Five Finals[Introduction]

Fweeeeee, Fweeeeeeeeeeeeee

The whistle blew, but nobody moved.

The players trudged toward the tunnel, heads lowered, bodies heavy, like condemned men walking toward their fate.

The crowd remained seated, staring blankly ahead as if afraid that standing would make it real.

Some buried their faces in scarves.

Some whispered curses at the wind.

Some simply sat there, unmoving, as the screen above the stadium showed what they all feared most:

Athletic Bilbao 2-0 Rayo Vallecano.

They weren't just losing.

They were losing everything.

And yet—on the bench, amid the wreckage, amid the silent surrender of an entire stadium, there was one who did not move.

Izan.

He did not slump forward like the others.

He did not rub his face in frustration.

He did not break.

Instead, he sat still. His gaze locked onto the pitch; his fingers laced together.