The parade had reached its final stop, a vast open square that glowed red and white under the setting sun.
A massive stage stood at the far end, draped in Arsenal banners and LED screens looping highlights from the season.
Thousands had packed into the square, spilling out into nearby streets, their voices hoarse but unbroken.
The air slled of smoke flares and sumr heat.
When the open-top bus finally pulled up, the noise was deafening.
The players stepped down one by one, waving to the sea of fans as their nas were announced.
The cheer for each was loud, but when they called "Izan Miura Hernández!", the ground itself seed to tremble.
Arteta led the team onto the stage, his smile tired but full, the expression of a man whose faith had finally been rewarded.
The trophies glead behind them, four of them, lined in a row like an impossible dream made real.
The MC handed Arteta the mic first, who looked out at the crowd, pausing for a mont as if taking it all in.
"What can I say?" he began, his voice steady but emotional.
"You’ve all lived this with us. The ups, the downs, the heartbreaks, the rebuilds. You trusted us when it wasn’t easy to."
The crowd cheered.
So fans near the front raised banners that read "Trust the Process", the phrase that had beco both a punchline and a prophecy.
Arteta smiled, shaking his head slightly at the banner after spotting it.
"I told you we were building sothing... but even I didn’t imagine it would be this soon."
The cheer rose again.
"This," he said, gesturing behind him to the trophies, "belongs to all of you."
He paused, turning slightly.
"Now... there’s soone I think you want to hear from more than ."
The fans already knew who, as Izan stepped forward, the mic passed into his hand, and the chants started instantly — rhythmic, echoing across the square.
"I-ZAN! I-ZAN! I-ZAN!"
He waited until it cald just a little, his gaze drifting across the crowd, the flares, the flags, the faces, before he began.
"You know," he said, voice calm, a small smile tugging at his mouth, "I still rember the day of my unveiling."
The crowd hushed.
"I said sothing then," Izan continued, glancing back at the trophies.
"I said we’d win the Premier League... and the Champions League within three years."
A ripple of laughter and disbelief moved through the fans.
"I rember the reaction, too," Izan went on.
"So people said it was overconfidence. Others said it was the weight of the transfer fee getting to ."
A few cheers broke through.
He chuckled softly.
"And a lot of you, well, let’s be honest, you’d been trusting the process for years. You’d seen second place. You’d seen heartbreak. And I know what the world called you then..."
He paused.
"...’Bottlers.’ ’Nearly n.’ ’Second place kings.’"
The words hung heavy for a mont.
Even the crowd quieted, the cheers dying down until the silence felt almost reverent.
Izan nodded slowly.
"It was hard to believe back then, wasn’t it?"
He turned and took a few steps back, letting the full line of trophies gleam behind him.
The Champions League trophy, the newest and brightest of them all, sat in the centre, its silver edges catching the light.
Then he looked back at the fans, voice rising with a grin that broke into sothing else entirely.
"But now that it’s right here in front of you..." he said, pointing to the trophies, "are you still going to stay quiet?"
The roar that followed could’ve shaken the sky.
It wasn’t a chant anymore.
It was a scream of release, of vindication, of years of waiting paid off in full.
Izan laughed, stepping forward again as the cheers rolled over him.
"They said we weren’t in contention," he called into the mic. "Said it would take at least a year or more of adjusting for . Well, 47 goals sounds like a good adjustnt."
The crowd laughed at the latter words until Izan tilted his head toward the Champions League trophy, his grin returning.
"...But this," he said, pointing to it, "this just bought us a ticket to another one."
The realisation hit them all at once, the Club World Cup.
The square exploded again, the noise sohow even louder than before.
Behind Izan, Arteta laughed quietly, shaking his head.
"Ei, ei, don’t go there," he muttered into the mic, mostly to himself, but he was too late.
Izan raised the mic higher, voice booming through the speakers now.
"Arsenal," he bellowed, "will bring ho the Club World Cup!"
The fans scread like thunder, waving flags, jumping, and throwing shirts into the air.
Even Arteta was grinning helplessly at the chaos he’d unleashed.
But Izan wasn’t done.
He leaned slightly toward the mic again, a playful glint in his eye.
"...And after that," he said, his tone dipping into mischief, "the Super Cup is next."
The fans burst into laughter; they knew what he ant.
Tottenham had just won the Europa League.
The shade was subtle, but it hit perfectly.
Even Arteta couldn’t help laughing, covering his face with one hand.
"You’ll have to pull out all the stops for that one," he said behind him, half joking, half warning.
"Tournant’s in eleven days, you know."
Izan turned back with a grin, shrugging. "Then I guess we’d better start early."
The crowd cheered again, louder, wilder, unstoppable as the team gathered behind him, arms around each other, singing and laughing under the haze of red smoke and champagne mist.
...
Morning light crept through the blinds, thin and pale as Izan stirred, his hand brushing across the sheets before his eyes blinked open.
His head felt heavy, thick, like he’d been awake for days.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his temples.
"I didn’t even drink yesterday," he muttered under his breath, voice rough with sleep.
"So why do I feel like this?"
For a mont, he just sat there, letting the quiet hum of the room settle in.
The space beside him was empty, its sheets cool, untouched since last night.
He sighed softly, pushing himself to his feet.
His body ached in that dull, post-celebration way, feeling like he could sink any mont as he made his way towards the bathroom.
"This does not make it better," Izan said, with a brush in his mouth, before shaking his head again.
He walked back into the bathroom after he was done, turned on the shower, and then stepped under the water.
The first splash hit his skin, warm and steady, washing away what felt like the weight of a season.
Izan blinked, pressing a hand to his forehead as the water seed to calm things down.
’We’ll close class early,’ read a ssage from Olivia after he picked up his phone for the first ti that day.
After finishing and dressing, he made his way down the stairs.
Rounding the corner, he found Miranda there, standing by the couch with her phone pressed to her ear.
She was dressed for work, but her jacket hung loosely over the chair, like she hadn’t decided whether she was leaving yet.
Her tone was calm but focused.
"Yes, I understand," she said, pacing slowly. "I’ll relay it to him as soon as possible."
Her eyes lifted mid-sentence, catching Izan’s.
She hesitated only a mont before finishing the call.
"Alright. Thank you." The phone clicked off, and silence filled the space again.
Izan gave a quiet nod and drifted toward the kitchen, flip flops brushing the marbled floor.
He opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, then reached into the cupboard for a pack of gummy bears, his hand lingering on the shelf longer than usual, as if trying to decide if he really needed them.
When he ca back into view, Miranda was watching him, arms folded, one eyebrow slightly raised.
"This early?" she asked, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Izan twisted the cap off the bottle, took a sip, and shrugged.
"I need sugar," he said simply, voice still low and hoarse from sleep.
Miranda shook her head with a small laugh, watching him wander past toward the stairs again, before he turned back.
"That thing you said you’d relay," he asked, voice lazy but curious, "was it for ?"
Miranda glanced up from her phone, nodding.
"Yeah," she said lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Nothing serious, don’t worry."
Izan waited, one foot already on the next step.
"It was Arteta," she added, leaning back against the couch.
"He said you don’t need to join the squad early if you don’t want to. You’re part of the group heading to the U.S. for the Club World Cup, but... you probably won’t play most of the group matches."
Izan’s expression shifted, a faint wince flickering across his face.
"Right," he muttered, adjusting the bottle in his hand. "Okay."
He turned back toward the stairs, climbing slowly this ti, while Miranda stared on from behind him.
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