The morning after the Germany match, the Spanish camp was quieter than expected.
Not silent—Spain had just eliminated the tournament hosts, and the energy from the win still lingered—but there was a shift.
The euphoria of last night was beginning to settle, replaced by the creeping weight of what lay ahead.
Izan woke up later than usual, sunlight slipping through the curtains of his hotel room.
His body ached in that satisfying way that only came after a war on the pitch. His mind, though, was restless.
His phone was a mess. Notifications flooded every app—congratulations, analysis, memes of Rüdiger hitting the floor, Neuer's reaction to the chip, the endless debates about whether Spain had just become the tournament favorites. His name was everywhere.
Izan sighed and set the phone aside, running a hand through his hair.
A knock at the door broke his thoughts.
"Breakfast," came Pedri's voice.
