March 13, 2015.
The Volkswagen Arena was a sea of roaring green and white. For years, the Wolfsburg faithful had lived in the shadow of the Bavarian giants, rarely tasting the salt of elite European competition beyond the occasional clash with Bayern Munich. But this season was different. After a grueling battle to dispatch Tottenham Hotspur in the previous round, they had drawn Inter Milan—the Nerazzurri.
For the fans, Inter represented something more than just a club; they were the aristocrats of the game, a side whose trophy room groaned under the weight of Champions League titles and Scudettos. The air in Lower Saxony was thick with the scent of a historic upset.
At the pre-match press conference, Dieter Hecking looked like a man who had finally found the missing pieces of a complex puzzle. "Our form has dipped slightly, but that's the inevitable tax of a congested fixture list," he said, leaning into the microphone. "The boys have rested. They're primed. Anyone who has followed us lately knows we aren't just flat-track bullies anymore. We've learned to suffer together, to grind out results when the tide is against us."
He paused, a flicker of pride crossing his face. "Kevin and David? They are the heartbeat of our attack. They are the reason I walk into this stadium with total confidence."
Hecking didn't say it out loud, but he knew he was witnessing a miracle. To watch two prodigies accelerate their development at such a terrifying pace—witnessing a partnership where one plus one equaled something far greater than two—was a once-in-a-career privilege.
In the opposing camp, Roberto Mancini was striking a more cautious, yet defiant chord. "We've moved away from the back three and found our balance in a four-man system," he told the Italian press. "The spirit is back. The steel is back. Wolfsburg is a formidable side, but we are Inter. We come here to dictate, not to survive."
Out on the pitch for the warm-up, David Qin scanned the opposition. He recognized the usual suspects: Mauro Icardi, Xherdan Shaqiri, and Fredy Guarín. Icardi was more famous for his tabloid-fodder romance with Wanda Nara than his goal-scoring lately, while Shaqiri and Guarín were familiar faces to any student of the global game.
"Hey, Ivan," David muttered, leaning toward Perišić as they stretched. "Tell me something. If a guy steals his teammate's wife, does the rest of the locker room actually talk to him? Or is he just a pariah?"
Perišić scoffed, his face hardening. "I don't know about other teams, but if someone did that to me... let's just say he wouldn't be finding many friends in the dressing room. You don't break the brotherhood. Period."
"True," David agreed, a mischievous glint in his eye. "And if she did it with him, she'll probably do it to him eventually, right?"
"Once a cheater, always a cheater," Perišić replied, sounding like a grizzled philosopher. "Stick to the nice girls, David. Trust me."
Hidden just behind them, Kevin De Bruyne was nodding in silent agreement until a sudden voice made him jump.
"Caught you eavesdropping, Kevin!" Junior Malanda laughed.
"I wasn't—I was just..." De Bruyne's face turned a shade of crimson that matched his hair. "I was coming over to talk tactics. Listen, Davide Santon is starting at fullback. He's prone to lapses in concentration. David, you should look to exploit that."
David blinked. "Kevin... I'm on the left today. I'm up against D'Ambrosio. Ivan is the one who's going to be torturing Santon."
"Right. Yes. I knew that," De Bruyne muttered, his "tough-guy" facade crumbling. "I just didn't sleep well. Anyway, Ivan, keep your eyes open. I'm looking to thread the needle early."
"Counting on you, ginger," Perišić winked.
The stadium lights hummed as the teams emerged from the tunnel. High in the commentary box, Derek Rae adjusted his headset.
"A very warm welcome to the Volkswagen Arena," Rae's voice resonated with his trademark Scottish lilt. "I'm Derek Rae, joined as always by Stewart Robson. It's the first leg of the Europa League Round of 16. The upstarts of the Bundesliga versus the pedigree of Milan."
"It's a fascinating contrast, Derek," Robson added. "Inter are a club in transition. They've said goodbye to the old guard—Zanetti, Samuel, Cambiasso, Milito—and life under Mancini has been a rollercoaster. But they have a curious record: they've won the first leg in each of their last four meetings with German opposition. The only time they failed to progress was back in '88 against Bayern."
On the digital forums, the banter was already reaching a fever pitch.
@Nerazzurri_Loyalist: We won the Treble five years ago. Now we're starting Juan Jesus. Someone wake me up from this nightmare.
@TacticalGnome1: No money, no honey. We sold our soul for 2010 and now the debt collectors are at the door.
@Wolfsburg2Wanderer: Mancini's subs are so predictable you could program a calculator to do his job.
@Bundesliga4Banter: Inter haven't won a game in March. If David Qin doesn't drop a masterclass today, I'm retiring from Reddit.
The referee's whistle shrilled, and the hunt began.
Wolfsburg took the kick-off, and David Qin immediately drifted wide, dragging Guarín with him like a shadow. It was a calculated move to afford De Bruyne more oxygen in the center. Guarín was a powerhouse, but he lacked discipline; he was prone to overcommitting, flying into tackles with a recklessness that David intended to punish.
"The Wolves are looking to stretch the play early," Rae noted. "De Bruyne finds space in the pocket, moving the ball back to Luiz Gustavo. They're probing, shifting the Inter block."
Suddenly, the tempo shifted from a simmer to a boil. Vieirinha pinged a diagonal ball that cut across the damp grass. Bas Dost rose like a lighthouse, cushioning a header down into the path David had just vacated.
David had anticipated the knock-down, finding a pocket of space between the lines. Guarín, true to form, came charging in like a bull seeing red.
Snap.
With a high-frequency chop, David sent the ball one way and moved the other. Guarín, unable to stop his momentum, lunged with a heavy-handed shoulder barge. David felt his balance waver, but his core strength—the fruit of countless hours in the gym—held firm. He dug his studs into the turf, shrugged off the Colombian, and surged toward the byline.
"He's shrugged off Guarín! David Qin to the touchline... he pulls out the rabona cross! Sensational!"
Bas Dost met the cross with a thumping header, but Carrizo reacted with a stunning reflex save, clawing the ball away. Andrea Ranocchia thrashed the rebound clear into the stands.
"What a start for the home side!" Robson exclaimed. "David Qin is playing with an arrogance that is just delightful to watch. That rabona was pure filth."
Inter tried to respond. Hernanes, the former Lazio maestro, orchestrated a break, finding Shaqiri. The "Alpine Messi" was a tank in a miniature frame. When Malanda tried to knock him off the ball, it was the Belgian who bounced off.
"Look at the strength of Shaqiri!" Rae shouted. "He's like a keg of gunpowder on legs!"
But before the Swiss international could pull the trigger, Luiz Gustavo arrived with a scything, perfectly-timed slide. The former Bayern man knew Shaqiri's rhythms; he knew that for all his power, Shaqiri's feet weren't quite as quick as the real Messi's.
The ball was shuttled wide to Perišić, but Inter's second line of defense held. The game settled into a tactical chess match, but the momentum was clearly tilting toward the green shirts.
"Inter are being squeezed," Robson observed. "They're praying for a counter-attack, but they can't get the ball past Malanda and Gustavo. The Wolfsburg midfield is a brick wall tonight."
In the 31st minute, the breakthrough arrived. David Qin stood over the ball on the left, his feet dancing in a series of step-overs that left D'Ambrosio guessing. The Italian fullback didn't bite, showing the patient, disciplined defensive technique that made him a Mancini favorite.
David offered a slight smirk. He hadn't faced a defender this composed in weeks. "Nice," he muttered.
He checked back, recycling the ball to Rodriguez, who found Gustavo. Eventually, the ball landed back at De Bruyne's feet. Guarín, sensing a chance to redeem himself, overextended again.
David's eyes lit up. He made a subtle hand gesture—a split-second signal only he and De Bruyne understood—and ghosted into the left channel.
De Bruyne didn't even look. He knew exactly where the run was. With a flick of his boot, he delivered a pass that functioned like a surgical scalpel, carving through the heart of the Inter defense.
"A gorgeous through-ball! David Qin is in!"
David took the ball in his stride, drawing Carrizo out of his goal. But instead of shooting, he spotted a flash of green in his peripheral vision. A low, fizzing square ball across the face of the goal found Perišić.
BANG.
The net bulged as Perišić smashed it into the bottom corner.
1-0!!!
"Perišić! The Croatian provides the finish, but the goal was made in the minds of De Bruyne and Qin!" Rae roared. "Total telepathy! It was as if they were sharing the same brain!"
"Absolute quality, Derek," Robson agreed. "I thought the chance had gone when David turned back, but that sudden burst and the vision from De Bruyne... it's unplayable. They've unlocked the catenaccio!"
The Volkswagen Arena erupted. The Wolves were leading, and for the first time in a long time, the giants of Milan looked very, very small.
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