Chapter 639: Pinging

The photographer sat still, finally pulling his coffee closer.

The steam had died, but the work hadn’t.

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a burner phone, and sent one line to a contact labelled: CourierMidline_3.

[Drop sent. Upload live @ 7:03 AM GMT.]

Then he pocketed it.

“I love this job,” he uttered as he took the cup of coffee by his knee and gulped it down in one go before standing up and leaving.

……..

The team coach pulled into the curbside loop at Heathrow Terminal 4 just past 7:30 a.m.

It was still dark outside because of the weather.

But the moment the red-and-navy silhouettes began stepping out, a soft and unmistakable tremor ran through the morning air.

First came the sound.

Muffled at first.

Then stronger.

“Oi—look, it’s them. It’s actually them! We really got them”

There were voices and dozens at that.

Arsenal voices, wrapped in scarves, hoods up against the cold and backs against the rails where they’d gathered in silence for hours.

The fans, respectful of the time and the situation, kept things on the low, with no visible flashes and a minuscule amount of Phones taking pictures.

A cluster of fans stood across the barrier, clutching thermos cups and Sharpies, but their tired eyes went wide with excitement as soon as the players began walking.

One held a laminated drawing of Izan’s celebration — arms out, stars carved in ink above his shoulders.

Another had brought a vintage 03/04 Invincibles kit, looking almost new despite the years.

And they hadn’t even seen Izan yet.

“Didn’t we say early departure to avoid all this?” Carlos Cuesta murmured behind him.

Arteta gave him a dry look. “Clearly, we underestimated their loyalty.”

Behind them, the players filed off.

Saka blinked into the fluorescent lights and groaned.

“I swear this is illegal,” he muttered.

“Time should not exist before seven.”

Martinelli yawned beside him.

“Is this even a time? I thought it was just ‘late yesterday.'”

Then came the wave — not chaotic, but audible.

“Izan!”

Heads turned, and even among professional footballers, the shift in attention was noticeable.

The crowd leaned forward, pressing gently against the barrier as Izan stepped down last with his travel duffel over his shoulder as he joined the cohort.

He barely raised a hand in acknowledgement, but the reaction was still instant.

“What would it take for this to happen to me?” Saka called to Odegaard as the phones of the fans went up.

Chants broke out, low and half-whispered like they didn’t want to spook him.

“Ten! Ten! Ten!”

One kid pushed forward with a marker and an A4 printout of a couple of Izan’s goals.

“You signed for City Real Madrid in my Career mode on FC,” the boy said breathlessly.

“But I forgive you since you stayed in real life, and that is even better”

Izan smirked, signing the paper.

“Loyalty’s rare these days.”

Another fan handed him a matchball replica.

“My dad said he’s not watching football this season

unless you break Haaland’s record.”

“But I already did,” Izan said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, I know, but he refuses to acknowledge it since he says your free kicks don’t count.”

“Then tell your dad to stay tuned.”

Saka leaned in with a grin.

“Oi, tell them I’m breaking records too, you know.”

A nearby supporter called out, “Starboy! When’s the next assist?”

Saka laughed. “When this guy stops hogging the spotlight.”

The fans laughed, and even Arteta cracked a smile, his arms folded as he watched the group interact.

“They deserve this,” he said, mostly to himself.

Cuesta, standing just behind the back group of players, nodded faintly.

“You can’t buy mornings like this.”

Eventually, Arteta raised a hand.

“Alright, boys. Five minutes. Then inside.”

The players made their rounds — Raya tossing wristbands, Saliba reluctantly signing a forehead, Ødegaard asking a little girl in an Arsenal beanie if she wanted a photo and then making her cry (happy tears, mostly).

As the final minute ticked down, Izan took one last photo — a wide-armed shot with three teens in hoodies and Crocs — before falling back into step with the others.

………

[En Route to Eindhoven | 8:46 AM]

The Emirates A319 had left Heathrow just a few minutes ago, slicing across the sky like a silver blade.

Inside, the cabin was unusually quiet for a squad flight.

The Arsenal players were spread across the plush seating area in branded team joggers and windbreakers.

A few headphones hung loosely over ears, others had kicked off their trainers and curled into seats, with occasional soft banter drifting between rows.

Martinelli had claimed a window seat early and was half-asleep under his hoodie while Saliba and Gabriel leaned over a shared tablet, watching defensive drills with one AirPod each, pausing now and then to argue softly over positioning.

Saka and Ødegaard were squabbling about something trivial — a brain game app, apparently — but both were smiling, even if Martin Ødegaard was keeping score like it was a Champions League final.

Izan sat quietly a row behind, his hood up, back slightly reclined, legs stretched across two seats.

He hadn’t spoken much since boarding.

Arteta, a few rows forward with Carlos Cuesta and two analysts, scrolled slowly through the final training reports, glancing occasionally at his notebook.

PSV were no joke.

They pressed high and targeted half-turns in midfield.

They’d been briefed on the threat.

Cuesta spoke softly.

“They’ve been prepping specifically for Izan. Schouten’s been tracking his movement patterns since January.”

Arteta didn’t look up.

“They’re not even hiding the fact that they are not trying to stop Arsenal,” he said with a little smirk.

“No,” Cuesta said. “They’re trying to stop him.”

The rest of the squad — from Lewis Skelly to Nwaneri — passed the time in soft pockets of conversation and rest.

Every now and then, someone laughed.

But even that was subdued.

Because at the moment, no one knew what was happening on the ground.

….

[London – 9:10 PM | Online]

It took one photo.

Not even a dramatic one.

Just a mid-range DSLR snap of a young man in a black hoodie, stepping out of the haematology wing at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Miranda behind him, Olivia at his side.

His hood was up, but the profile was unmistakable.

Izan Hernandez.

The image hit a major media source first before @NorthBankWatch— a small Arsenal gossip page with a decent following, reported on the incident.

“Izan Hernandez, spotted leaving the hospital on Monday. St. Bart’s. Haematology unit. No press around. No club statement.”

Then the retweets began.

Then the screenshots.

Then the reposts.

Instagram. TikTok. Reddit. WhatsApp groups.

By 10:03 PM, the photo had hit nearly every major online forum with a football tab, and the fans didn’t waste any time in making their opinions heard.

@BallerOpinions:

What’s the haematology wing doing with our No. 10? Nah, someone explain.

@DrChuks_MD (Verified):

If it’s St. Bart’s Haematology, it’s likely blood-related — doesn’t mean dangerous. It could be anything from fatigue testing to stem cell sampling. Let’s chill till we know.

@ManUtdMourner:

So you’re telling me we caught 4 goals from a player who might’ve come straight from a blood lab? That’s insane.

@AFCVault:

No way this isn’t tied to why he missed recovery day. The kid’s been different. Still dropping double-doubles like it’s nothing.

@NotKDB:

First, he ruins us. Then ruins United. Now this?! Bro might literally be donating blood between games and still outperforming 30-year-olds.

@MadridWave:

What if he’s secretly half-vampire? No one that good should be that pale.

@GoonerCore:

Izan’s gonna find a way to get a hat-trick during a blood test. Nothing surprises me anymore.

“BREAKING: Izan Hernandez Spotted at London Haematology Unit – Is Arsenal’s Young Star Carrying a Hidden Condition?”

And news sources, as always, tried to make the incident seem bigger than it was.

………

Back in the sky, the Arsenal plane hummed while Izan remained still.

His phone hadn’t buzzed once — turned off since Heathrow.

Everyone else aboard, scrolling idly or dozing, remained oblivious to the fact that a media storm was forming beneath them.

Eventually, the wheels of the Emirates-sponsored aircraft touched down on the tarmac in Eindhoven with a soft double thud, followed by the hydraulic exhale of the landing gear.

The still early morning sky over the Netherlands was grey, thin clouds threading across the sun as the aircraft taxied toward the designated arrival gate.

Inside, the players stirred from their short naps and screen-scrolling.

Headphones slipped down, accompanied by window blinds being raised.

Izan came down midway, hands in his hoodie pockets, a soft squint in his eyes as the cool wind met his face.

He joined the rest as they moved through the designated airport corridor for visiting clubs, escorted by two UEFA liaisons and a couple of local security officers.

A modest welcome team waited at the end of the corridor, pressing badges into hands and guiding them toward the terminal exit.

That was when the phones started pinging.

Not just one.

Not two.

Almost all of them.

Havertz pulled his out and frowned while Rice glanced at his screen and raised an eyebrow.

Saka blinked twice, then turned the screen off immediately.

“I’ll check when we reach the hotel” he added but before they could continue, Izan’s phone began pinning widly.

A/N: First of the day. Sorry for not releasing again. I was occupied today. I ‘ll try and release another one after I wake up. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with another chapter if I can.