The moment Izan stepped into the hall, the shift was instant.
The velvet-rope polish of the red carpet fell away, replaced by something richer and richer.
Almost, anticipatory.
The kind of hush that wasn't silence—it was reverence.
Deep inside the Théâtre du Châtelet, chandeliers shimmered overhead, their gold fixtures catching light like a constellation frozen mid-breath.
The seating was already filling, tiers of velvet seats wrapping around the stage in a horseshoe of anticipation.
Legends mingled in tailored suits.
Managers stood chatting at the edges.
A row of former Ballon d'Or winners posed for photos off to one side—Cannavaro, Kaká, Shevchenko, Zidane.
Izan strolled down the aisle, Miranda by his side.
His eyes scanned the row numbers as ushers led them forward—but before he could find his place, someone called his name.
"Izan."
The voice was soft, steady, and familiar.
Lamine Yamal stood three rows ahead, arm extended in celebratory welcome.
