Chapter 532: Out Of Sight

The morning air over Paris was sharp and silver, the kind that cut through jackets and made breath hang like whispers.

But it wasn’t the cold that stirred the city—it was the anticipation.

Across Europe, television anchors leaned into their desks with glossy smiles and manufactured gravity.

“And tonight,” one said on Sky Sports, “a new chapter in football history could be written. All eyes on Paris.”

ESPN had already rolled out the montage—slow-motion clips of players stepping off jets, waving to cameras, slicked in flashy attires and quiet swagger.

Rodri had arrived a few hours earlier.

Lautaro was photographed boarding his jet in Milan.

Even Haaland, quiet as ever, had been spotted entering his hotel in Paris, surrounded by his usual wall of security.

Social media was louder.

@Krackalorn:

“Haaland’s drip is outrageous. Everyone’s showing up. EVERYONE. Except one…”

@:_XYZ_

“Who Vinicius? I thought he and the other Real Madrid players had boycotted the award, or wait, Izan? No Izan footage. No flight. No boarding. Is the kid joining the Real Madrid crew to ghost the Ballon d’Or ceremony?”

@:Haterxxxx

“He knows he’s not winning. Bottle job behavior. Arteta has changed his winning mentality when he was at Valencia to second-place finishes at Arsenal.”

@Pistacho031_3:

“Watch him show up last minute like it’s prom and he owns the place.”

But as debates swirled online, Izan wasn’t reading any of it.

Not yet.

He was in the back seat of a sleek black car easing through the old Paris streets.

The sun bounced off the Seine as it coiled past bridges and autumn trees, their leaves burnt orange and brown like fire caught in slow motion.

Miranda sat beside him, sunglasses perched high on her nose even though they were inside.

She was half-working, half-watching him.

Izan had his phone out now, scrolling through the storm.

He leaned over, nudged her with his elbow, and showed her a tweet.

It read: “Bro realized he’s not ready for prime time and dipped. LMFAO.”

Izan grinned.

“They really think I stayed home.”

Miranda tilted her head.

“They’d have known you came if we hadn’t ninja-ed our way out of London.”

He went back to scrolling, chuckling at the absurdity.

Another tweet read, “Vinicius’s gonna eat him alive at that podium.”

Someone had photoshopped him sitting in the crowd with popcorn, which caused Izan to laugh a bit more before continuing.

Paris blurred by.

Notre Dame flickered past a block away.

They turned down a narrower road and pulled into a private hotel entrance where velvet ropes and staff kept most of the paparazzi corralled at the front.

A photographer, packing his bag, glanced up.

Then froze.

The door opened.

Izan stepped out.

The click of the camera was instinctive, fast.

Then faster.

Then others noticed.

Flashbulbs exploded.

A name rippled across the entrance.

“Izan! Izan! Over here!”

“Eish,” Izan said wryly before slinging his small bag over his shoulder and entering the hotel with Miranda behind him.

One shot of that would go viral within minutes.

Inside the hotel, the chaos fell away.

Warm light. Soft jazz piped through the speakers.

A manager greeted them by name, ushering them to the private elevator.

By the time they reached the suite, the noise of the world felt like it belonged outside.

Izan dropped his bag, collapsed onto the bed, and stared up at the ceiling.

Miranda, now in her room, opened her tablet again, her fingers already dancing across it.

She glanced at her watch, then got up before going out.

…

Knock knock.

Izan got up and walked to the door before swinging it ajar.

Miranda stood there, composed as ever.

“Stylist’ll be here in two hours,” she said.

“You’ve got a tux waiting. Try not to wrinkle it.”

He gave a lazy salute. “Yes, boss.”

She turned to leave but paused.

“You’re gonna break the internet tonight.”

He smirked. “Already did.”

Then his phone buzzed again.

Komi.

He sat on the edge of the bed and answered.

Her voice filled the quiet room like home.

“You landed?”

“Just got in.”

“You feeling okay?”

“I’m good,” he said.

“They still think I’m not coming.”

Komi chuckled softly.

“Let them talk. You’re not here for them.”

From somewhere behind her, Hori’s voice bellowed: “TELL HIM THE NAVY SUIT! DON’T BE BORING!”

He smiled.

“I think she got louder after returning to Spain?”

Komi laughed.

“Only when she’s nervous. You’d think she was the one nominated.”

Izan looked out the window, then down at the curve of the city, the slow wheel of it turning beneath him.

“I’m proud of you,” Komi said, her voice lowering.

“No matter what happens tonight. You’ve already given us everything.”

“I know,” he said.

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call ended.

The silence settled again—but this time, it was calm, not empty.

Paris waited.

And so did the world.

……

By evening, the picture that had been captured by the people at the front of the hotel had already made the rounds.

Sports networks.

Fan pages.

Memes.

Fan cams re-edited with dramatic music and glowing filters.

“He’s here.”

“The prince has arrived.”

“We waited all day, and now he pulls this?”

“Tell me that’s not the entrance of the year.”

Some weren’t impressed.

@DortmundFaithful:

“Finally decided to show his face now that everyone else is already dressed. Classic bottler fashion.”

@RealMadridDaily:

“All that ghosting just to lose. Hope the hoodie’s tailored for disappointment.”

@BallonHype:

“The Crynicius fans talking about Izan being late when their supposed Ballon d’Or contender didn’t even try to show up is very wild to me..

@ViscaBarc:

“You can tell when someone knows they’re not just attending history. They’re becoming it. Come to Barca next season Izan.”

Inside the hotel, none of it reached Izan.

At least, not directly.

He stood by the suite’s window, dressed now in midnight navy, the lines of the tux sharp enough to cut.

The stylists had done their work—pressed collars, cufflinks like starlight, shoes that caught reflections in the carpet.

Miranda gave him a once-over from her seat near the mirrored dresser and nodded.

“You look terrifying.”

He smirked. “That’s the point.”

Downstairs, champagne glasses clinked gently in the lounge.

Executives, managers, and select press who were staying at the hotel floated through the space in tuxedos and dresses that whispered money.

People smiled, shook hands, and exchanged practiced compliments.

Izan didn’t walk into that room like a guest.

He walked in like gravity had shifted.

Heads turned. Conversations paused.

Even among giants of the game, there was a ripple—because the boy they said wouldn’t come had just stepped into the center of the story.

………..

The red carpet outside the Théâtre du Châtelet shimmered beneath the evening lights like a river of velvet.

Gold banners fluttered gently from high balconies, each adorned with the Ballon d’Or crest.

Barricades pressed back thousands of fans, each craning for a glimpse, a photo, a shout returned from the gods in tailored suits.

The flashbulbs never stopped.

From one side came Haaland, flanked by his entourage, his tux pristine, shoes glinting with polished defiance.

Close behind, Micah Richards posed for a round of photographs with easy confidence, dapping up Thierry Henry as he passed.

Lamine walked through the middle, expression unreadable.

He barely acknowledged the press, but even his silence was a statement.

On the periphery, the cameras found celebrities—actors, fashion icons, and legends from past eras.

Ronaldinho smiled and signed a kid’s jersey.

David Beckham moved like he still owned every room he entered.

Social media stars were there too—some clout-chasing, others actually invited.

And then came IShowSpeed.

“CRISTIANO FOREVER! SIIWI,” he yelled, doing a twirl in a half-buttoned tux as photographers snapped, not entirely sure why.

He attempted a backflip and landed it with chaotic grace, nearly knocking over a production assistant.

The crowd was loving it.

A woman stood near the edge of the carpet with a mic in hand and an earpiece tucked discreetly beneath her hair.

Clara Joubert, France24’s rising star in sports journalism, held her composure as she delivered her live broadcast.

“The arrivals continue here in Paris as some of the world’s greatest footballers step into the heart of tonight’s story,” she said, her smile calm despite the chaos unfolding behind her.

“We’ve seen the legends. We’ve seen the favorites. But one name has yet to appear—one that’s stirred the most speculation all week…”

She paused, hand to her earpiece.

Her eyes flicked toward the far end of the carpet where a new set of flashes broke out—this time different.

Not frenzied. Focused.

The black car that pulled up didn’t slow-roll or tease.

It stopped clean, directly at the curb.

Security stepped forward.

And then the door opened.

The crowd leaned in—thousands of voices blending into one breathless wave.

Clara lowered her mic slightly, eyes narrowing with interest.

And there he was.

A single foot touched the carpet, polished black leather stepping into a gold-lit evening.

Izan Hernandez had arrived.

A/N: Last chapter of the day. Will follow up with the Golden ticket chapter in a bit. byeee

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