***Bonus for 200 stones***

Arthur had been leaning against the dugout, arms crossed, his eyes scanning the pitch like a hawk on a caffeine high. It didn't take him long to spot the subtle changes Arsenal had rolled out after the break. He narrowed his eyes.

"Hmm... Fabregas dropped deeper," he muttered to himself.

Indeed, the young Spanish playmaker had retreated into a double-pivot setup, now partnering Gilberto Silva at the base of midfield. It was a smart move. By hanging back, Fabregas gave himself more time on the ball, safe under Gilberto's protective presence—like a scientist doing delicate lab work under the watchful eye of a burly security guard.

Arthur clicked his tongue.

"Wenger's pulled the strings again," he murmured, a touch amused.

With Fabregas sitting deep, Arsenal's shape shifted. Rosicky and Hleb were no longer glued to the wings like decorative plants. They had begun drifting inward, popping up in central areas to combine with Fabregas, helping him thread passes and wriggle through Leeds United's high press.

Arthur had seen this tactical trend building across the league lately. Ever since he'd introduced a technical midfield metronome like Modrić into the Premier League fray, others had followed suit—some cautiously, others with gusto.

Take Ferguson for example—he'd experimented with Rooney playing as a deeper, more involved attacking midfielder. And then he dropped Scholes back to form a defensive midfield duo with Carrick. And Moyes? After signing Arteta, who had always been more comfortable on the left, the Everton boss had tried to remold him into a deep-lying playmaker—his very own Spanish Pirlo.

Wenger, always the professor, wasn't about to be left behind. In Fabregas, he had a perfectly malleable piece of clay. The lad could pass, move, tackle, and even shoot if you gave him half a chance. And now, positioned deeper, he was thriving. Calm, confident, and seemingly unbothered by Leeds' relentless pressing.

Arthur's gaze flicked to the sideline screen. On the monitor, Fabregas was seen weaving out of Toure's pressing trap with a neat one-two involving Gilberto, gliding forward like he had Vaseline on his boots.

"Not bad," Arthur muttered, brow furrowed.

Up in the commentary booth, Norman was equally alert. He leaned closer to the mic.

"Looks like Wenger's finally found a response to Leeds' pressing game," he noted with a bit of admiration in his voice. "Toure alone isn't enough to contain Fabregas now."

"Yeah," Eddie Gray chimed in, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "The midfield's definitely come back to life for Arsenal in this second half. Rosicky and Hleb are finding central space, and Fabregas has more passing options now. But let's see how Arthur responds—pressing like hunters all match drains stamina like nothing else."

Down on the touchline, Arthur was watching the same thing—and he wasn't exactly panicking. Sure, Arsenal looked a lot less suffocated than they did in the first half. But they still hadn't scored. Leeds still led 1–0. And as long as the scoreboard stayed that way, Arthur could bide his time.

Ten more minutes ticked by. The 67th minute appeared on the stadium clock, and the score still hadn't changed. 0–1.

But something had changed.

Arsenal were attacking with more purpose now. They'd strung together a few slick moves, and only some slightly off-target finishing from Van Persie and the overeager Walcott had spared Leeds the heartbreak of an equalizer.

Still, Arthur hadn't pulled the plug on his high-press setup. Leeds United's players were still pressing high in Arsenal's half, swarming with the intensity of a coffee-fueled beehive. The pressing wasn't quite as sharp as before—legs were heavier now—but the intent was still there.

Inside the stadium, fans leaned forward, sensing tension building.

At that moment, Arsenal were playing a sequence of passes under pressure. Short balls, sideways balls, little one-twos, anything to buy time and space. And eventually, with nowhere else to go, the ball was rolled back—way back—to Jens Lehmann, who was standing just a few feet in front of his own goal line.

Arthur blinked. "Here we go again."

Zlatan Ibrahimović, who had been a nightmare for Lehmann in the first half, saw the opening and charged like a man who'd just been told the bar was closing in five minutes. Long legs pumping, ponytail flapping, he zeroed in on the old German keeper like a missile.

Lehmann, for his part, looked... oddly composed. Maybe it was the halftime roasting from Wenger still ringing in his ears. Or maybe he just had a death wish. Either way, the man didn't panic.

Meanwhile, Fabregas had peeled away to the right side of the penalty box, retreating toward the touchline while motioning for the ball. He was practically waving his arms like he was hailing a taxi.

What made the moment so absurdly dangerous—at least from Leeds' perspective—was that Fabregas was completely unmarked, save for Toure hounding him from behind. And even more worryingly, Franck Ribéry was trailing just behind the action, already starting to sprint into interception range.

Arthur, from the technical area, muttered, "No way he tries that pass..."

Lehmann tried that pass.

With no hesitation, the old German flicked the ball across the front of goal, aiming it at Fabregas like he was delivering a postcard.

Arthur's entire bench gasped.

Both Toure and Ribéry reacted like cats pouncing on a dangling string. They didn't need to shout or signal—it was pure instinct. The second the ball left Lehmann's boot, both Leeds players bolted toward Fabregas, one from the front and one from the side.

Toure was all muscle and momentum, looking to slam Fabregas off the ball before he could trap it.

"GOOD OPPORTUNITY!" Eddie Gray shouted in the commentary box, almost standing up from his seat.

Norman's eyes widened too, a jolt of excitement on his face.

"If they intercept that..." he said, voice rising, "...they've got a 99% chance of doubling the lead!"

Back on the pitch, Toure was mid-sprint, eyes locked on Fabregas.

And just behind him, Ribéry came flying in.

****

Just as the ball was about to nestle comfortably at Fabregas' feet near the edge of the penalty area, Yaya Toure launched himself like a guided missile. He'd had it with Fabregas — slippery little magician that he was — and now was the perfect time to finally body-check him into next week. Boom!

Toure's shoulder thudded into Fabregas, who stumbled forward two steps like he'd just discovered gravity for the first time.

"Beautiful! The referee didn't blow the whistle!" Eddie Gray shouted, almost hopping out of the commentary booth. "That's a textbook steal from Toure!"

It looked clean, the kind of challenge you'd rewind three times just to enjoy how satisfying it was. Toure certainly thought so — until a little voice in the back of his head whispered, That was way too easy.

Wait a second…

Toure furrowed his brow and glanced down. Fabregas was a decent technician, yes, but not exactly made of tissue paper. That nudge hadn't been that hard. Where was the usual shove-back or scramble for balance?

And more importantly — where was the ball?

Toure's eyes darted around in confusion, and then he spotted it — not at Fabregas' feet, but already halfway up the touchline, sailing comfortably in the possession of Gaël Clichy, who had caught Lehmann's pass and was now sprinting toward Leeds United's half like a man on a mission.

"Wait... what?" Toure muttered, twisting his neck like a confused owl.

And just like that, Fabregas, who had been swaying like a drunk actor moments ago, spun on his heel and took off for midfield, leaving Toure staring blankly at empty grass. It wasn't just a feint — it was a full Shakespearean performance.

Clichy took a few elegant strides up the sideline, then checked over his shoulder and passed the ball back to Fabregas, who was now suddenly all alone, unmarked, and probably whistling.

"That sneaky little fox!" Eddie Gray's voice cracked as the realisation hit. "Toure didn't get the ball at all — Fabregas set him up! That was a trap from the start! I told you, Norman! Hunters always disguise themselves as prey!"

Norman glanced at him, unimpressed. "You did not say that."

But the stadium sure believed it now. The entire Leeds United bench looked like it had swallowed a lemon. Arthur, arms crossed one moment and barking the next, jolted to the edge of his technical area, voice booming:

"BACK! GET BACK NOW!"

The warning came too late.

Leeds had been pressing hard, high up the pitch — it was a signature Arthur move, squeezing space and suffocating Arsenal in their own half. But that kind of strategy came with a cost. When it fails… it fails fast. Like a rubber band snapping in reverse, Leeds' defensive line was caught pushing too far forward, and Arsenal's sudden burst forward left them completely exposed.

Fabregas wasted no time. He caressed the ball once, adjusted his balance, then lifted his boot and sent a gorgeous diagonal pass rocketing across the pitch. It zipped over the halfway line with laser-guided accuracy.

"Look at that pass!" Eddie Gray shouted. "It's a heat-seeking missile!"

At the exact moment the ball left Fabregas' foot, Van Persie and Walcott — both straddling the halfway line — burst forward like sprinters hearing the starter's pistol. Onside by a hair, they accelerated toward the Leeds goal.

About thirty meters out, Walcott intercepted the pass with his right foot, a perfect first touch, then immediately switched to his left and pushed the ball forward. Now he was running full throttle toward the penalty area, with no one between him and the goal except one man.

Manuel Neuer.

"This is it!" Eddie was practically yelling now. "It's one-on-one! Come on, Neuer!"

Neuer, reading the danger in an instant, surged off his line like a lunatic, closing the distance as fast as possible. His towering frame got lower and lower as he neared Walcott, arms splayed out like an ice hockey goalie, expression twisted into a fierce snarl that said, I dare you to shoot.

Walcott looked up, calm as a monk, and instead of trying to chip it or power it past Neuer, he did something else entirely.

He passed.

A neat little sideways knock to his left — right into the path of the onrushing Van Persie, who was completely unmarked.

"NOOOO!" Eddie Gray screamed in pure despair.

Van Persie didn't even need to think. The goal was yawning, Neuer had committed, and all that was required was a gentle side-foot. Tap. In it went.

The net bulged.

"Goal!" The announcer howled through the stadium speakers as the Arsenal fans erupted.

1-1.

Equalizer.

Arthur closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. He didn't slam a water bottle, didn't punch the air, but the twitch in his cheek betrayed the storm inside.

He turned to the bench, muttering to no one in particular, "Alright, Fabregas. That was clever. I'll give you that one."

In the commentary booth, Norman finally spoke again.

"Well, Leeds United played with fire," he said with a sigh. "And now they've been burned."

Eddie Gray was still groaning softly. "They were so close. One second of hesitation. One clever trick. That's all it takes in the Premier League."

Down on the pitch, Van Persie ran toward the corner flag, fist in the air, chased by jubilant teammates. Fabregas followed, cool as ever, like a magician bowing after the final act.

The game was now level. And the next move belonged to Arthur.