Pii, Piii, Piiiii.
The whistle was still echoing when the first red shirt broke from the touchline.
A rush of bodies followed, players, coaches, substitutes, every soul in Arsenal colours streaming onto the pitch like a red tide.
The noise wasn't just loud anymore; it was physical, something you could feel pressing against your ribs.
"There it is. They have had to wait for their time, but it is their time and it is their year!" the commentator's voice thundered over the pandemonium.
"From bottlers to World Champions, Arsenal are the Club World Cup winners."
The bench had flooded the grass, substitutes leaping into the air, arms waving, colliding into teammates who barely had time to brace.
Saka, who had been taken off in the latter stages of the game, jumped onto Izan's back, ruffling the hair of the youngster, while just beside them, Rice, chest-bumped Odegaard.
