The hotel room was unusually quiet for a team camp night.

Still, the hum of the toned-down air conditioner mixed with the faint tick of the wall clock, but the only real sound came from the soft, uncertain movements of the club doctor, who was kneeling beside Saka's bed.

He pressed the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope to Saka's chest, his brows furrowing as he listened, once, twice, then shifting slightly to another spot.

"Deep breath for me, Bukayo," he said softly.

Saka obeyed, though even that came out ragged.

When he straightened up, he exhaled through his nose, pulling the stethoscope off.

"It could be a number of things," he muttered, half to himself, half to the small group in the room: Arteta, Carlos Cuesta by the door, and Izan standing just behind him.

"Could be dehydration from travel, or just food-related fatigue. But given how his pulse feels and that fever edge in his breathing… might be something viral. I don't want to risk it."

Izan shifted closer, arms crossed loosely.

"He said he started feeling queasy right after we arrived," he began, his tone calm but precise.

"When we entered the room, he flopped onto the bed, complaining about how all the travel was catching up, but I didn't think much of it. Then he went to the bathroom and vomited twice, I think. After that, he said he just needed rest. I did check him a few times, but he was just sweating a bit, so I thought it was the heat."

The doctor nodded, taking in every word.

"That checks out," he said.

"Those are early signs of a bug, most likely something he picked up on the road. Happens more than you'd think on these tours. His body's telling him to slow down."

Arteta, who had been standing silent by the window, arms folded tightly across his chest, finally spoke.

"So he's out tomorrow?"

The doctor hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded firmly.

"Yes. He shouldn't play. Even if he wakes up feeling fine, the strain of a game against City could set him back worse. He needs full rest, more fluids, light meals and no training until I clear him."

Arteta drew a slow breath, his expression unreadable.

Then he nodded once, a gesture of both understanding and quiet frustration, warranted by his needing to change his plans for the game because of what was happening.

"Alright," he said, voice low.

"Keep me updated every few hours. If anything changes, I want to know."

The doctor gave a reassuring nod and turned back to check on Saka.

Arteta turned toward the door, gesturing subtly for Izan and Cuesta to follow.

The hallway outside was dimly lit, empty but for the soft carpeted hush of their footsteps.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Arteta broke the silence, his voice thoughtful, steady, but with that familiar weight behind it.

"It's never simple, is it? Just when we need everyone ready…"

Izan glanced at him, his tone soft.

"He'll be fine. He's tougher than he looks."

Arteta allowed himself a small, wry smile at that.

"I know," he said quietly. "But it is going to hurt us tomorrow."

They walked a few more steps before Arteta stopped at the corner, running a hand through his hair.

"Anyway," he said, letting out a small exhale, " you get some rest, Izan.It's bad enough having Saka out, so I can risk you, too. Ask Steven for another Keycard, so we can avoid you possibly having whatever Saka has if you were to stay with him in the room."

"I don't think I will, but sure," Izan said, his gaze thoughtful.

Arteta gave a small nod, then turned down the hall, with Carlos Cuesta following behind, leaving Izan behind, until the latter turned towards the elevator on the other side.

The next morning, the light in Orlando had a strange stillness to it.

The Arsenal bus moved through the streets, tinted windows reflecting flashes of palm trees, flags, and the not-so-odd increase of people waving from sidewalks.

Inside, it was calm, maybe from Saka's matter that had dampened the mood or from the players in their own thoughts.

Arteta sat two rows ahead, unreadable, scrolling through something on his iPad, maybe lineups, maybe nothing at all.

The Camping World Stadium rose in the distance, its giant frame shimmering like a mirage against the blue.

When the bus finally turned into the players' entrance, the quiet broke.

The sound outside hit first, drums, horns, and cheers.

American fans, somehow louder than anyone expected, were waving red-and-white scarves under the Florida sun.

It wasn't London, but the energy was close.

The doors hissed open as one by one, the players stepped down into the noise.

Cameras flashed, chants echoed as the players took time to interact with some of the fans nearby, waving at them and even signing a few things and taking a few photos for them.

But once inside, the mood changed again.

Shoes squeaked on tiled floors as they were led through the corridor and into the locker room, where the stadium clock was ticking steadily toward kickoff.

The warm-up came and went, a blur of stretching bands, cones, and the rhythmic smack of passes under the floodlights.

When they returned, sweat still on their necks, shirts half off, laughter spilt across the room in small bursts.

Then came the voice from the corner, Saka's, through a screen.

He'd managed to get his phone in the hospital room somehow, a faint smile fighting through the annoyance in his tone.

"Don't let all my hard work go to waste, yeah?" he said, lying on the bed, wires taped to his arm but eyes bright.

"You lot better make it count."

The phone, propped in Nwaneri's hand, showed a room full of laughter and noise.

"We've got this, bro," Nwaneri said, turning the camera so Saka could see the whole room.

"We're ready for City."

Before Saka could get another word in, the stay-in nurse swooped in like a hawk.

"How did you sneak this in. Come on, put the phone down," she said firmly, plucking it from his hand as the screen went black.

The entire room erupted, chuckles, claps, a few teasing shouts of "nurse 1–0 Saka."

Nwaneri shook his head, smiling as he placed his phone on the bench before he slipped into his shirt.

It was his first start of the tournament.

He stood there still for a while until a knock on the door broke him out of his reverie.

One of the staff leaned in.

"Time's up, lads."

The players nodded as boots thudded softly against the floor, some doing away with their last-minute game preparations before they turned towards the door.

Izan lingered a moment, last to leave, fingers tying his hair back into its usual half-knot.

Odegaard, from the front, adjusting his armband, caught the movement and smirked.

"You really need to get a haircut, you know," he said.

"Nah," Izan replied, twisting the tie into place.

"The ladies would be sad."

Odegaard laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

"Leave the cheesy lines to Saka."

"Someone's gotta keep his legacy afloat," Izan replied as they stepped into the tunnel, the light ahead brighter than before, and the sound swelling with every step and for a fleeting second, everything else fell away.

The noise outside, though, was already a living thing, restless, layered, full of heartbeat.

And then, through the tunnel mouth, the lines began to form.

First the officials, then Arsenal, then City, one after another, face half-lit under the roar of the crowd.

The broadcast caught it from every angle, close shots of determination, slow pans of flags rippling behind them, and a few kids in the stands bouncing signs with "COME ON GUNNERS" scrawled in marker as the players stepped onto the greenery.

"Good evening from Orlando," the lead commentator's voice came in, warm but wired with excitement.

"It's the Round of 16 in the FIFA Club World Cup, and what a matchup we have tonight, Arsenal versus Manchester City, two English giants meeting far from home, with everything on the line."

His partner chuckled under his breath, replying, "You can feel it already, that feeling like someone's season is about to change right here."

As they spoke, the players broke into their neat lines on the pitch.

Arsenal in red and white, City in their usual sky blue, both sides standing tall beneath the canopy of lights.

The captains shook hands while the officials nodded through their brief introductions.

In the background, a low, rolling chorus filled the stadium and fluttered through the rafters as fans stood, scarves held high, voices blending into something vast and echoing.

Then silence again, once the referee began the coin toss.

Odegaard and Rodri nodded at each other before the latter went on with his preferences after winning the toss.

"So City win the toss, and are going to kick the game off from left to right," the commentary filled the bare space, as both captains shook hands once again.

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