The final test concluded, and Izan wiped his face with a towel. His breathing was still controlled as if the grueling dical examination had been nothing more than a warm-up.
The tension in the room hadn't dissipated—if anything, it had thickened.
The murmurs among the dical staff had turned into quiet exchanges, cautious glances directed at the screens displaying Izan's test results.
Mikel Arteta, arms crossed, watched in silence before finally motioning to a few of the doctors. "Step outside with ."
The mont they were out of Izan's earshot, Arteta turned to the group, his tone low but firm.
"Be honest with . Are these numbers natural?"
A pause. A few of the doctors exchanged glances, clearly uncertain. One of them finally cleared his throat.
"It's… difficult to say."
Another doctor, shifting uncomfortably, added, "We've never seen numbers like these from a player who just ca off vacation.
His endurance levels are sothing you'd expect at peak mid-season form, not now."
Arteta's expression didn't change. He wasn't a stranger to elite athletes, nor to the extres so went to in pursuit of an edge. His voice dropped even lower.
"Has he taken anything?"
The silence stretched.
Before any of them could answer, the door to the dical room opened, and the head of the dical departnt walked in.
He had been overseeing another player's rehabilitation and had only now gotten a proper look at the reports. Without hesitation, he shook his head.
"No. He's clean."
Arteta turned to him, watching carefully. "You're sure?"
The doctor exhaled, stepping closer to the screen. "If he had taken performance enhancers, we'd see clear markers—disruptions in his hormonal balance, irregular oxygen uptake levels, muscle inflammation beyond normal thresholds. There's none of that."
He tapped on the screen, pointing at specific paraters.
"His body's not reacting like soone who's artificially boosted. It's reacting like soone who's built for this. A genetic anomaly, maybe. But not unnatural."
Arteta didn't respond imdiately. He stared at the data for a mont longer before the doctor straightened, offering a small shrug.
"He's simply a beast of nature."
Arteta exhaled through his nose. The weight of that statent lingered between them.
He glanced towards the room where Izan sat, speaking quietly with Miranda and Henry.
His posture was relaxed, but Arteta could see it now—the coiled energy beneath the surface, the controlled intensity in how he moved, the way his body operated at a level beyond normal limits.
Not manufactured. Not altered.
Just built different.
Arteta nodded. "Alright."
With that, he turned on his heel and walked back inside.
...…
With the dicals completed, the doctors gave the final green light, and the atmosphere shifted.
The uncertainty that had clouded the room monts ago was gone. Now, everything moved with precision—the formalities of sealing a top signing.
Izan stepped out of the dical room, greeted by he head doctor. Miranda, ever the professional, checked her phone before nodding. "That's done. Now, we move to the paperwork."
Arteta, who had remained silent for most of the process, finally stepped forward. He looked at Izan, eyes sharp but unreadable. "You ready?"
Izan t his gaze. "Of course."
A brief pause—then Arteta gave a small nod, motioning for them to move forward.
They exited the dical wing and stepped into the club's inner offices.
Arsenal's dia and legal teams were already in position.
The next steps were routine but essential: signing the contract, dia obligations, and, of course, the long-anticipated club announcent.
The contract signing ca first.
Inside a sleek, well-lit room, Izan took his seat at a long table. Docunts were spread before him, neatly organized.
Arsenal's director of football, along with key club representatives, sat opposite him.
Miranda sat by his side, carefully scanning through every clause, though most had already been settled in prior negotiations.
When the final paper was placed before him, Izan didn't hesitate. He picked up the pen, scrawled his signature, and sealed his move to Arsenal.
A handshake followed—Arteta first, then the club officials, then Miranda.
The mont was captured by caras in the room, images that would soon flood Arsenal's official channels and social dia.
Next ca the official photos and videos.
Izan changed into a full Arsenal kit, the No. 10 printed on the back. He stood before the club's emblem, caras flashing as he posed with the jersey, a signature smirk on his face.
A short video followed, with him simply stating, "I'm here."
Behind the scenes, Arsenal's social dia team worked rapidly. They knew the weight of this signing.
The graphics were pre-made, the captions pre-written. Monts later, a tweet went live:
"The wait is over. Welco to Arsenal, Izan."
The engagent exploded instantly.
anwhile, Izan was led towards another area—one final step before his unveiling at the Emirates. The first eting with his new teammates.
....
After the contract was signed and the official dia duties were completed, Izan was led toward the heart of the training ground—the locker room.
This was the mont that made a transfer feel real: stepping into the squad, eting new teammates, and finding his place in an already well-structured team.
As the door swung open, the atmosphere inside was lively but controlled.
A few players were already gathered, so sitting on the benches, others standing, engaged in casual conversations.
When Izan stepped in, the talking slowed—not in an awkward way, but with the natural curiosity that ca with a high-profile signing.
Jorginho was the first to approach. The Italian midfielder was one of the more vocal leaders in the squad, and he carried himself with the confidence of soone who had seen it all.
He extended a hand, his expression warm yet appraising.
"Welco to Arsenal, my friend."
Izan took the handshake firmly and, to the surprise of a few, responded in fluent English.
"Thanks, man. Happy to be here."
A few heads turned at that. Though most knew Izan had played in Spain, the ease with which he spoke English was unexpected.
Jorginho raised an eyebrow, visibly impressed.
"Your English is good."
Izan smirked slightly. "Gotta be ready for everything, right?"
A chuckle spread through the room. The ice had been broken.
More players ca up next. Martin Ødegaard, the captain, introduced himself with a firm handshake, his tone friendly yet serious.
"Good to have you here, man. Looking forward to playing with you."
Bukayo Saka, ever the energetic presence, leaned in. "Nah, we need to see how sharp you are first."
A few laughs followed, but the underlying ssage was clear. Respect was given, but it had to be earned.
And then, Declan Rice stepped up. His grin was wide, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Ahh, here he is! The Heartbreaker."
Izan raised an eyebrow, but Rice wasn't done. He patted his chest, feigning an exaggerated sigh.
"You know, I've had a tough sumr, mate. I thought bringing it ho was finally happening. And then…" His hand gestured toward Izan, his eyes narrowing in mock disappointnt. "You. Ruined. Everything."
The room erupted in laughter. Saka clapped his hands, Ødegaard shook his head with a knowing smirk, and even the usually reserved Ben White let out a chuckle.
Izan, completely unfazed, tilted his head slightly.
"You played well, man," he said with a shrug. "Just not well enough."
That earned a few "Oooohs" from the squad, with Rice doubling over dramatically.
"Nahhh, that's cold!" he laughed, pointing at Izan. "I can't wait to kick you in training."
Izan chuckled, shaking his head. "We'll see about that."
There was a mont of understanding there—a competitor recognizing another competitor.
The introductions continued. Gabriel Jesus, Tomiyasu, Ben White, Partey, Havertz.
Each player welcod him in their own way, so with nods, others with quick jokes. It was a team with clear chemistry, and Izan was stepping into sothing strong.
As the small talk faded, Mikel Arteta entered the room, his presence imdiately commanding attention.
"Alright, everyone," he said, clapping his hands once. "We'll have plenty of ti for introductions, but Izan has sothing else to get to."
That was the cue. The unveiling at the Emirates awaited.
With one last glance around the room, Izan exhaled and followed the coaching staff out.
The real journey was just beginning
...
The convoy pulled up outside the Emirates, and even before Izan stepped out, he could hear them.
The low hum of thousands of voices—restless, eager, waiting.
Arsenal had kept everything tight-lipped, no leaks, no advance teasers. Yet sohow, word had spread like wildfire.
As he walked through the tunnel, flanked by club officials, the energy beca palpable.
The stadium wasn't just half full. It was more than that—and growing. Fans continued streaming in, filling the stands, the lower tiers packed while the upper levels saw clusters growing by the second.
So waved Spanish flags, others had homade banners welcoming him. And despite the sheer number of people, the Emirates was silent.
Holding its breath.
And then—
Izan stepped onto the pitch.
A/n: sorry for being late with this one. I was down with a cold since the morning so I couldnt write anything. Anyways Have fun reading
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