The Community Shield match between Liverpool and Manchester City began moments later. The pre-match rituals were done. The players were in position. Shirts tugged. Boots planted. Eyes forward.

Manchester City took the kickoff, tapping the ball back to their defensive line. From the first whistle, it was clear what they wanted to do. Control. They moved the ball with their signature rhythm, short purposeful passes across the backline and through Rodri, easing into their tempo like they were testing the water before diving in.

But Liverpool had other plans.

The front three, including Mohamed Salah, Roberto Firmino, and Divock Origi, pounced into pressing mode the moment the ball moved laterally. Salah chased down Zinchenko on the left, forcing a quick release. Firmino cut off the passing angle into midfield, while Origi shadowed the center backs like a hunter.

Behind them, the midfield locked in. Jordan Henderson, wearing the captain's armband, was barking out cues, eyes scanning for danger and opportunity. Fabinho hovered like a barrier in front of the backline, anticipating, intercepting. Zachary Bemba, slotting in alongside them, looked razor-sharp, reading movement, adjusting body angles, tracking his man, and pressing the ball when needed.

Seeing the situation becoming tricky, Man City tried to go long. One looping ball was launched toward Raheem Sterling on the left wing, meant to stretch the pitch. But Virgil van Dijk had seen it coming two seconds earlier. He drifted back and met the ball clean with his head, cutting off the attack before it could materialize.

And then came the response.

Van Dijk didn't dwell. No look of triumph. No hesitation. Just one smooth touch down to Fabinho.

Fabinho took one touch and fed it straight to Henderson, who pivoted and released Robertson down the left line.

Robertson accelerated, but City closed fast. He didn't force it. One inside pass to Zachary, just across the halfway line.

Zachary received the ball on the half-turn just a few steps inside the center circle. His left foot softened the pass like velvet, letting the ball kiss the turf before it rolled a few inches ahead. He didn't rush. He timed it perfectly, allowing the momentum to carry it just beyond his frame before snapping into motion.

With a sharp shift of his weight, he coiled into a low stance and unfurled a tight, elastic dribble that drew David Silva in.

Silva, reading the body language, stepped forward to apply pressure, hoping to close him down early. But Zachary was already two moves ahead. With the calm of a chess master and the speed of a street footballer, he rolled his right foot over the ball and nudged it through the narrowest gap imaginable, which was right between Silva's legs.

A clean nutmeg. Crisp. Surgical.

The crowd reacted instantly. A collective "Ooooh!" rose from the stands, followed by claps, whistles, and gasps. It wasn't just a flashy move, but it was functional, perfectly timed, and left one of City's most experienced players flat-footed.

Suddenly, the pitch opened up like a runway in front of him. Rodri and Otamendi were staggered ahead, slightly off balance, creating a tempting lane right between them. If he broke into a run now, he could carry the ball straight into enemy territory. His legs itched to glide. His heart pulsed faster with the memory of past solo runs. This was his moment. The kind that made the highlight reels.

But he reined it in.

The words from Mr. Stein echoed in his subconscious, just not as a lecture, but as instinct. Play smart. Control the impulse. It's not about looking good. It's about lasting, and impacting.

He exhaled, let the ball roll slightly under his studs, and nudged it forward with calculated control. His head lifted. His eyes scanned. The switch flipped.

SSS Spatial Awarness worked like a charm at that moment.

In the blink of an eye, the field lit up in his mind like a digital map. He saw every defender's position, the weight in their stance, the direction of their hips. He felt the momentum of the game, the tiny spaces between players that would only exist for a second.

And then, there it was.

Salah, just beginning to ghost into space down the right flank. Not sprinting yet, but coiled like a spring. Zinchenko was already a step late, and John Stones was tucked too far inside. A corridor had formed. Not wide. Not obvious. But enough.

Zachary didn't hesitate.

He let the ball roll to his right and struck it with the outside of his boot, wrapping his foot around it with perfect balance. The ball curved beautifully, slicing around Rodri's extended foot and bypassing Oleksandr Zinchenko, who lunged back in a last-ditch attempt to recover. It traveled low, fast, and true as it skimmed over the grass like a guided missile.

It literally threaded the needle.

And then, like clockwork, Salah was there.

The pass fell into stride just ahead of him, soft enough to control in motion, yet firm enough to keep the defenders chasing shadows. Salah took one touch and exploded forward, heading straight toward the penalty area.

Zachary did not pause his run either. The second he released the ball, he shifted gears and burst forward, trailing behind the play but keeping everything in his line of vision. He watched Salah work, trusting in the Egyptian's brilliance but preparing for the second wave.

Salah glided across the grass, his touch light, his steps rapid and efficient. John Stones had recovered and was drifting toward him, angling to cut off the path into the box. But Salah was already thinking two moves ahead. A drop of the shoulder. A quick shuffle to the left. Then a burst to the right.

Stones reached, hesitated, and was left behind.

With space created, Salah squared the ball low across the face of goal. A tempting delivery. Fast, flat, and dangerous.

Roberto Firmino arrived first, sliding in to meet it with an outstretched leg. The timing was nearly perfect, but the ball had too much pace. It skimmed just ahead of his boot and continued rolling, ghosting through the six-yard box.

At the far post, Divock Origi came barreling in, just a heartbeat behind the rolling cross. His run had been timed to perfection, but Kyle Walker was glued to him, shoulder to shoulder, refusing to give an inch. The two clashed just as the ball reached them, a tangle of limbs and muscle.

Origi swung his left foot at it anyway, trying to guide it into the net, but the pressure from Walker was relentless. The contact was awkward, rushed. Not a proper strike. More of a jab than a finish. The ball skipped tamely off his boot and dribbled toward the near corner.

Claudio Bravo had seen it coming. He dropped low, arms wide, body tight. Palms to turf. The save wasn't flashy, but it was effective. He blocked it cleanly and kept it out.

But only for a moment.

The ball rebounded awkwardly off his gloves, deflecting into traffic. It ricocheted off Otamendi's planted knee and popped into the air like a loose firework, spinning above the eighteen-yard box, just outside the arc. For a split second, it hovered and hung there like a glitch in real time. Unclaimed. Untouched. Dangerous.

Rodri spotted it too late and spun his hips to chase it. Otamendi, still off balance from the deflection, lunged awkwardly, unsure whether to press forward or hold position.

But neither of them would get there in time.

Zachary had never stopped moving. The moment he fed the initial pass to Salah, he shifted into a dead sprint, reading the play before it unfolded. He cut diagonally across the pitch, timing each step with purpose, not chasing the play, but predicting it.

Now, as the ball floated into the perfect zone, he was already there.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't break stride.

As the ball dropped into his path, he planted his right foot and swung with his left, catching it flush on the volley. No settling touch. No adjustment. Just pure, instinctive execution.

His boot struck through the ball like a hammer through glass. The contact was clean, brutal, decisive. The shot tore through the air, spinning violently, swerving slightly left, then right. It moved like a missile. Low. Fast. Ruthless.

Bravo didn't even dive. Still recovering from the first save, he flinched more than reacted.

The ball struck the inside of the right post with a metallic crack and ricocheted into the net, rattling the frame on its way in. The net bulged.

On cue, the stadium erupted. Red shirts burst into cheers. Flags flew. Arms raised.

Just four minutes into the match, the reigning champions of Europe and England had drawn first blood, and it came from a moment of vision, a relentless run, and a thunderous finish.

Zachary roared, heart pounding, adrenaline overflowing.

He sprinted to the corner flag and dropped into a heated celebration with a fist to his chest, then both arms spread wide, yelling into the noise, and feeding off the energy of the fans. His teammates charged after him, surrounding him, slapping his head, his back, hugging him like a returning hero.

And that was exactly what he was.

After months of absence. After the doubts, the rehab, the silent nights wondering if he'd still be the same. He was not just back. He was scoring. He was leading. He was igniting Liverpool at Wembley.