Chapter 556: Star Gazing

The whistle blew.

And just like that, Arsenal were off—but not quite flying.

For all the free-flowing dominance they had displayed just nights ago against Monaco, the opening moments at Goodison Park made it clear: this wasn’t Europe.

This was a fight to protect pride.

The pitch was a little heavier, the wind a little colder, the tackles a little less polite.

And Everton?

They hadn’t just come to survive.

They had come to smother.

The ball was barely rolling before Doucouré closed Ødegaard down like a curtain snapping shut.

Tarkowski roared something from the back—inaudible over the home fans but Everton began squeezing their lines like a fist.

The message was clear.

If there was no space, then there would be no rhythm for Arsenal.

And above all, no Izan.

In his first touch of the game, he peeled off wide to receive from Lewis-Skelly.

The crowd swelled, tense, expectant.

But as soon as his boot met the ball, it was like a tripwire went off.

Three blue shirts descended.

One slid, the other pressed and the third came barreling from the side, catching his ankle just enough to make him stumble.

Free kick.

The referee blew, the fans booed, and Izan didn’t complain.

He just pulled up his gloves tighter and got back to his feet.

The commentary came faint through the rising noise.

“Izan’s going to be wearing them by the end of this one,” said Danny Higginbotham on co-commentary.

“Every time he gets near it, they’re closing like shutters. It’s also going to be a long game for Izan if this is what will be going on for the remaining minutes.”

For the first ten minutes, Arsenal barely strung four passes together in Everton’s third.

Timber and Lewis-Skelly tried to stretch it wide.

Ødegaard dropped deep, trying to draw someone out.

But Everton’s press was relentless, organized chaos.

And they weren’t afraid to be nasty about it.

In the 17th minute, Saka broke into space and fed Izan at the edge of the box.

The number ten chopped inside two defenders—classy, quick—and looked to curl one with his left.

The crowd held their breath but Izan dragged the ball back and slipped it into the path of Havertz who rifled on at goal but,

Blocked.

Straight off Tarkowski’s thigh.

It dropped to Martinelli, who lashed it wide, causing groans from the away end.

“Another sniff,” said lead commentator Clive Macnaly.

“But just that. A sniff. And nothing more.”

The 23rd minute brought the first real scare.

Arsenal had built up from the back—Rice, then Ødegaard, then Lewis Skelly on the overlap.

A floated ball aimed toward Izan near the back post.

He rose in the air, trying to nudge the ball but he was clattered before he could land properly.

Again, the whistle.

Yellow for Mangala.

The second of the game at that point.

Arteta clapped furiously from the sideline, urging calm, motioning for his players to reset.

But even he knew—they were being drawn into Everton’s kind of match.

Every second ball seemed to fall for the hosts.

Every duel dragged an extra heartbeat longer than Arsenal wanted.

Even when they broke, the final touch deserted them.

On one promising break in the 29th minute, Izan ghosted behind the line for once—just for a second—and Ødegaard slipped it to him.

He drove at goal, shifting the ball to his left and letting it fly.

Pickford dived—more dramatic than necessary—but the fingertip was real.

Palmed wide.

Another corner.

Another chance half-taken.

By the 35th minute, Izan was noticeably getting irked by how things stood.

Not at his teammates, not at the referee.

Just… at the feel of it all.

The Everton players were using subtle knobs and jabs at him but when he tried getting the referee’s attention, it didn’t amount to much.

“You can see Izan trying to tell the referee something. But it seems the referee isn’t interested in him nor his complaints.” Danny Higginbotham explained.

Seeing as the referee wasn’t being strict, Everton started getting more rigid and physical.

Every time Izan turned, someone hit him.

McNeil got a yellow.

Then Doucouré dragged him down from behind.

Four cards by the 39th.

All for fouls on him but still no goals.

The crowd? Roaring.

“Arsenal don’t look like themselves,” Clive said, as the cameras panned to Arteta shouting from his zone, eyes blazing.

“They’ve been made to look human. And that’s no small feat.”

As the first half edged into stoppage time, Izan had one last moment.

A dropped shoulder, followed by a nutmeg, and then a burst between two blue shirts.

He surged toward the box.

Then, a lunge—Onana this time.

Late.

Crude.

Another foul.

Izan didn’t speak.

He just got up again.

Jaw set.

Breath puffing visibly in the air.

Odegaard quickly restarted the ball after seeing Saka dash suddenly but the chance was thwarted by Tarkowski before it could materialize into something good.

The referee blew for halftime after this, with no added minutes.

And from the North Street end, a cheer like they’d scored.

“It’s goalless,” Danny said.

“But you wouldn’t know it from the noise. That’s a huge forty-five minutes from Everton.”

“They’ve stopped the league leaders in their tracks,” Clive replied.

“Arsenal have tried everything, and so far, nothing’s worked. And Izan? He’s done more running than most—but he’s still looking for the spark.”

The players trudged toward the tunnel, steam curling off them in the cold.

Izan lingered, hands on hips, gaze on the pitch like it had betrayed him.

Then he turned.

And walked in.

…….

The second half had barely begun, and already the tempo had shifted.

The Everton crowd, boisterous and brazen, roared from the stands, jeering Arsenal’s every touch with the kind of venom reserved for league leaders.

They weren’t just defending their goal.

They were defending their pride.

But the Arsenal supporters weren’t quiet either.

No chance.

Not after a first half where frustration and near-misses had chewed at every nerve.

They answered back—louder now and unified.

From the restart, Havertz nudged the ball sideways.

Izan didn’t wait.

He turned and burst into motion, dragging the ball with him, every touch a challenge to gravity.

He surged past the halfway line with grace and purpose, and for the first time in the match, the shape of Everton’s midfield cracked.

Four defenders, previously tethered to him like shadows, hesitated.

Just enough.

He feinted a drive inside, drawing Tarkowski forward, then slipped the ball outward like a magician palming a card.

Martinelli caught it on the run and carved up the flank.

Timber overlapped.

Saka drifted inside.

The shape was forming—finally.

Martinelli’s cross, however, took a deflection to earn Arsenal a corner.

It wasn’t a goal, but it was something different from all the blocks they had come up against in the first half.

…..

Up in London General, in a pale-blue hospital room lit by the soft flicker of a TV, young Leo gripped his blanket tighter.

Tubes ran gently into his arm, machines clicked and beeped in rhythm, but his focus was absolute.

The screen showed Izan walking back into position after his run.

His mum stepped in, arms folded, concern etched into her brows.

“Leo. You need to rest. The nurse said—”

“I just want to see Izan score,” Leo said without looking away.

His voice was soft but clear.

She moved to the bed, wordless, and adjusted his pillows.

Then sat beside him and exhaled.

“Alright. Just for a bit.” she said, as Leo turn towards her and gave a curt nod, before turning back towards the TV.

……..

Back on the pitch, Izan had shifted wide left now—Martinelli’s zone since he’d been subbed off around the 67th.

He crouched low, eyes scanning.

The crowd buzzed as rain began to mist the air again.

The noise inside the Emirates twisted—tightened—like a collective breath held too long.

From the left, the ball came to Izan’s feet in rhythm with the rising tide of expectation.

The clock read 79:43.

The match, still 0–0, had carved itself into a nervy stalemate.

One where every pass felt like the turning of a dial—pressure building, click by click.

And then—release.

“He’s moving,” came the voice from commentary, sharp and anticipatory.

“Here comes Izan…”

His first touch was the embodiment of defiance.

A push forward that told defenders: I’m going past you. Try and stop it.

He dropped his shoulder, gliding past Young, then curved inside with those long, effortless strides that made everything around him look frozen.

Rain streaked through the light, tracing his movement like a comet.

“He’s carving through now!” the co-commentator barked.

“They’ve got to stop him—!”

At the edge of the box, Doucouré reached—desperate—and grabbed at the back of Izan’s shirt.

By the scruff of the neck.

But Izan didn’t break stride.

The referee’s hand lifted for a brief second… then waved play on.

“He’s held—he’s HELD—but STILL GOING!”

His chest heaved as he dragged the ball back.

And then a voice ticked to life in his head, wry as ever.

〔Gravity Arc – Level 4 activated. 〕

Izan glanced once at the far post.

And then he struck.

The shot zoomed, spirally as it bent around Tarkowski, past Mykolenko, and past Pickford’s glove—

And hammered into the far corner.

The net shivered.

But for the Emirates fans who weren’t expecting the goal, silence echoed, before pandemonium.

“OH, THAT’S ABSURD!” the commentator roared.

“IZAN—OUT OF NOTHING! THEY CAN’T HANDLE HIM”

The crowd roared, arms out and stretched as Izan walked towards them.

He reached the corner.

Stood there for a second.

And laid down.

Flat on the wet grass.

Arms spread and one leg bent.

And then, slowly, he raised a finger—pointed to the sky.

Like a boy staring at stars only he could see.

And for a second, the stadium forgot the match.

They just stared, quietly at the boy in front of them.

A/n: last of the day. Have fun reading.

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