Chapter 478: Symphony In Red And White
The scoreboard read 3â1.
The Etihad read something else entirely.
Grief. Resignation. And disbelief.
The sound was strange now, not silence, but something quieter than silence: the sound of people standing still in a stadium built for thunder.
Izanâs scissor-kick celebration was still echoing in minds, not mouths.
It had knocked the oxygen out of one half of Manchester.
And then they began.
Home fans, trailing out of the stadium.
Rows of sky blue, peeling away in linesâparents dragging kids by the wrist, grandads muttering under their breath, and teenagers too embarrassed to meet anyoneâs eyes.
Some left with curses.
Others without a word.
One old man shook his head as he trudged up the steps.
âSeen it all. But not like this,â he mumbled to no one.
Near the halfway line, a steward radioed into his headset.
âTheyâre pouring out the South Stand,â he said.
âCould be thousands already.â
The game had resumed, but the fans hadnât. Not fully.
They were stuck in the before.
Before Izan launched himself like a missile.
Before Arsenal reminded everyone that this was no flukeâit was a statement.
And Pep Guardiolaânormally kinetic, mouth running, arms slicing airâwas frozen.
He stood with both hands in his pockets, jaw clenched so hard his cheek twitched.
He didnât speak.
He didnât need to.
His players understood.
The message was coded into his stillness: We donât chase this now. We need to survive it.
From the touchline, he motioned twice, short chopping gestures, palm down. Pull back. Rein in. Keep the shape. No wild pressing. No five-man fronts.
Minimize the damage.
The warâs not winnableâbut the wreckage doesnât have to be total.
And thatâs what they did.
Cityâs shape changed subtly.
Gvardiol and Walker no longer overcommitted.
Kovacic stayed anchored like a sandbag while Bernardo Silva tracked back so deep he nearly stepped on Diasâs toes.
But even in this defensive posture, there was no sense of structure. Only reaction.
Arsenal were playing with house money now, and they knew it.
They didnât attack with greed.
They attacked with intent. Measured.
Like a boxer whoâs already knocked his opponent down and is now jabbing just enough to keep them guessing, hurting, and humiliated.
The ball zipped.
From Timber to Partey.
Partey to Rice.
Rice to Izan, who had slowed down but not let up.
He wasnât overly darting now.
He was drifting.
A conductor with full command of the orchestra.
Floating into space.
Checking over his shoulder once, twice, then turning out of pressure like gravity didnât apply to him.
And then heâd release it. One pass. Nothing fancy. But always the right one.
The crowd moaned with every completed triangle.
By the 74th minute, some City fans were clapping sarcastically.
Others just stared at the pitch like it was a horror film.
On the Arsenal bench, Arteta stood with his arms folded, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Carlos Cuesta said something to himâsomething about keeping Timber tucked in tighterâbut Arteta didnât respond.
His eyes were on the pitch.
On Izan. On what this meant to him as a manager.
Because it wasnât just a lead. It was control. It was breaking out of a shadow, one so deeply crafted and prominent as Pepâs.
And thisâthis slow, rhythmic possessionâwasnât about scoring again.
It was about reminding City who theyâd let back into the title conversation.
And Arsenal? They werenât just back.
They were loud.
Druryâs voice came low, reverent:
âSometimes a team doesnât just win.
Sometimes, they narrate the game.
And Arsenal, tonight, are the storytellers.â
The ball made its way to Saka on the right again.
He didnât sprint. He just held it, walked it back a few paces, then passed it inside to Rice.
Rice squared it to Calafiori. Left to Martinelli. Back again.
The City players chased.
Slowly. Mechanically.
But their lungs were burning, and their hearts werenât in it.
Up in the stands, another wave of supporters left.
This time, even from the middle tiers.
A father and son duo lingered near the aisle.
The son, maybe ten, wore a Haaland shirt two sizes too big. He asked, âWhy are they leaving, Dad?â
The father didnât answer.
Just took his hand and walked.
Back on the pitch, the game flared briefly.
In the 85th minute, Haaland dropped deep, far too deep, and tried to link with Kovacic.
But the pass was heavy. Timber intercepted.
Raya, sensing the rhythm, immediately rushed to offer a short outlet.
Arsenal reset again. One-touch. Two-touch. Keepaway at its cruelest.
Beglin, almost sympathetically, muttered:
âYou donât often see a Guardiola team pinned like this. Theyâre not just being beaten. Theyâre being out-thought.â
And thenâone last moment.
The 88th minute.
Martinelli again found space on the left.
He cut inside, toyed with Walker, then chipped a curling diagonal toward the back post.
Saka arrived. Chested it.
Dropped it back for Havertz.
And Havertzâcalm as you likeâpassed it wide again to Timber, who pulled it back across goal.
Izan waited in the space, but he didnât shoot.
And just laid it off to Rice.
Rice wound upâbut faked, stepped through, and just kept possession.
It was theatre.
The Arsenal fans behind the goal chanted, âOlĂ©! OlĂ©! OlĂ©!â with each pass.
By now, even Ederson looked resigned.
He stood flat-footed.
No tension in the legs. Just watching.
This was no longer about football.
It was about control.
About cruelty, in its most elegant form.
The final whistle blew.
3â1.
But it felt like more.
The Etihad had already emptied, leaving behind the hollow echo of seats snapping back into place and a few hardcore fans.
On the pitch, Izan raised one armâjust onceâbefore jogging toward the bench with the look of someone who had just finished a masterclass.
Guardiola didnât look at him. He couldnât
But Arteta did.
And smiled.
âŠ
The studio lights were warm, the backdrop behind the desk cycling through full-time stats.
Scoreline bold: Man City 1 â 3 Arsenal.
A freeze-frame of Izan mid-airâlegs scissored, eyes locked on the ballâhung behind them like a Renaissance painting of violence.
Gary Lineker leaned forward, arms folded on the desk.
His expression was part awe, part disbelief
âWell. That⊠was something. Arsenal didnât just beat City tonight. They took the Etihad, rewrote the script, and handed it back to Guardiola with a signature at the bottom.â
Alan Shearer chuckled, nodding.
âIt was controlled, from an Arteta side which almost seemed to like chaos and mainly thrived in it, but today was just sad.
And that goalâfrom IzanâI mean, come on. Thatâs the kind of finish you dream of. A scissor like that? In a game like this?â
Alex Scott leaned in, eyebrows raised.
âAnd itâs not just the goalâitâs when he did it. That third was a dagger. It wasnât just skill, it was cold-blooded timing.
You look at his positioning all game, the way he dropped deep, created overloads, kept City guessingâand then boom. Picks his moment and steals the show. Thatâs world-class. The Kid is going to stadiums and owning them. Bergamo, same thing, and now Manchester..â
Micah Richards, who seemed to be enjoying his guest appearance on the BBC show, jumped in.
âListen, I rate the kid, yeah? We all know heâs one of the best at the moment. Good on the ball. Smart. But I didnât know he had that in him!â
âThatâs not just tekkers. Thatâs showman stuff. Thatâs a highlight-reel moment you frame and hang in your living room. I saw it and just went: âNo way thatâs Izan!'â
Lineker smiled, tapping his cue card.
âMicah, you played with some big characters at City. How do you think that dressing roomâs feeling after something like that?â
Micah sat back, sighed dramatically.
âWounded, mate. Absolutely wounded. You could see itâthe fans started leaving before full-time. That tells you everything. They were outclassed.
Pep went full damage control after that third. And look, heâs a genius, but I think he met a greater one on the pitch today.â
Shearer, nodding, âAnd letâs not pretend this was fluke or smash-and-grab. Arsenal controlled the tempo, pressed at the right times, and defended like a unit. Saliba and Rice? Monsters.â he said, pausing slightly.
âBut the kidâIzan Hernandezâhe was the conductor. Dictated everything. Slowed it down, sped it up. And then capped it with a goal thatâll live in highlight reels forever.â
Scott added with a grin:
âAnd did you see the celebration after the goal? I meanâcome on. Thatâs theatre. And he earned it. Totally earned it.â
Lineker turned toward the camera now, voice dropping slightly into the serious-but-smiling tone heâd mastered over the years.
âA statement win from Arsenal. A star-making night for Izan. City looked mortal. And the title race? Even though itâs still early, it just got a fresh twist.â
The screen behind them flashed highlightsâSaka dancing past Gvardiol, Salibaâs blocks, and of course, that goal from Izan.
Overhead angle. Full scissor. Net rippling. Etihad silent.
Micah muttered again, just loud enough to catch, âStill canât believe he did thatâŠâ
And the whole desk chuckled as the night encroached.
A/n: Sorry guys, had a blackout the whole day. Still having it but I thinks itâs just our street cause other homes have it. Anyways sorry for the late update. This is the last of the previous day so Iâll sort you out for the days own in the morning. Have fun reading and Iâll see you.
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