FORESIGHT

On the touchline, Wenger studied the pitch and nodded to himself.

Only three games into the season, but Kai's transformation was already clear.

Physically and mentally, he looked sharper. Stronger. More mature.

And perhaps the most obvious shift—he was demanding the ball now.

Not just a boost in confidence, but the kind of readiness that comes with embracing more responsibility. Wenger applauded that change.

A core should carry that weight. Take ownership. Make the right calls when it matters.

In that regard, Kai was doing an excellent job.

Out on the pitch, the match had become a war of attrition.

Neither side could break through cleanly. For Arsenal, Kai was holding the midfield fort, while Chelsea relied heavily on Ramires.

It was like watching two human shields crash into each other over and over.

But Kai had more on his plate.

Chelsea's front line was relentless—Mata, Hazard, Oscar, Torres, and even Lampard pushing from deep. It was wave after wave of blue pressure.

Premier League football at its fiercest: physical, intense, unforgiving.

Arsenal and Chelsea were like two bulls charging head-on.

Had this been the Arsenal of a few years ago, Wenger's side might've hit back with flair and fire. But this current team didn't have that kind of margin.

So Kai did something smart.

He stopped running.

His boots skidded slightly as he slowed down, his chest rising and falling from the effort. As Arsenal's midfield engine, if he was drained, his teammates had to be running on fumes.

After receiving the ball from Podolski, Kai passed it back, then gestured downward with both hands.

Instantly, the Arsenal players understood. A collective sigh of relief spread across the squad.

That frantic tempo had pushed them to the edge.

"Smart move," Wenger chuckled from the sideline.

The exuberance of youth often led players to charge headfirst into chaos. But what Arsenal needed now wasn't another sprint—it was a breath.

Kai saw that and took control. By easing the tempo, he gave his teammates a chance to regroup.

Even a fist has to be drawn back before it strikes again.

Arsenal's shift into a slower pace gave them breathing room, but for Chelsea, it was frustrating.

They'd wound themselves up, ready to finish their opponent, only for the match to downshift without warning.

Lampard glanced at Arsenal's backline and sighed. Still a chance, he thought. Just don't panic.

After nearly 40 minutes of fierce exchanges, both teams settled into a quieter rhythm. It was as if they'd silently agreed: we'll wait for the second half to decide things.

Halftime.

Inside the Arsenal dressing room, the tension boiled over.

"We've got to be more decisive," Walcott barked. "Move the ball—stop holding onto it! You're not quicker than the pass!"

"Ramires is such a pain," Chamberlain groaned. "He's on me every time!"

"Then stop giving him chances," Walcott shot back. "Don't hold it—he can't take what you don't show him."

Kai sat quietly on the bench, taking deep breaths, trying to recover as quickly as possible.

Ramsey passed him a hydration drink. "Here."

Kai rinsed, spat, wiped his lips, and said with quiet resolve, "I'm pushing higher in the second half. I want in on the attack."

Ramsey smiled. "Then I've got your back. I'll cover the gaps."

He knew that if Arsenal wanted a goal, it might have to come through Kai. But that would mean leaving the defense lighter. It was a risk.

But what were their options?

Either get worn down by Chelsea or make a stand.

And Kai had made his choice.

...

In the Chelsea dressing room, Benitez was fuming.

"What is that out there? You're getting outplayed by a teenager! I told you—don't just boot it forward. Pass with purpose! Never was in my Liverpool."

Lampard, already fuming, had heard enough.

"Coach! We get that Liverpool meant a lot to you, but you're not at Anfield anymore. This is Stamford Bridge. You're Chelsea now."

Several players exchanged glances. The atmosphere in the room had turned heavy, distrustful.

Benitez narrowed his eyes at Lampard, but said nothing more.

"Right. Second half tactics—one priority. Shut that kid down."

...

Second half. Teams switched sides.

Arsenal kicked off.

Kai laid the ball off to the backline, then drifted toward the ball carrier instead of charging forward.

Vermaelen skipped him and passed wide to Sagna.

Kai shadowed over, glanced around—no marker—Sagna fed him the ball.

One touch. Turn. Two steps forward. Then a square pass to Ramsey.

Kai moved again, positioning for the return.

"Are Arsenal… playing keep-ball?" Martin Taylor asked, surprised.

"Looks like it," Alan Smith replied. "But since Wilshere, Arteta, and Cazorla are all out, they've hardly been a passing team."

Taylor squinted. "So what are they trying to do?"

"Not sure," said Smith. "But keep an eye on Kai. Everything's running through him."

Indeed, Kai was orchestrating calmly from deep, drifting side to side. Nothing flashy—just possession, control, patience.

No Hollywood passes. Just shifting Chelsea's press from one flank to the other.

Kai wasn't trying to break lines like Arteta. He was baiting Chelsea, drawing them forward, trying to open space behind them.

It was less "tiki-taka," more calculated retreat.

The goal wasn't to dominate—it was to tempt Chelsea into overcommitting, then strike once space opened up.

A passive offense, yes—but perhaps the only one available to Arsenal in this moment.

Watching from midfield, Lampard's brow furrowed.

Have they given up?

He shook his head.

Maybe a draw.

So, this was the plan?

"They're playing for a draw," Lampard muttered under his breath.

It made sense.

Arsenal had no issue settling for a point away from home. Chelsea, on the other hand, were under pressure to take all three at Stamford Bridge. A draw felt like a defeat.

Realizing this, Lampard shouted, "Push up! Press them high, everyone forward!"

With that, Chelsea's line surged.

The pressing suddenly became suffocating. Kai, who had just received a pass from Ramsey near the halfway line, immediately felt the squeeze.

Chelsea were closing down hard. The passes had to be fast and flawless.

Kai barely had time to breathe. Then he caught sight of Oscar charging toward him.

Kai nudged the ball forward gently, baiting Oscar into committing. As Oscar darted left to intercept, Kai stopped the ball dead with his toes, spun, and burst away into open space.

He'd just slipped through the trap.

"Oscar flies in… Kai turns away with ease! What a turn!" Martin Taylor exclaimed on commentary.

"And now he's off like a racehorse! Arsenal breaking!" added Alan Smith, the excitement rising.

That one turn was a spark.

Suddenly, Arsenal exploded forward. Kai fed the ball wide to Walcott and sprinted into open space.

Six Arsenal shirts joined the break.

Chelsea was caught flat-footed.

On the touchline, Benitez's face twisted in panic.

"Get back! Get back now!" he roared, his voice almost cracking, and waving his men back.

But it was too late.

Chelsea had pressed too high, and Arsenal had burst through the cracks.

Stamford Bridge fell eerily silent as fans stood frozen, eyes darting in panic, scanning for their back line.

Cahill? Ivanovic? Someone?

Then they saw Suarez.

Pinned between two defenders, lurking.

"Oh no... not him!" came a collective groan from the home crowd.

Boos rang out, but they couldn't stop what was coming.

Kai arrived just outside the box. He glanced at his teammate, then darted wide, dragging Ashley Cole with him.

Cole's eyes widened. He had no choice—he chased.