It was barely 9 a.m. and the skies over London were already the usual shade of unbothered grey.
Izan stood by the drop-off curb with his hands in his pockets, hood up, waiting alongside Lamine, who was scrolling through his phone and sipping something suspiciously sweet from a takeaway cup.
"You dressed for the Arctic or what?" Izan asked, eyeing Lamine's oversized hoodie, scarf, and the puffy black coat that looked like it had been borrowed from a mountaineering brand.
Lamine frowned as he tugged his suitcase forward.
"It's cold."
"It's London cold, not Greenland cold," Izan said, half-laughing as they walked through the polished floors of the private Heathrow terminal.
"You're not gonna survive Manchester if City ever sign you. I heard Pep's been moving around you."
Lamine rolled his eyes.
"I'd rather melt in Sevilla than freeze in that place."
