The sky was a low, silvery grey by the time Arsenal's coach turned onto Wharfside Way, escorted by motorbikes, flanked by stadium staff clearing the last of the matchday congestion.
There wasn't much left to say.
Inside the coach, the energy was focused.
No chatter, no music through speakers—just each man locked into his own rhythm.
In the back row, Izan didn't even blink as the stadium came into view.
The window's reflection held his face faintly, like a ghost and beyond it, the shadow of Old Trafford loomed.
Inside, over 70,000 people waited—some hopeful, some afraid, most simply curious.
History might have favoured the red devils, but Arsenal weren't just visitors anymore.
They were contenders.
The bus pulled in through the players' entrance—familiar, massive, grimy in a way that made it feel heavier than just bricks and badge.
The engine cut and the doors hissed open.
Cameras snapped instantly.
