[Matchday.]
The Arsenal team bus glided through the winding streets of West London, cutting a sleek silhouette against the misty Sunday sky.
Stamford Bridge loomed ahead, brick and blue banners already wrapped in noise, like a beast stirring in its lair.
Inside the bus, there was no chatter — just silence, sharp and deliberate.
Players sat spaced out, lost in their rituals.
Ødegaard sat upright with a soft gaze, headphones on, eyes locked forward.
Nwaneri leaned his head against the window, watching the people blur by — police, security, fans waving flags or giving jeers.
Izan sat in his usual seat near the back, one leg propped up, his gaze low but alive.
His hoodie was up, his headphones humming a quiet beat beneath them.
Olivia's voice note from earlier played faintly in his mind — a soft wish for good luck.
Not that he ever needed it, but coming from her, it just worked.
As the bus slowed and came to a final halt, the hum of the engine gave way to movement.
