The low drone of anticipation around Villa Park shifted into a thunderous roar as the players began to reappear from the tunnel.
Arsenal came out first.
At the front, Martin Ødegaard jogged into the light, his armband snug against his sleeve, his mouth already moving as he turned his head to each side, urging his teammates into the same sharp focus they'd started the first half with.
Behind him came Saliba, Raya, Gabriel, and the rest of the squad, their expressions businesslike.
Izan followed a few paces behind, his hands on his hips, a few flecks of white strapping tape visible beneath his shirt sleeve.
His left thigh had been quickly treated again at halftime, but he wasn't limping.
He wasn't wincing.
If anything, he looked sharper—like someone who'd taken the rough tackles as a challenge.
The moment the away end caught sight of him, they erupted.
"Go on, Izan!"
"Light them up again!"
"Forget the ref—we've got you!"
