Izan's lips curved into the smallest of smirks, nodding at the winger before turning back to the Norwegian in front of him.
Ødegaard straightened, the faintest laugh leaving his throat.
"Remember what you said," he reminded him, tapping Izan's shoulder.
"Not even to draw. To win it."
For a heartbeat, the words lingered heavier than the roar around them.
Izan gave no long speech, just that smirk, the one of a boy who had promised something that seemed impossible at the moment, and who would now try to drag the whole stadium through fire to prove it.
Behind them, the Kop was raging, their chants accusing Arsenal of time-wasting, the noise swelling into boos.
The referee strode across briskly, gesturing firmly for Ødegaard to leave the pitch.
The Norwegian jogged off, waving once towards the away end.
At the same moment, Jakub Kiwior stepped on, jogging quickly into a defensive slot.
Arsenal's intent was clear now: survive, but with their jewel standing front and centre.
