After the medical team rushed onto the pitch to attend to him, they managed to temporarily stop Marco Reus's nosebleed with a combination of cotton packing and a cold compress to the bridge of his nose. Reus then staggered to his feet, his head still buzzing from the impact.
For the first time in his young career, he felt like he had genuinely risked his life—or at least his nasal cartilage—to score a goal. His brace against Werder Bremen in the previous fixture had earned him the starting left winger spot today, a reward for his clinical finishing and tireless work rate. He didn't expect the goal to come so suddenly, and certainly not at the cost of his face. It was both painful and joyful in equal measure.
"Jin, good pass," Reus said, his voice slightly nasal from the packing. "But maybe don't pass it quite like that next time. My face can't take another one."
"Is it possible," Nuri Şahin interjected, a knowing smirk spreading across his face, "that Jin was actually trying to shoot, but it was just too off target?"
Şahin had found the blind spot, and he knew it.
"No, no," Mats Hummels cut in, shaking his head with the authority of a man who had already made up his mind about the universe. "Jin definitely wanted to pass. Look at that tricky passing lane he found, threading it through the gaps to reach Marco. That was intentional. Right, Jin?"
Hummels was deluding himself, but he preferred to believe that Jin Hayes was a selfless playmaker rather than a forward with a broken shooting mechanism.
"Yes, yes, that's exactly right," Jin Hayes agreed shamelessly, nodding with exaggerated sincerity. "I was absolutely trying to pass to Marco. One hundred percent intentional."
Nuri Şahin remained half-convinced but decided not to dig any deeper. There was no point in ruining a good moment with too much honesty. Anyway, a goal was a good thing. An opening goal less than twenty minutes into the first half gave Borussia Dortmund the initiative, bringing them one step closer to their Champions League qualification goal. With the way the Bundesliga table was shaping up, every point mattered.
Unfortunately, Wolfsburg was not a team to be underestimated.
Jin Hayes had always harbored a quiet premonition about this Wolfsburg side. They were stronger than most people gave them credit for, possessing the kind of balanced squad that could genuinely contend for the Bundesliga title within the next two seasons. The twin strikers—Grafite and Edin Džeko—formed one of the most formidable attacking partnerships in the entire league. Grafite's physical presence and clever hold-up play, combined with Džeko's aerial prowess and clinical finishing, made them a nightmare for any backline.
And Borussia Dortmund's defense, still young and prone to lapses in concentration, was particularly vulnerable. Even after being battered and reshuffled throughout the campaign, Dick Fuhren's current back four simply couldn't contain the explosive chemistry between Wolfsburg's two marksmen.
"Edin Džekoooooooo—"
The stadium announcer's voice echoed across the PA system, dripping with disappointment.
"The Bosnian super striker with the header! Westfalen Stadium has fallen silent!"
"With a brilliant connection between Grafite and Džeko, Wolfsburg has powerfully equalized the score!"
Inside various bars and pubs scattered throughout Dortmund, countless fans looked up at the television screens, watching the opponent's celebration in green and white. Their hearts, which had just settled into a comfortable rhythm, now leaped back into their throats. The familiar anxiety of the Bundesliga run-in returned with a vengeance.
Fans in the home stands clutched their heads in frustration. The last four rounds had been nothing but tough battles, each match a knife-edge affair that left supporters emotionally drained. They were constantly on edge, riding every tackle and every shot as if their own lives depended on it.
However, looking out at the young players on the pitch—Hummels marshaling the defense with growing authority, Nuri Şahin pulling strings in midfield, Jin Hayes darting along the flank, and Marco Reus still running despite his battered nose—the fans maintained sufficient confidence. They had witnessed something special brewing in this squad. They could even come back from a 0-3 deficit to win 5-4 in the previous round. That kind of resilience didn't just disappear.
Nothing could break this team. Nothing.
….
The 1-1 scoreline from the first half held stubbornly until the 86th minute.
Both sides remained locked in a stalemate around the midfield third, cancelling each other out with tactical discipline and physical intensity. Felix Magath, Wolfsburg's notoriously demanding coach, had set up his defensive structure specifically to neutralize Jin Hayes. Every time the young playmaker received the ball, he found himself immediately surrounded by two or three white shirts, with precious little deep space to exploit. Without room to accelerate into, his trademark explosive breakthroughs were difficult to execute. Whenever he beat one defender with a drop of the shoulder or a quick change of direction, another would immediately step up to hold him back, grabbing at his shirt or leaning into his frame.
Although his physique had been strengthened in recent weeks—the second exchange still manifesting in subtle but noticeable ways—the frequent confrontations and tactical fouls still consumed an enormous amount of energy. His lungs burned, and his legs felt heavier with each passing minute. On the few occasions he managed to create chances, squirming free of his markers to deliver a cutback or a through ball, his teammates couldn't capitalize. Fatigue had dulled everyone's sharpness.
Borussia Dortmund's players had been forced to devote most of their attention to defensive duties, as Džeko and Grafite's relentless attacking movement kept them perpetually overwhelmed. Every Wolfsburg foray forward felt dangerous, requiring total concentration to repel. It was a classic case of both sides successfully neutralizing the opponent's strongest weapons, leaving the match gridlocked and seemingly destined for a frustrating draw.
As time dwindled and the prospect of dropped points loomed larger, the fans in the stands gradually grew restless. A nervous energy crackled through the Westfalenstadion.
"Should we sing that one?" a voice called out from deep within the Yellow Black Prussia section.
"Yes! Now's the time!"
"No problem, the players on the pitch need our strength. Jin needs to hear our voices!"
Among the loyal supporters in the famous terrace, a discussion had been brewing for weeks. They had been preparing a secret weapon, something special crafted specifically for this moment. Uncle Hans was among them, his weathered face split by an enthusiastic grin. He had been involved in the planning sessions at the pub, arguing over lyrics and melody choices. Because this secret weapon was directly related to Jin Hayes.
"Who's going to start it off?"
"I will."
Old Man Fritz rose shakily to his feet. His joints creaked, and his back wasn't what it used to be, but his voice remained strong. He had followed Borussia Dortmund for decades, through triumphs and relegations, through the glory of the 90s and the financial brinkmanship of the 2000s. Yellow and black had long since merged into his very bloodstream. When the team needed a spark, he stepped up without a moment's hesitation.
Fritz cleared his throat, drew a deep breath, and began to sing.
The melody was instantly recognizable—"Am Borsigplatz geboren," one of the club's most beloved anthems, a song that every Dortmund supporter knew by heart. But the lyrics were new, crafted with care by the faithful in the stands.
"He came from far away to wear the yellow and black!"
"Under the famous banner, there is no turning back!"
"Every touch a whirlwind, every dribble makes them fall!"
"He is the boy with magic feet, he answers every call!"
"Control and close evasion, a nutmeg on the line!"
"He tears apart defenses, time after time!"
"Jin Hayes! Jin Hayes—Westfalen sings for you!"
On the pitch, Jin Hayes was still making relentless off-ball runs, darting between defenders and searching for any weakness in Wolfsburg's rigid defensive block. As Borussia Dortmund's players faced the visitors' solid shape, momentarily lost for ideas and running out of steam...
A rousing chorus gradually rose from the South Stand.
The melody was familiar, and the catchy, repetitive lyrics meant that the thousands of fans on site could almost immediately pick up the words and join in. At first, it was only the South Stand, the beating heart of Dortmund's support. But after just one round of the chorus, the singing spread like wildfire, leaping from section to section until it engulfed the entire stadium in a wall of sound.
The shocking chorus of eighty thousand voices echoed over the Westfalenstadion. Without any formal introduction or announcement over the PA system, everyone understood instinctively that this was Jin Hayes's exclusive song—the Song of Jin Hayes.
"It's hard to imagine," commentator Mehmet Scholl said, genuine wonder in his voice, "that a young player on loan, someone who hasn't even completed a full season with the club, is already so beloved by these supporters. This is truly remarkable."
The guest commentator, former Germany national team legend and AC Milan striker Oliver Bierhoff, was equally taken aback. "I played for AC Milan for four seasons and won the Scudetto, and I never received treatment quite like this," Bierhoff admitted. "Jin Hayes is truly a magical young man. There is something special happening here."
In the South Stand, young Heinrich was the most animated of all, singing at the top of his lungs with a fervor that bordered on religious ecstasy. Aunt Maria was practically jumping up and down, her soprano voice cutting through the din with piercing clarity. Under the infectious, almost overwhelming atmosphere, even Anna—who usually preferred to watch quietly, her emotions guarded—found herself mouthing along to the lyrics, then singing softly, then belting them out with everyone else.
"Jin, do you hear that? Go for it!" she thought, her heart pounding.
….
"This is... my song?"
As Jin Hayes gradually made out the lyrics floating down from the terraces, an indescribable emotion surged through his chest. It was a feeling he couldn't quite name—gratitude mixed with pressure, joy tinged with a fierce determination. He was still technically on loan. There was no guarantee he would even be playing here next season; his future remained uncertain, subject to negotiations between clubs and the whims of football's transfer market.
Yet the fans treated him like this. They trusted him this much. They had written a song for him.
Regardless of what happened next season, regardless of where his career path might lead, Jin Hayes made a silent vow in that moment: at least in this match, in these final minutes, he would not allow these supporters to be disappointed. He owed them that much.
The singing transformed into tangible courage, an invisible buff to his already considerable attributes. Jin Hayes, who had been running for nearly eighty minutes and felt the familiar burn of exhaustion in every muscle fiber, was suddenly burning with renewed fighting spirit. The fatigue didn't disappear—his legs still ached—but it no longer mattered. Something deeper was driving him now.
"Hey!! Over here!"
Seeing Nuri Şahin win possession in Dortmund's own half, spotting a flicker of space and a potential counter-attacking opportunity, Jin Hayes decisively raised his arm and called for the ball. His voice cut through the noise of the crowd.
"Go on!"
Şahin had been scanning the attacking third, waiting for exactly this moment. As soon as he saw Jin Hayes find a pocket of space near the right touchline, the Turkish international didn't hesitate. He wound up and delivered a raking long pass, sending the ball arcing toward the flank with precision.
"Defend! Get back and defend!"
Wolfsburg coach Felix Magath frantically waved his arms on the sideline, urging his players to track back and close down Jin Hayes. But his shouts were swallowed by the roar of eighty thousand voices, and his players were already a step too late to react.
Felipe Santana, the Wolfsburg full-back who had just pushed forward to support the attack, could only desperately sprint back toward his own goal. His plan was simple: use his body to collide with Jin Hayes, slow him down by any means necessary. Even if it meant committing a tactical foul and taking a yellow card, he had to stop this counter-attack before it developed into something dangerous.
Under the rapt gaze of the entire stadium, Jin Hayes did not jump to contest the aerial ball, nor did he attempt to chest it down conventionally. Instead, he deliberately slowed his run by half a second, waiting until the ball was almost sailing out of bounds over the touchline. Only then did he extend his right foot, hooking the ball back into play with exquisite control.
When Felipe Santana's desperate challenge finally arrived, lunging in with his shoulder, Jin Hayes had just completed the hook and initiated a sharp change of direction. With a subtle feint of his hips, he sent Santana sliding past him harmlessly, and then instantly engaged his explosive acceleration to burst away from the defender.
"Jin!! Brilliant play!! Borussia Dortmund's counter-attack is lightning quick, Jin Hayes is advancing along the touchline!"
He was striding like a force of nature. In that moment, Jin Hayes resembled a young Kaká in his prime at AC Milan—perfect ball control at high speed, head up, scanning for options. In a flash, he had already broken into the Wolfsburg penalty area, cutting inside with purpose.
Full-back Marcel Schäfer came sliding in from the side, his studs low but his intent clear. And looming directly in front of Jin Hayes stood the imposing figure of Alexander Madlung, all 194 centimeters of him, a human wall in a white jersey.
Their pincer movement should have been foolproof, a textbook defensive trap designed to squeeze out any attacker. But they had still underestimated Jin Hayes's speed, his technical ability, and his sheer audacity.
While dribbling at full tilt, Jin Hayes executed a flashy rainbow flick—popping the ball up with his heel and flicking it over his own head and over the sliding Schäfer—to evade the tackle entirely. Then, before Madlung could react, Jin Hayes knocked the ball past the giant center-back with a deft header, changing direction mid-stride and accelerating with another explosive push. He bypassed Madlung as if the defender were standing still.
Madlung's turning radius was comparable to an aircraft carrier attempting a U-turn in a narrow canal. By the time he had frantically rotated his massive frame to give chase, Jin Hayes had already created several yards of separation and was bearing down on the goalkeeper.
The Wolfsburg players in their white away kits scrambled desperately, rushing back toward their own goal like a horde of panicked defenders in a zombie film.
But just as Jin Hayes seemed poised to shoot from a tight angle, and goalkeeper Simon Jentzsch rushed out to close down the near post and narrow the angle, the young midfielder did something completely unexpected.
He wrapped his right foot behind his standing left leg and delivered a rabona cross.
"What?!"
"This can't be..."
"A rabona?! Here?!"
If this were a Japanese anime, the scene would have cut immediately to close-up reaction shots of various Wolfsburg players, their faces frozen in exaggerated shock. The entire Wolfsburg defense stood dumbfounded, completely wrong-footed by the audacity of the skill.
The ball curled wickedly through the air, bypassing the frozen defenders and landing perfectly near the penalty spot.
"Christoph—Nothe!!!!!"
With star striker Alexander Frei sidelined through injury, and main target man Diego Klimowicz having been substituted off earlier in the half, Fuhren had turned to an unlikely option. Christoph Nothe, just twenty years old, a fringe forward who had appeared only three times all season and had never recorded a single goal or assist in professional competition, found himself in the right place at the right time.
He didn't have to think. He didn't have to adjust. The ball arrived at his feet as if delivered by a courier service, and Nothe simply swung his boot through it.
The net rippled.
He had unexpectedly tasted his first professional goal, and it was the crucial winning goal against Wolfsburg. A perfect, defense-shattering assist from the team's key player, Jin Hayes.
It didn't matter who was on the receiving end. It didn't matter how much of a fringe player they were, whether they were hungry for goals or just happy to be on the pitch. Jin Hayes would force-feed the ball to you, serving up chances on a silver platter.
"Winning goal!!! Borussia Dortmund's winning goal!"
"In the 87th minute of the match, the Yellow Black counter-attack results in a goal!"
"The miracle continues! The boy with magic feet is still carrying this team forward on his young shoulders!"
As Christoph Nothe wheeled away in disbelief, mobbed by his overjoyed teammates, yellow flags waved wildly throughout the stadium. The home fans were absolutely ecstatic, their singing reaching a fever pitch.
On the Wolfsburg bench, coach Felix Magath slumped powerlessly in his coaching chair, his expression a mixture of frustration and reluctant admiration. He slowly removed his black-rimmed glasses and began wiping them absentmindedly on the sleeve of his expensive suit, staring at nothing in particular.
"This kid..." Magath muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Hey. He's truly something special."
Felix Magath was not a man who admired players easily or often. He was a disciplinarian, a taskmaster who demanded absolute conformity to his tactical systems. He was particularly skeptical of young flair players, and perhaps even more skeptical of players from outside the traditional European football powerhouses.
But this time, the performance of the young loanee had left Magath speechless. There was nothing to criticize, nothing to scheme against. Sometimes a player was simply unplayable.
"I hope I can play against you again next season," Magath thought, a rare flicker of genuine respect crossing his stern features. "Wherever you end up."