Four days later, the lights over the Camping World Stadium burned like molten stars.
The air had weight to it, something that was well represented in the quarter finals or the last eight of any sports.
Red and white flags rippled along one half of the crowd, green and maroon along the other, the sound of both sets of supporters building and breaking like the tide.
This wasn't just another game; it was a collision of stories, Arsenal, ruthless and reborn, against the dreamers from Rio who'd danced their way into history.
The camera panned across the Arsenal lineup, catching the faces of players in their final warm-ups.
Izan stood near the halfway line, his eyes fixed on the far stand as he adjusted the body tube and sleeves beneath his shirt.
You could almost see his pulse in his jawline, the same quiet fire from Wembley, from Madrid, from Munich, from every stage he'd been told was too big.
