Chapter 549: Side Quest [2]

The rain hadn’t stopped, but by the end, it no longer mattered.

The whistle came like a gunshot — sharp, final — and the Emirates Stadium exploded.

Not into chaos, but into reverence.

Arsenal 3, Manchester United 0.

The scoreboard glowed through the drizzle like a monument to dominance.

Izan stood just off-center, hands on hips, chest heaving.

Steam rose from his shoulders as if the night couldn’t quite hold in the heat he’d brought with him.

Somewhere to the left, Gabriel had already lifted his fists while Saka clapped toward the fans.

Havertz turned and pointed — not to the scoreboard, but to the number 10 walking slowly toward the sideline.

And then the sound came.

First, a ripple.

Then a rising swell.

“I-ZAN! I-ZAN! I-ZAN!”

It wasn’t a chant anymore. It was a prayer.

The entire squad turned.

Players clapped.

Ben White gave him a little push between the shoulders, telling him to go take it in.

Izan didn’t smile right away.

He just walked, slowly, one boot in front of the other, as the rain coated his face and his arms and the loose bun of hair that clung to his nape.

He’d scored twice — the first a free-kick that shook the world, the second a tap-in, but no less important.

That brought him to sixteen goals in thirteen Premier League games.

Eight assists. Leading both charts.

And still hadn’t been seventeen for a full week.

“Sixteen goals,” Ian Crocker said from the booth, his voice half swallowed by the roar.

“Sixteen goals and still growing. I don’t even know what we’re watching anymore.”

Andy Townsend exhaled low, her voice softer.

“He leads the Premier League in goals. He leads it in assists. And the Champions League? He’s top there too. We talk about future legends like they’re always years away. But this—this is a star now.”

Izan turned toward the North Bank.

They were still chanting his name.

Someone had ripped off a shirt and was spinning it over their head. Another fan held a cardboard sign:

“NUMBER 10 FOR A GENERATION.”

The Arsenal bench stood, clapping as if they were fans too.

The substitutes — some of them veterans — clapped louder than anyone.

Arteta stepped forward near the edge of the pitch, not shouting, not gesturing.

Just clapping.

His mouth shaped one word: “Bravo.”

Then, Saka jogged up and did what no one else could — he jumped on Izan’s back.

“Man of the match, man of the month, man of the year!” he shouted into Izan’s ear.

Izan rolled his eyes, grinned, and shrugged Saka off.

He made his way toward the tunnel, wiping the rain from his brows, boots squelching in the soaked grass.

He didn’t need to wave.

The crowd wouldn’t stop either way.

…..

The car was quiet as they pulled up — not out of silence, but out of confidence.

Sleek, matte black, like a whisper across the asphalt.

Izan was the first out.

He stepped from the car without a word, white leather top zipped halfway and silver chain resting easy against his collarbone.

Baggy pants tucked over high-end sneakers.

Behind him came Olivia — in tailored black, boots clean enough to catch the sun.

Her hair was swept up, eyes covered in oval shades that said she knew what kind of room she was walking into.

Then Miranda — red blouse, sharp slacks, her heels clicking like punctuation across the lot.

Tablet in one hand.

Calm in her stride.

“Remind me again why car companies treat you like a Bond villain?” Izan asked as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, looking around at the expansive, glass-and-steel testing facility.

Miranda didn’t look up from her tablet.

“Because I know when to smile. And when not to.”

Olivia gave a low laugh.

“She smiled twice this week. Once was at the bank.”

Izan smirked.

“That’s two more than usual.”

“Try being your agent and see how often you smile,” Miranda replied.

The three of them walked forward, their pace in sync and their presence unmissable.

And the building noticed.

A few heads turned near the main reception.

Then the man they were here for stepped forward.

Tall. Tan suit over a cobalt turtleneck.

Smooth beard, silver at the edges.

His smile was practiced, but not empty.

He didn’t look at Izan first.

He looked at Miranda.

“Ms. Miranda,” he greeted.

“Welcome.”

Miranda clicked her tablet off. “Mr. Vittorio. On time, as promised.”

“I’d be a fool to be late for this,” he said, then turned to Izan.

“You must be the reason I’m fielding calls from our board every morning.”

Izan raised an eyebrow, half joking.

“You’ve got the wrong number, then.”

Vittorio laughed. “We’ll see.”

He extended a hand.

“I’m Dario Vittorio. Head of Collaborations here at Koenigsegg. But today, let’s pretend we’re all just car lovers.”

Olivia shook his hand next.

“Some of us really are. My dad framed an Agera when I was five. Still hangs in the living room.”

Vittorio lit up.

“Then you’re going to enjoy today.”

He gestured toward the facility’s large glass doors, behind which a gleaming silver Jesko Absolut sat like a beast trapped in a museum.

“Shall we?”

They walked.

Cameras inside were discreet but ever-present.

Not for marketing — not yet.

This was Koenigsegg’s scouting mission, not a press event.

But the weight in the room suggested otherwise.

“You’ll be getting a short run in the Absolut today,” Vittorio explained as they approached.

“And we’ve prepped one of the newer four-seaters for a second test. Not everything’s about track speed.”

“No,” Miranda said smoothly.

“Some things are about image. Partnership. Market leadership.”

“And narrative,” Vittorio added, glancing at Izan.

“After all, you don’t just drive the car. You become the reason people want to.”

The doors opened with a hiss of hydraulics.

Cool air swept out to meet them.

And the gleam of carbon fiber waited just inside.

This wasn’t a test drive.

This was a presentation.

And Izan — poised, unreadable, eyes already tracking the contours of the Jesko’s tail fin — wasn’t just here to observe.

The doors hissed shut behind the Jesko Absolut as Izan stepped inside the cockpit, sliding into the low-slung driver’s seat like it was molded just for him.

A Koenigsegg assistant, lean and wired like a track engineer, settled in the passenger side, tablet in hand, head tilted in measured skepticism.

“Okay,” he said in a clipped Swedish accent, “just a warm-up lap first. No need to impress anyone yet.”

Izan didn’t respond.

He pressed his hand to the ignition and the engine roared awake—deep, throaty, like a wildcat waking from sleep.

Inside his head, the system’s voice hummed alive, warm and smooth as always.

[Driving Calibration Detected. Activating RoadSense v1.3. Track telemetry online.]

Izan exhaled once. “You ever driven a supercar before?” he thought with a mental flex.

[Only through you. But I learn fast.]

A flicker passed through Izan’s eyes as he tapped the gear paddle once to nudge the car forward.

From behind the plexiglass viewing room above, Miranda’s hands were on her hips, her lips pressed into a line that could slice glass.

Olivia leaned closer to the glass, whispering, “He’s not actually going to try and race this thing, right?”

Miranda didn’t answer but her entire posture screamed, I swear to God, Izan.

Below, the Jesko crawled out onto the smooth track.

The assistant adjusted the tablet readings, then glanced up at Izan, ready to give another reminder—

But he never got the chance.

Because the moment the wheels aligned straight—Izan floored it.

The engine screamed to life, and the car vanished down the straight.

Miranda flinched hard enough to take a step back.

On the track, the assistant gripped the sidebar, tablet forgotten.

“WHAT ARE YOU—?!”

Izan didn’t even glance at him.

His eyes were locked forward, watching the curve approach like a predator watching prey shift.

“Max,” he whispered, “talk to me.”

[Incoming S-curve. Downshift in 3…2… Now.]

Izan shifted.

[Ease right. Steady throttle. Now whip.]

The tires kissed the edge of the apex like ballet slippers on tile—no screeching, no fishtail.

Miranda, still watching from above, had her hands on her head now.

Olivia stood beside her, eyes wide, half between awe and concern.

Down on the track, the Jesko blurred through the final sector, gunning toward the finish like it was too late to meet destiny.

[Throttle off. Brake late. Thread the chicane. Let it slide. Correct now—]

The last turn twisted into the straight.

The car cut across like lightning.

Then, silence.

It was done.

The vehicle slowed to a smooth halt in front of the garage bay, hissed open, and Izan stepped out like nothing happened.

Not a bead of sweat.

Just a grin half-curled with mischief.

The assistant staggered out behind him, tablet now clutched like a crucifix.

His hair was ruffled, his face pale, and he didn’t say a word.

Just stared at Izan like he had wronged him.

Vittorio was already walking toward them, clapping slowly.

“How did your drive like that. You ever considered switching careers, Izan?” he said with a glint of amusement.

“F1 might have something to say.”

Izan wiped his hand across the back of his neck, chuckling.

“Only if they let me wear number 10 on the car.”

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