The moment the ball struck the net, the stadium detonated into a wall of sound. A mixture of pure elation, stunned silence, and frustrated groans filled the air.
Arsenal fans roared, their voices rising in unison, while the United section stood in disbelief, hands on heads, mouths agape.
Izan didn't even hesitate—he turned sharply, eyes locked onto the sea of red-clad Manchester United fans who had jeered him all night.
With a smirk cutting across his face, he raised a single finger to his lips.
A shush. Cold. Calculated. Ruthless.
The Arsenal fans lost themselves in the moment, laughing, pointing, chanting his name.
"I-ZAN! I-ZAN! I-ZAN!"
United fans? Boos rained down, and curses flew, but Izan stood tall, unfazed.
The commentary followed him as he turned back toward his teammates, who swarmed him in celebration.
"Ohhh, that's ICE-COLD from Izan!" the main commentator shouted over the chaos.
