The chants hadn't stopped—but they'd changed.
The Ultras were louder now, their songs sharper, no longer chants of support but declarations of war.
"¡TRAIDOR!"
"¡MERCENARIO!"
"IZAN, TE ESCUPIMOS!"
They weren't just chants, they were lashes.
Booing tore down from the north stand every time he touched the ball, even when he didn't.
It came preemptively now.
The idea of him was enough to provoke.
But not all of Mestalla joined in.
Here and there, dotted across the lower tiers and along the east side, normal fans sat quietly, eyes tracking every step Izan took.
The ones who remembered.
Who hadn't forgotten the goals?
The lift.
The boy in white who once kissed the badge before he knew better.
Now he walked in red and white.
And he didn't look sorry.
He wasn't sprinting anymore.
He wasn't even jogging.
He was walking—arms relaxed, head slightly tilted back, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
