The dining hall was buzzing with energy—not the usual relaxed atmosphere they had during the tournament, but something sharper, more focused.
Conversations were quieter, movements more deliberate. Everyone was locked in for the final.
Izan sat with Pedri, Yamal, and Nico, eating methodically, but his mind wasn't entirely on the food.
It was on the match, on the thousands of possibilities the next few hours held.
He wasn't nervous—not in the way a rookie might be—but he was restless. The kind of restlessness that came with knowing what was at stake.
"You're eating like someone who's being forced," Pedri remarked, nudging his plate with his fork.
Izan barely glanced up. "I'm eating."
"You're dissecting each bite like it's a tactical breakdown," Nico added with a smirk.
[Bruh. Who writes Thi-. Sorry continue]
Izan sighed, setting his fork down for a moment. "You guys ever get the feeling like everything is moving too slow and too fast at the same time?"
