The Arsenal bus eased into the slope that led underground, and the roar outside dipped into something heavier and much more concentrated.
The windows caught flashes of Manchester red, scarves and stretched faces as well as people pressing closer for one last look before the players disappeared beneath the stand.
Izan leaned forward a little, watching the crowd twist past as the bus rolled deeper before letting out a quiet breath.
"What a reception."
A few of the Arsenal players near him snorted, not out of mockery but at how wild the noise had been.
Even through the thick glass, the United supporters were still shouting things that bled into each other.
It wasn't clear what they were saying, even if one couldn't hear them.
As the bus got closer to the parking bay, the chants sharpened into muffled bursts.
It wasn't a clean sentence, more like pieces of them.
"Welcome to Good Old Trafford!"
"It is ours to lose!"
"Not today, lads, not here!"
