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... er. The flares still burned behind the goal, but now the smoke hung heavier, slower, like it wasn't sure where to go.
Partizan had the ball at the edge of Bradford's box, working triangles with forced patience. One touch. Two. Then an extra one—too many.
Daniel Lowe stepped. Not rushed, not reckless. He read the moment like a man waiting for a misplaced word. He didn't tackle. Just angled in, cut the lane, and poked the ball into space.
His next touch was forward. Instinc ...
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