Lukas was at the center of it.

Not always the one making the final action, but always involved. Always connecting. He drifted between the lines, receiving, releasing, pulling defenders out of position. And just as de la Fuente had instructed, Fabián Ruiz was right there with him—tight, relentless, following him everywhere. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

But now, Germany were finding ways around it.

48th minute.

Kimmich had the ball on the right side of midfield, his head already up as he scanned the pitch. Without hesitation, he struck a long diagonal switch, the ball arcing high across the field toward the far touchline.

"Great switch," Matthäus said.

Wirtz was waiting.

He adjusted his body, cushioned the ball with his chest near the sideline, and brought it down cleanly in one motion. As he steadied himself, he glanced inside.

Lukas was there.

But so was Fabián Ruiz—tight to him, almost attached.

Wirtz didn’t overcomplicate it. He played a short pass into Lukas’s feet.

The moment the ball traveled, Lukas could already feel it—Fabián closing from behind, pressing into his space. There was no time to turn.

So he didn’t.

He played it back immediately to Wirtz.

Simple.

Clean.

But he didn’t stop moving.

Lukas continued his run.

Toward Wirtz.

Drawing Fabián with him.

He lifted his hand slightly, a small gesture, subtle but clear—give it back.

Wirtz understood instantly.

One touch.

Back into Lukas.

Fabián was still tight.

Still pressing.

Still expecting a turn under pressure.

But this time, Lukas didn’t turn the way he expected.

He let the ball come to him, and with the sole of his boot, he rolled it backward—right through Fabián’s legs.

At the same time, he spun.

A sharp swivel.

Out the other side.

Gone.

"Brilliant!" Fàbregas reacted.

Fabián turned, but he was already beaten.

Lukas lifted his head immediately.

On the far side—

Adeyemi.

Space.

Without hesitation, Lukas struck a looping pass across the pitch, the ball traveling high and wide, dropping perfectly into Adeyemi’s path on the opposite flank.

Adeyemi met it first time.

He didn’t slow down.

He drove forward, pushing into the penalty area with pace, defenders scrambling to recover.

Inside the box, Woltemade was already making his run, pushing past Huijsen, trying to create just enough separation for the finish.

Adeyemi delivered early.

A driven ball across the face of goal.

Woltemade lunged.

Got there.

Toe first.

"Big chance!" Matthäus shouted.

But Unai Simón—

Somehow—

Reacted.

From barely six yards out, Simón stretched beyond his reach, throwing himself sideways and getting a strong hand to the ball. The save was instinctive, desperate, but perfectly executed.

The ball deflected away from goal.

Woltemade dropped to his knees, hands immediately going to his head.

"How has he saved that?" Fàbregas said, disbelief clear in his voice. "That is world-class goalkeeping!"

Germany didn’t pause.

Kimmich was already moving.

The corner came quickly.

He swung it in, an inswinger curling toward the back post.

Jonathan Tah rose highest, meeting it cleanly and directing it back across goal into the danger zone.

For a moment, chaos.

Bodies everywhere.

The ball dropped.

Cucurella reacted first, throwing himself into it, scrambling it away just enough to prevent a clear finish.

But it didn’t go far.

It fell to Wirtz.

Edge of the box.

Half-volley.

He struck it through a crowd of bodies.

"Hit it!" Matthäus urged.

The shot drove forward—

Blocked.

Zubimendi.

Strong.

Committed.

The ball ricocheted away again, and this time Fabián Ruiz reacted, clearing it long upfield.

And suddenly—

Spain were running.

Nico Williams.

First touch forward.

Explosive.

The entire pitch opened up in front of him.

Germany were exposed.

Almost everyone had pushed up.

"Danger now," Matthäus warned.

On the opposite side, Yamal was already sprinting down the right flank, matching the run, stretching the defense even further.

Williams carried the ball at pace down the left, head up, assessing.

Inside—

one player.

One last man.

Lukas.

He was running.

Hard.

Through the middle.

Positioning himself between Williams and Yamal, constantly glancing left, then right, reading the situation in real time.

Williams looked up.

He saw it.

The pass.

Outside of the boot.

Threaded through to Yamal.

Classic.

"He’s going to play it!" Fàbregas said.

Williams shaped his body.

Opened his foot.

Prepared to slip the ball across—

Lukas committed.

He launched himself into a sliding tackle, cutting across the passing lane just as Williams struck it.

The ball clipped the edge of Lukas’s boot.

Changed direction.

Slowed.

Rolled harmlessly away.

Straight back toward Ter Stegen.

The goalkeeper stepped forward and collected it calmly.

Chance gone.

For a split second, everything paused.

Then—

eruption.

Kimmich was already sprinting toward Lukas.

He reached him first, grabbing him and driving a chest bump into him, shouting—loud, raw, veins visible in his neck.

"That’s it!" he yelled.

Behind them, Tah clapped loudly, shouting in approval. Koch raised his arms, roaring. The entire defensive line surged forward, feeding off the moment.

They all knew.

They all understood exactly what had just been prevented.

"That is unbelievable defending," Matthäus said. "Absolutely unbelievable. He’s just saved a goal."

"That’s not luck," Fàbregas added. "That’s reading the game. That’s instinct."

Lukas pushed himself back up to his feet, breathing hard but composed, his eyes already back on the pitch.

The game hadn’t stopped.

But something had shifted again.

Germany weren’t just attacking now.

They were fighting.

Everywhere.

The game had tilted.

You could feel it—not just in possession, not just in territory, but in belief. Germany were no longer reacting to Spain. They were dictating. Every pass now carried intent, every movement had purpose, and Spain were being forced to defend deeper and deeper than they had in the first half.

Then came the adjustment.

57th minute.

Adeyemi drifted inside.

Lukas moved wide.

Right flank.

The switch was subtle, but immediate in its effect. Spain’s defensive shape hesitated for just a fraction of a second—long enough for Germany to find the opening they had been searching for.

Kimmich saw it.

From right-back, already stepping into midfield, he shaped his body and fired a grounded pass straight down the touchline. It was crisp, perfectly weighted, hugging the line as it traveled toward Lukas.

"Good awareness from Kimmich," Lothar Matthäus noted.

Lukas met it near the edge of the final third.

He didn’t rush.

He didn’t push it forward.

He stopped it dead.

He stood there for a second.

Facing goal.

Ball under control.

Waiting.

Two defenders.

Fabián Ruiz closing the inside lane.

Marc Cucurella angling his body to show him down the line.

No space.

No obvious route.

Kimmich offered himself behind, gesturing slightly for the return pass.

Lukas ignored him.

He started moving the ball lightly under his feet.

Small touches.

Subtle shifts.

Left.

Right.

Forward half a step.

Back again.

Watching.

Waiting.

On the touchline, Luis de la Fuente was shouting, his voice sharp, urgent, barking instructions in Spanish. The defenders tightened, trying to hold their shape, trying not to commit too early.

But someone always does.

Fabián moved first.

A small step.

Then a jab of his leg, trying to poke the ball away.

That was the moment.

Lukas pulled the ball back with the sole of his left foot, dragging it just out of reach, then immediately nudged it forward again—slightly toward Cucurella.

Just enough.

Just enough to tempt him.

Cucurella took it.

He saw the space.

Thought he had it.

Stepped in aggressively.

And Lukas lifted the ball.

Clean.

Precise.

Right over Cucurella’s outstretched foot.

At the same time, he jumped.

Skipping past the challenge.

Landing in stride.

Gone.