The floodlights glared overhead, casting long shadows across the pitch as Ozan Kabak adjusted his armband and scanned the field. The opposing striker towered a few inches taller—but Ozan had faced giants before, and this one didn’t rattle him.

Coach barked orders from the sidelines, but Ozan had already read the play. He stepped forward just as the through ball sliced the midfield. With a perfectly timed interception, he brought it down with his chest and calmly rolled it to his right-back.

“You read that before it even happened,” said his teammate, jogging back into formation.

Ozan cracked a rare smile. “You watch their eyes, not their feet. The feet lie.”

Minutes later, as a cross curled into the box, he rose above everyone else—commanding, immovable—and headed it clear like a war drum calling order to chaos. This was his domain. And in his domain, nothing passed without a fight.