FORESIGHT

The second half began with both teams emerging from the tunnel, switching sides, and preparing for another forty-five minutes of intensity.

As Kai jogged toward the pitch, he deliberately sought out Flamini.

"Listen," Kai said with a half-smile, his tone both firm and encouraging. "Don't force the game through me. Don't go out of your way to pass me the ball. Just play your football. Play it your way, and I'll make sure you feel comfortable out there."

Flamini blinked, a little surprised. "But… the professor told me to look for you more often, to get the ball into your feet."

Kai shook his head and waved a hand dismissively. "Don't overthink it. Focus on your strengths. Show what you've got, and I'll adjust to you. I'll make it easier for you to play your best."

"Play more comfortably?" Flamini repeated, as if mulling it over. Then, slowly, his expression brightened—he understood.

After all, this wasn't the first time they'd partnered together. Whenever he played alongside Kai, Flamini always felt a strange sense of ease. Somehow, Kai had a way of putting the ball exactly where he wanted it, often anticipating movements before Flamini himself had decided. Even some of Flamini's odd, unorthodox runs seemed to be read perfectly by Kai, who turned them into effective plays.

The more he thought about it, the more Flamini realized how quickly he'd integrated back into the side. Much of that was down to Kai's influence.

"I understand," Flamini said firmly, nodding with conviction.

Only then did Kai clap him on the shoulder and turn back toward his own position.

..

On the touchline, Pat Rice had been watching closely. He'd noticed it only because Wenger had quietly pointed it out before kickoff.

Many of Arsenal's regular starters had looked sharper—freer—since building an on-field connection with Kai. Offensively, defensively, it didn't matter. Kai had a knack for giving passes at the right weight, at the right moment. When defending, he seemed to appear out of nowhere, plugging gaps or joining in to press and smother the opposition.

The more Pat observed, the more his eyebrows lifted. Kai wasn't just linking play; he was knitting the entire team together. One midfielder might play eye-catching passes, but forging a collective rhythm across eleven men? That was something different. Something rare.

Normally, cohesion like this requires weeks or months of training matches. Yet Arsenal's flow seemed to accelerate every time Kai was on the pitch, as though his movement and distribution compressed time itself.

How exactly did he do it? Pat found himself quietly baffled.

..

Meanwhile, the second half had kicked off. Suarez knocked the ball back toward Kai before immediately darting forward, setting the tone with his energy. Liverpool's red shirts surged in response, pressing high and swarming the ball.

Kai took one touch, shifted it sideways to Flamini, and began to drift to the right. Then, reading the situation, he cut diagonally behind Flamini instead.

But Flamini was already under siege. Barely had the ball reached him before Liverpool's midfield snapped around him. Sturridge prowled just behind, ready to pounce.

The pressure closed in fast. Flamini tensed, shielding the ball with his body, searching for an outlet—but every lane seemed blocked.

Then—clap, clap!

The familiar sound echoed right by his ear. Instinctively, Flamini shifted and rolled the ball toward it.

"Good!" Kai's voice rang out as he received it in stride, flicking a one-touch pass straight out wide to Sagna.

No hesitation. No panic. And crucially, Kai was already moving again, closing down space to offer himself once more.

Over and over, he involved Flamini, recycling possession, feeding him little touches, gradually easing him into the rhythm of the game. With every pass and run, Flamini's confidence grew. His touches grew cleaner, his decisions quicker.

Watching from the bench area, Wenger's eyes crinkled into narrow slits, a smile tugging at his lips.

"This kid…" he muttered under his breath.

Pat Rice turned to him, intrigued. "Is this what you meant earlier?"

Wenger chuckled softly. "Not even close. This is just the opening act. Give it time. You'll see—Flamini will look like a different player before the night is over."

..

True enough, Flamini was beginning to enjoy himself. Every movement seemed to count, every touch had purpose.

And with each positive action, his confidence soared higher.

He darted forward again, but Henderson stepped across to cut off the lane. Flamini's brow furrowed for a second—then he feinted, shifting direction. At the very same moment, Kai, already retreating into space, flicked the ball delicately with his toes.

The ball arced over Henderson's shoulder, dropping neatly into Flamini's path.

"Here!" Flamini shouted, exhilarated.

How Kai had read it, he didn't know. But there it was—the ball delivered as if they'd rehearsed it for weeks.

With one touch, Flamini knocked it past, accelerated, and drove forward. Gerrard lunged in to challenge, but Flamini was sharp, sliding the ball sideways to Cazorla before the Liverpool captain could close.

Cazorla took over, a quick shimmy and pass out wide to Walcott, who surged down the flank with his trademark speed.

Liverpool scrambled, defenders retreating at pace. Walcott looked up, searching for an angle to cut inside but couldn't find any.

He started looking around for passing options, only to see Kai already standing just behind him.

Without hesitation, Walcott rolled the ball back. Kai calmly redirected it to Flamini before drifting toward the centre to open up the play.

Almost immediately, the rhythm in Arsenal's midfield shifted.

Kai touched the ball again and again. His passes didn't look progressive, but every Arsenal player who received them felt at ease, as though the tempo had been adjusted perfectly to their stride.

Flamini, in particular, could sense the difference. His form, shaky earlier on, now felt sharper and more assured.

Henderson pressed hard, charging at Flamini.

With his back to goal, Flamini shaped his body as though to play the ball into Kai. Henderson bit at the bait, lunging forward to cut it out—

But Flamini's right boot, which had already swung through, suddenly checked and swept back, nudging the ball into space before he pivoted neatly away.

"Bloody hell," Henderson muttered as he spun round to chase, already a step behind.

By then, Flamini had released it to Wilshere, and Arsenal's midfield was beginning to breathe.

Pat Rice, sitting just behind Wenger, leaned forward with a frown. "Strange, isn't it? Kai's the one dictating things, yet Flamini suddenly looks the standout in there."

Wenger chuckled knowingly. "Exactly. That's the clever part. Playmaking isn't just about flashy passes—it's about tilting the balance in your favour. Kai plays differently from most midfielders, but his control is undeniable. To the casual eye, you'd think Flamini was running the show. In truth, Kai's pulling the strings in silence."

And that was precisely what was happening. Kai never stopped demanding the ball, yet he made sure to fade into the background, always shifting the spotlight onto Flamini. His orchestration was quiet, almost invisible, but devastatingly effective.

On the pitch, Gerrard barked in frustration. "Watch their number 20! Don't let him roam free!"

But still, most eyes tracked Flamini, while Kai advanced unnoticed into the half-space near Liverpool's flank.

This time, Flamini curved his run in a wide arc, shaking Henderson with another feint. Henderson, boiling over, looked set to dive into a challenge—

Only for Flamini to glance up and fake a pass toward Cazorla.

"Close him down! Get on Cazorla!" Henderson shouted, rushing to cover.

But Flamini's delivery skimmed off his boot in a different direction altogether, threading neatly through a pocket of grass three yards away from Gerrard.

Into that space surged Kai, perfectly timed, racing onto the ball.

"Damn it!" Gerrard cursed as Liverpool's back line suddenly realised the danger.

Kai reached the edge of the penalty area and lifted his head, eyes locking on the goal.

"He's winding up—he's going to shoot!"

Skrtel darted out, heart pounding. Everyone in red had been briefed: Kai's long-range shot was lethal from this distance. And the way he looked up, posture coiled, screamed of a thunderous strike.

Skrtel urged himself, launching forward.

But just as Skrtel braced to block, Kai's left leg swung—and missed the ball entirely.

For a split second, confusion reigned.

"Wait—where's the ball?" Skrtel's eyes widened.

And then it clicked—too late.

"Kai! Not the shot—he's slipped it through! Suarez! Goal!!"

In commentary, Martin Taylor's voice cracked with excitement. "Oh my word! That is pure genius! Kai's sold the entire stadium—players, fans, even us up here! That was straight out of the Thierry Henry playbook, a fake shot turned into a disguised pass, and it's absolute magic!"

Alan Smith joined in, almost laughing with disbelief. "That's outrageous! Everyone swore he was winding up to unleash one of those trademark rockets. Instead, we got football deception at its finest!"

Martin Taylor: "And look at the finish! Suarez alive to it, toeing it past Reina, and Arsenal are level! Seventy-five minutes gone, and it's game on at Anfield!"

On the pitch, Kai sprinted toward Suarez, arms wide. Suarez, still grinning in disbelief, threw his arms around him.

"You nearly caught me out with that one," Suarez said breathlessly. "I was ready for a rebound, not that cheeky no pass!"

Kai laughed, ruffling the striker's hair. "Come on, Luis. I trusted you to be there. Right place, right time. Perfect finish."

Suarez beamed, shaking his head. "Well, you made me look good. Could've gone either way, but I'll take it."