As the players stepped out into the corridor that led to the pitch, the murmur of the fans cracked into a full, fevered roar.
Izan blinked as the first drops hit his brow.
Cold. Sharp.
The sky had opened just in time.
And then—it began to fall heavier.
Not a drizzle anymore.
Rain, real rain. Sheets of it.
The kind that slicked the grass like oil and sent steam rising from the turf under the stadium lights.
The players emerged.
The Emirates roared again.
Izan squinted up once, the rain tracing down his cheeks like it was drawing lines on a canvas.
He pulled his shoulders back and walked into the storm as the ones who had come for a show, waited for one.
...…
45+1,
The breath that escaped Izan's mouth turned to mist before it even cleared his lips.
Cold.
Dense.
The kind of air that clung to your lungs and settled in your bones.
