[Colney]
The pitch was half-cleared, half-iced.
Groundskeepers had done their best to push the snow to the corners, but the air still bit every time it moved.
The wind carried a wet chill, the kind that crept into joints before warm-ups even began.
Inside the gym, the heat was up, but the cold still clung to the glass walls.
Condensation hugged the windows where breath met frost.
Outside, the flurry hadn't stopped falling.
Light, constant, quiet.
And inside?
There was movement, but not noise.
The Arsenal squad moved through their circuits, trainers monitoring heart rates, coaches calling out intervals—but underneath it all, there was a tension that wasn't there yesterday.
Eyes flicked toward Izan in passing.
Nothing direct.
Nothing confrontational.
But subtle.
A few glances that lingered half a second longer than they needed to.
A quiet conversation that stopped just as he entered the room.
Players pretending not to look.
But they were looking.
And Izan?
