The hotel room was unusually quiet for a team camp night.
Still, the hum of the toned-down air conditioner mixed with the faint tick of the wall clock, but the only real sound came from the soft, uncertain movements of the club doctor, who was kneeling beside Saka's bed.
He pressed the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope to Saka's chest, his brows furrowing as he listened, once, twice, then shifting slightly to another spot.
"Deep breath for me, Bukayo," he said softly.
Saka obeyed, though even that came out ragged.
When he straightened up, he exhaled through his nose, pulling the stethoscope off.
"It could be a number of things," he muttered, half to himself, half to the small group in the room: Arteta, Carlos Cuesta by the door, and Izan standing just behind him.
"Could be dehydration from travel, or just food-related fatigue. But given how his pulse feels and that fever edge in his breathing… might be something viral. I don't want to risk it."
