The lighting bounced harshly off the Arsenal crest on the backdrop as the click of cameras pulsed in the room.
Izan stepped in, hair still damp, shirt collar crisp beneath a light bomber jacket.
He didn't slump, but he didn't stand to impress either—just ease, like someone used to noise but not numbed by it.
A few murmurs stirred among the press as the moderator began the session.
Then came the first question—quick, eager, pointed.
"Izan, two assists tonight. That's a contribution most players would take home proudly, but some feel the expectations on you are... different. Fair?"
Izan exhaled slowly, wiped his palms on the thighs of his black track pants, and leaned slightly toward the mic.
"Fair? Well, it depends on who you ask," he said, voice measured.
