Bundesliga Matchday 27. Borussia Dortmund versus Bayer Leverkusen.
Thirty-seven minutes played. Dortmund still trailed 0-1.
Jin Hayes was running, lungs burning, constantly checking over his shoulder, scanning for passing lanes, searching for space. He didn't see the collision coming.
One moment he was moving into position. The next, he was on the ground, a solid mass of muscle and aggression having barged straight through him.
"Watch where you're going, cabrón?"
The player looming over him was covered in tattoos, his hair spiked aggressively. Chilean. Arturo Vidal. And he was staring down at Jin Hayes with undisguised contempt.
This was clearly Leverkusen's plan. Every time Jin Hayes looked to receive the ball, Vidal shadowed him, hunting him down, using his physicality to disrupt.
Jin Hayes usually avoided such battles. He preferred to let his feet do the talking—dribble past, move on, leave the grapplers grasping at air.
But Vidal was different. His tackling was fierce, his movement aggressive, and he possessed all the subtle, dirty tricks that South American footballers learned in the cradle. Shoulder bumps. Jersey tugs. Discreet elbows.
Thirty minutes of this treatment had left Jin Hayes seething.
"Kiss my arse, huevón."
Vidal blinked. The pretty-faced kid—looking like he belonged in a boy band—had just insulted him in Spanish. And not politely.
Before he could respond, the ball was in the air. Nuri Şahin, with few other options, had lofted a long pass towards the right flank.
Jin Hayes was the only forward player showing for the ball. Everyone else was marked.
Perfect.
Vidal's eyes lit up. He moved in immediately, grabbing Jin Hayes's shoulder, leaning his weight into him, using every ounce of his strength to shove the teenager off balance.
A fifteen-year-old's frame, no matter how talented, couldn't withstand that kind of brute force. Jin Hayes stumbled, almost fell.
Vidal, triumphant, chested the ball down, ready to launch an attack.
Then a leg appeared from nowhere. A flash of yellow. The ball was gone.
That kid!
Number 24. Black and yellow.
Scheiße!
Jin Hayes, even as he'd been shoved aside, hadn't given up. The defensive instincts Gilberto Silva had drilled into him at Arsenal kicked in. He'd read Vidal's intentions, anticipated the trap, and chased back to nick the ball away.
But Vidal was relentless. He recovered instantly, pressing from behind, harrying, not allowing Jin Hayes to turn. And now Tranquillo Barnetta, Leverkusen's left-sided midfielder, was closing from the other side, slide tackle committed.
Trapped. Surrounded. Most players would panic. Pass back, if anyone was free. Or simply lose possession.
Leverkusen's entire shape had pushed up. Passing options were covered. Jin Hayes was in a dead end.
The Westfalen crowd gasped.
He's going to lose it.
In that split second, as Vidal leaned into him and Barnetta's studs approached, Jin Hayes's focus sharpened. Time seemed to slow.
At the exact moment of impact, he executed a V-drag, pulling the ball back with the sole of his foot, narrowly avoiding Barnetta's lunge. Then, in one fluid motion, he flicked the ball up, chipped it over his own head, and spun.
Past Vidal.
"WHAT THE—?!"
Vidal was still looking at the turf where the ball had been. A shadow blurred past him. The kid was gone.
How?
Less than a second. How had he done that?
Vidal scrambled to his feet, grabbed a fistful of yellow shirt to slow him down, and launched himself into a desperate, reckless tackle from behind.
Normally, that would be enough. Most Bundesliga players would be knocked off balance. Whether it was a foul or not was irrelevant—the attack would be stopped.
But Jin Hayes, as if sensing the challenge, stopped dead. He planted one foot, spun on the spot.
Vidal, committed to his lunge, flew past like a charging bull missing the matador. He crashed to the turf, face-first.
Jin Hayes, the bullfighter, glided away, ball at his feet, heading for the Leverkusen penalty area.
"MIERDA!"
Vidal could only punch the grass in frustration, watching the damn teenager toy with his teammates.
"JIN HAYES—"
"Another magnificent dribble! No one can stop him! NO ONE!"
Commentator Berenberg had abandoned any pretence of German restraint. He sounded like a South American radio host now, stretching vowels, machine-gunning words, describing art.
He'd said it before: Jin Hayes didn't play football. He painted with it.
Leverkusen's defence, so carefully organised, so German in its precision, was in chaos.
Centre-back Haggui backed off, terrified, lowering his centre of gravity, refusing to commit, just waiting for help to arrive.
Jin Hayes reached the edge of the box. He shaped to shoot.
Haggui flung himself forward, throwing his body in the way.
But as he committed, airborne, he caught a glimpse of the Asian player dragging the ball back. A feint. Haggui sailed past uselessly.
"BEAUTIFUL!! JIN HAYES!! HE'S THROUGH! HE'S THROUGH!!"
The stadium was a cauldron now. Dortmund fans were on their feet, screaming. Thousands of miles away, in dorm rooms and internet cafes across China, fans were shouting at their screens.
Duan Xuan, the commentator, had lost his voice entirely, reduced to incoherent yelling.
Every fan held their breath.
Dortmund's support couldn't get there in time. It was just Jin Hayes now, alone, against the last line of defence.
Manuel Friedrich. Leverkusen's rock. Their final hope.
One second later, that hope was gone.
Jin Hayes feinted another shot, then dragged the ball horizontally, wrong-footing Friedrich completely, and stepped into the six-yard box.
German international goalkeeper René Adler rushed out, narrowing the angle.
"YOU WON'T SCORE!!"
"Wasn't planning to."
"WHAT?!"
Jin Hayes lifted his leg as if to shoot. Adler committed, shifted his weight—
And Jin Hayes executed a perfect Marseille turn. Inside the six-yard box.
Around the goalkeeper.
Adler collapsed in despair, his outstretched hand grasping at nothing, watching the teenager spin past him to the goal line.
Insane.
Who does a Marseille turn inside the six-yard box? Who doesn't just shoot from there?
Is this kid even human?
Vidal, having chased back all the way to his own goal line, watched with wide, trembling eyes as Jin Hayes, back to goal, calmly poked the ball in with his heel.
At that moment, Arturo Vidal's legs gave way. He sank to his knees in the penalty area.
He'd seen prodigies. He'd grown up watching South America's finest. But he had never, ever seen anything like this on a professional pitch. In a top-flight league.
The Westfalenstadion erupted.
The black and yellow volcano exploded. The roar was deafening, shaking the very stands.
"JJJJIIIINNNNN HAAAAYYYYEEEESSSS!!!"
"GOTT IM HIMMEL! THAT WAS MIRACULOUS! JIN HAYES, WITH HIS TRADEMARK BRILLIANCE, HAS SINGLE-HANDEDLY DRIBBLED THROUGH THE ENTIRE LEVERKUSEN DEFENCE!"
"JUST BEFORE HALF-TIME, DORTMUND ARE LEVEL!"
"For ordinary players, dribbling past multiple opponents is an impossible dream!"
"But for this fifteen-year-old phenomenon, it's becoming routine!"
"Dortmund fans are blessed. They don't need to pray to God—because God is wearing their shirt!"
As the stadium celebrated, as his teammates mobbed him, Jin Hayes stood on the goal line, glanced back at the ball resting in the net, and finally allowed himself to exhale.
Here was the truth, absurd as it seemed:
He hadn't been showing off.
He couldn't shoot from inside the six-yard box. Not reliably. Not with his finishing. So he'd had no choice but to take the ball around the keeper. The Marseille turn had been instinctive. He'd spun a little too wide, almost ending up in the goal himself.
Trapped on the goal line, back to goal, he'd been terrified even the heel-flick might miss.
Thankfully, while his shooting was dreadful, it wasn't that dreadful. The ball had gone in.
As he jogged towards his ecstatic teammates, he passed Vidal, still on his knees.
The Chilean's eyes were empty now. All the aggression, all the contempt, gone.
Just a young man, kneeling in his own penalty area, staring at nothing.