[A Few Days After the Ballon d'Or]
The London wind bit across his face like it was in on the joke.
Grey London stretched around him — quiet, sharp-edged, cold in that distinct late October way that sank under the skin.
He didn't care.
Hoodie drawn tight, headphones in but nothing playing.
He ran in silence.
No paparazzi.
No long stares.
Just Izan, the pavement, and whatever storm kept spinning in his chest.
His feet pounded out a rhythm — steady, familiar.
Until the street betrayed him.
A black sedan turned sharply at the junction up ahead.
Too fast, too close, and almost too late.
And then, something slammed inside his head — not a sound, not even a warning.
A roar.
[LEFT! NOW—]
Instinct took over.
Izan launched sideways off the curb, legs folding under him as he slammed into a metal bike rack, his breath ripping from his lungs in a single hard grunt.
The car barely slowed, blowing a honk and then it was gone.
