The chartered plane carrying the Arsenal team and staff touched down with a soft thrum, tires skimming across the Singapore runway before easing to a stop.
The players inside, flung to their feet as the plane seized its movement, with some saying their silent prayers and others stretching out of their sleep.
What came next was routine, with the players going through all the various checks, and after nothing out of place was found, they made their way outside, where their transportation, in the form of a long string of vans for the players and a bus for the staff, was waiting.
Once outside, Izan slid his phone from the pocket of his jacket, just as Miranda's message pinged.
"Did you get a message?" it read.
Izan frowned slightly.
"No," he typed back, glancing up at the bustling people who were staring at them, trying to get a few pictures in, before setting his head down and typing again.
"What message am I to expect?
