We hold the line."

The last ten minutes were the longest of Alex's life.

He couldn't run. He just stood in front of the defense. A limping shield.

Tottenham threw everything.

Corner. Free kick. Long throw.

Bastian headed. Jude tackled. Harry cleared.

94th minute. Last chance.

Tottenham corner. Even their keeper came up.

The ball came in.

It bounced. Chaos.

It fell to Son. The Spurs captain.

He shot. From five yards.

It was going in.

But Alex... Alex was on the post.

He didn't have time to think. He didn't have time to calculate probability.

He just threw himself.

He blocked the ball.

With his face.

SMACK.

Everything went black for a second.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying in the net. The ball was in his hands.

The referee blew the whistle.

Game over.

Arsenal 1. Tottenham 0.

They had done it.

The team collapsed. They were crying. They were laughing.

Steve ran onto the pitch. He ran straight to Alex.

"You crazy, beautiful idiot!" Steve yelled, hugging him. "You blocked it with your face!"

"My nose," Alex mumbled, touching his face. "Is it... crooked?"

"It is perfect!" Mark screamed, jumping on him. "It is a winning nose!"

The locker room was a riot.

Milo was there. He was wearing a suit made of Arsenal flags.

"THE FACE BLOCK!" Milo shrieked. "IT IS VIRAL! 'THE NOSE OF GOD'! ALEX! YOU ARE A LEGEND!"

Alex sat on the bench. He was holding an ice pack to his face. He was holding an ice pack to his ankle.

But he was smiling.

The Suit walked in.

The room went silent. The music stopped.

The Suit looked at the players. Muddy. Bleeding. Happy.

He looked at Alex.

He opened his briefcase.

He took out a stack of papers. The transfer contracts.

He looked at them.

Then... he ripped them in half.

Riiiip.

He dropped the pieces on the floor.

"Deal is off," the Suit said. "You stay."

He walked out.

The room erupted.

"WE STAY!" Mark yelled. "THE HURRICANE LIVES!"

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