The Arsenal fans lost their minds.
Not celebrated—screamed.
Chairs kicked over, pints flying into the air like geysers, people grabbing strangers and howling into the wind.
Some jumped the rails.
Three, maybe four, dashed past the stewards, running onto the pitch with pure adrenaline in their eyes—no thought, no fear, just glory.
One of them fell, trying to hug Izan but missing, while another chased the shirt as Izan hurled it into the crowd with a spin and a snarl.
Like he had just slain something divine.
And the commentary—
It prayed.
"And now... he runs!"
"From the embers of chaos, from the weight of history, he runs!"
"Six red shirts — defiant, desperate — form a barricade! But this is no boy... this is a storm wearing flesh!"
"He weaves! He dances! He dares!"
"He's not just playing football — he's rewriting its rules!"
"Wembley trembles! The grass is hallowed, and it yields to him!"
"It's as if they whispered from Olympus and said, 'Go.'"
