The descent into Geneva was smooth, the aircraft gliding like a whispered breath over the snow-kissed ridges of the Alps.
As the players peered out through the oval windows, the horizon unfolded in layers—mountains guarding the lakes, old stone towns leaning into green.
The Swiss city below looked like it belonged in a postcard, too neat, too quiet, as if unaware of the fierce contest it would soon host.
From his window seat, Izan leaned back with his headphones in, his playlist murmuring soft piano beneath the dull thrum of the engines.
Across the aisle, Nico had fallen asleep with his hoodie drawn tight over his face, while Pedri absentmindedly spun a pen between his fingers, half-watching the clouds, half-zoning out.
It was a different kind of focus now.
The landing gear extended with a low rumble, and within minutes, the aircraft touched down smoothly on the tarmac at Geneva Airport.
The cabin lights flickered on. The seatbelts clicked off one by one.
