There was no shouting in the tunnel.
Only footsteps, echoing soft and tense on concrete.
22 men, warriors, stepping back into a storm of something they knew only one could come up on top, or for them to share the spoils but that wasn't what either of them were looking for.
Both sides stood in loose clusters, scattered across the concrete corridor like chess pieces waiting for someone to move first.
The tension from the first half hadn't lifted—it had just sunk lower, heavier in the air.
Arsenal stood mostly to the left, a few leaned against the wall, others fidgeting with their tape or passing half-empty water bottles between them.
No one spoke much.
On the right, Valencia weren't much different.
Still humming with Baraja's words, some players bounced on their heels, others hunched forward, hands on hips, sweat still damp on their backs.
Izan stood near the front of Arsenal's half-group, swaying lightly from foot to foot.
