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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
And as they disappeared into the tunnel, the cold Moscow air fading behind them, one thing was clear as they hadn't just won but they had controlled.
The walk back through the tunnel felt different from the walk out.
Not louder.
Not dramatic.
Just heavier in a satisfying kind of way.
Three goals.
Clean sheet.
European away win.
The kind of result that settled into your body slowly, replacing tension with something calmer. Something earned.
Francesco walked beside Kanté and Gnabry, boots tapping against the concrete floor as the stadium noise slowly faded behind them. It still echoed faintly through the tunnel walls chants, whistles, applause blending into one constant hum but it no longer carried pressure.
Now it carried aftermath.
Gnabry still had adrenaline in him. That much was obvious.
"You saw the pass late, right?" he asked Kanté for what was probably the third time.
Kanté smiled softly.
"I saw the space."
"You always see the space."
"That is my job."
"It was perfect," Francesco added.
Gnabry pointed immediately.
"See? Captain agrees."
"I said the pass was perfect."
"Same thing."
"Not even close."
Kanté laughed quietly to himself as they continued toward the dressing room.
Ahead of them, Walcott was already replaying his goal to Ramsey using exaggerated hand gestures that somehow made the counterattack look twice as complicated as it actually was.
"And then I saw the keeper leaning—"
"You saw open net," Ramsey interrupted.
"That too."
"You basically sprinted in a straight line."
"A very fast straight line."
"That part is true."
The dressing room doors opened.
Warmth hit instantly.
Heat.
Steam.
The familiar smell of grass, sweat, and effort lingering in the air.
And with it came the release.
Not chaos.
Not screaming celebrations.
Just that collective exhale teams shared after a difficult away win.
Boots came off.
Tape peeled away.
Players dropped into seats, bodies finally letting themselves feel the match fully now that it was over.
Francesco sat at his place for a moment, leaning back as he untied his boots slowly.
His legs were heavy.
Not exhausted.
But used.
That good kind of fatigue.
The kind that reminded you the work had been real.
Across the room, Cech was already calmly removing his gloves, movements as controlled after the match as they were during it.
"Big save early," Francesco said.
Cech glanced up.
"Important moment."
"It changes the game if that goes in."
"Maybe."
That was as close to self-praise as Petr Cech ever got.
Nearby, Alexis sat with a towel around his shoulders, replaying moments from the first half in his head.
"We should have scored earlier," he muttered.
"We scored three," Walcott pointed out.
"We could have scored five."
"That's why you're impossible."
Alexis smirked slightly.
"Maybe."
Wenger entered quietly a moment later.
Not interrupting the atmosphere.
Just stepping into it naturally.
The room settled almost immediately anyway.
Respect did that.
He looked around at the players for a few seconds before speaking.
"Very good performance."
Simple.
But genuine.
"You controlled the match."
A few nods followed.
They knew it too.
Not just the scoreline.
The control.
That was what mattered most.
Wenger continued.
"You pressed exactly the way we discussed at halftime. Intelligent. Aggressive. Together."
That word again.
Together.
Always important.
Francesco glanced briefly around the room.
Koscielny listening quietly.
Van Dijk relaxed now, but still attentive.
Kanté sitting forward slightly despite looking like he could probably play another ninety minutes without complaint.
Young players absorbing every word.
Those moments mattered.
More than people realized.
Wenger's eyes shifted toward Francesco.
"And the captain led very well tonight."
Francesco gave a small nod.
"Team effort."
"Of course," Wenger replied. "But leadership matters."
That landed.
Not loudly.
But deeply.
Then Wenger's expression softened slightly.
"Recover properly. We travel tomorrow."
A collective groan followed immediately.
Walker threw his head back dramatically.
"I just got used to Russia."
"You got used to the hotel menu," Robertson corrected.
"That too."
A few laughs broke the remaining tension completely.
Wenger shook his head faintly, almost smiling.
Then his eyes returned to Francesco.
"After your shower," he said, "join me for the press conference."
Francesco nodded immediately.
"Okay."
The manager stepped back out, leaving the room to decompress again.
And almost instantly the atmosphere shifted once more.
Work finished.
Now came recovery.
Players began moving toward the showers, towels over shoulders, conversations picking up again in fragments.
Francesco stood, grabbing clean clothes from his bag before heading into the steam-filled shower room.
The hot water hit hard against tired muscles.
Immediate relief.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting the heat loosen the tension in his shoulders and legs.
Around him, voices echoed off the tiled walls.
Walcott was still defending the elegance of his goal.
"It was composed."
"It was running," Ramsey replied.
"Fast composed running."
"Sure."
Nearby, Van Dijk was quietly discussing defensive positioning with Koscielny, both replaying Spartak's early chances with the detached precision of defenders who never fully stopped analyzing.
Francesco listened without really joining in.
Just absorbing it all.
This was part of football too.
The unwinding afterward.
The shared exhaustion.
The comfort of routine.
Eventually, the showers emptied.
Steam drifted lazily through the room as players returned to the dressing area, fresher now, calmer.
Arsenal jumpsuits replaced match kits.
Red and navy training gear zipped up against the Moscow cold waiting outside.
Francesco dressed simply.
Black compression top underneath.
Club jumpsuit over it.
Watch back on.
Phone checked briefly.
A message from Leah waited there already.
Good win. Proud of you ❤️
A small smile flickered across his face almost automatically.
He typed back quickly.
Thank you. Miss you.
Then locked the phone again.
Across the room, Raya sat quietly near his locker, listening to Giroud and Walcott argue about finishing techniques.
Or rather, Walcott arguing and Giroud patiently dismantling every point.
"You leaned back too much in training yesterday," Giroud said.
"And still scored."
"That does not make it correct."
"It makes it effective."
"That is not the same thing."
Francesco shook his head faintly before grabbing his jacket.
"Press conference," he said aloud.
Walker pointed dramatically.
"Represent us well."
"That's dangerous," Alexis added.
"You say that like I'm reckless."
"You once tried a rabona in your own half."
"It almost worked."
"It did not."
"Details."
The room laughed again as Francesco headed for the exit.
Outside, the stadium corridors felt quieter now.
The chaos of the match replaced by the controlled movement of staff, media, and stadium workers beginning the slow process of closing the night down.
Wenger waited near the media area, hands in his coat pockets as always.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Yes."
They walked together toward the press conference room.
No rush.
No unnecessary conversation.
Just the quiet understanding that came from shared experience.
Francesco had done enough press conferences by now to know the rhythm of them.
The questions.
The narratives.
The attempts to create headlines.
Still, European nights always added extra attention.
More cameras.
More pressure.
More interest.
As they approached the room, the sound became noticeable first.
Voices.
Movement.
Camera equipment shifting.
Then the doors opened.
Flashes hit immediately.
Not blinding.
But constant.
The press room was full.
Journalists from England.
Russian media.
European outlets.
Microphones lined neatly across the table at the front.
UEFA branding behind it.
Professional.
Structured.
Familiar.
Wenger stepped forward first, taking his seat calmly.
Francesco sat beside him, adjusting the microphone slightly before leaning back.
The room settled quickly.
Then the press officer spoke.
"We begin."
Hands immediately went up.
The first question went to Wenger.
"Arsène, how important is this victory for Arsenal after two matches in the group stage?"
Wenger folded his hands lightly.
"It is an important result because away matches in Europe are never easy," he said calmly. "Tonight we showed maturity, discipline, and quality. We suffered a little early, but the response was very strong."
Pens moved quickly across notebooks.
Keyboards clicked.
Another reporter.
"Did the pressing in the second half come from frustration with the first half performance?"
Wenger shook his head slightly.
"No frustration. Adjustment. In the first half we controlled possession, but we allowed Spartak moments to settle. In the second half we pressed higher with more aggression and it changed the rhythm of the match."
Francesco listened quietly beside him, hands folded loosely together.
Then another question came.
This time directed at him.
"Francesco, your goal tonight was your seventh in all competitions already this season. Are you playing the best football of your career?"
The room shifted slightly toward him.
He paused briefly before answering.
"I think I'm playing confident football," he said honestly. "But that confidence comes from the team. The midfield worked incredibly hard tonight. The press from everyone made our job easier up front."
A reporter followed immediately.
"But personally, do you feel unstoppable right now?"
A few quiet chuckles moved through the room at the phrasing.
Francesco smiled faintly.
"No player is unstoppable. Football punishes you very quickly if you think like that."
Wenger glanced sideways briefly, approving the answer without saying anything.
Another hand rose.
"Arsène, how pleased were you with Serge Gnabry tonight?"
"Very pleased," Wenger replied immediately. "He was direct, intelligent, and worked extremely hard defensively. Young players improve through nights like this."
Gnabry would enjoy hearing that later.
Probably too much.
A Russian journalist spoke next, his English careful but clear.
"For Francesco. Spartak started strongly. Did you feel the pressure early in the match?"
Francesco nodded honestly.
"Yes. They were aggressive early and created dangerous moments. The atmosphere was excellent. You could feel the energy in the stadium immediately."
He glanced briefly around the room before continuing.
"But matches like this are about adapting. Once we settled into our rhythm, we became more comfortable."
Another question came quickly.
"You were substituted in the second half. Were you disappointed not to finish the match?"
"No," Francesco answered immediately. "The team comes first. We were leading, and fresh players helped us maintain intensity."
"That sounds like a captain's answer."
"It's the truth."
That earned a few smiles around the room.
Another reporter leaned forward.
"Arsène, do you believe this team can compete seriously for the Champions League?"
There it was.
The big question.
Wenger remained calm.
"We are improving," he said carefully. "We have quality, but the competition is very difficult. What matters is consistency, humility, and continuing to grow."
Then another voice.
"Francesco, do the players believe they can win it?"
Francesco didn't answer immediately.
He thought for a second.
Then spoke carefully.
"We believe we can compete against anybody when we play at our level," he said. "But belief alone means nothing without work. Nights like this are important because they show our mentality, not just our talent."
The room quieted slightly at that.
A good answer.
An honest one.
More questions followed.
About Van Dijk's performance.
About Cech's early save.
About Kanté controlling midfield.
About Walcott's impact off the bench.
Wenger answered most with his usual composed precision, occasionally deflecting praise back toward the collective.
Francesco contributed when needed, always bringing the focus back toward the team rather than himself.
Eventually, one final question came from an English reporter near the back.
"For both of you. What pleased you most tonight?"
Wenger answered first.
"The control after halftime."
Then he gestured lightly toward Francesco.
Francesco considered it.
Then said quietly.
"The way we stayed together."
Simple.
But true.
Because that had been the difference.
Not just quality.
Connection.
Trust.
The press officer stood.
"Last question."
A Russian journalist raised his hand.
"For Francesco. You looked very calm tonight, even during difficult moments. Where does that calmness come from?"
Francesco leaned back slightly.
"Experience helps," he admitted. "But honestly… when you trust the players around you, it becomes easier to stay calm."
He smiled faintly.
"And Petr saved us early. That also helps."
Laughter broke through the room lightly, including from Wenger himself.
The press officer nodded.
"Thank you."
And just like that, it was over.
Chairs moved.
Cameras lowered.
Voices rose again.
Francesco stood alongside Wenger, buttoning his jacket as they stepped away from the table.
Another match completed.
Another performance analyzed.
But as they walked back into the quieter stadium corridors, away from the cameras and microphones, the feeling that stayed with him wasn't the goal.
Or the headlines that would come tomorrow.
It was the same thing he'd felt at dinner with the team days earlier, which is the connection between them.
The corridor outside the press room felt almost strangely quiet after the constant rhythm of questions and camera shutters.
Not silent.
Never silent on European nights.
But quieter.
More human again.
Francesco walked beside Wenger through the stadium hallway, both of them moving at an unhurried pace while staff members passed in the opposite direction carrying equipment, laptops, bundles of cables, stacks of UEFA documents.
The adrenaline of the match had begun to fade now, replaced by that slower exhaustion that always arrived afterward.
Not immediately.
Gradually.
Like the body finally realizing the work was done.
Wenger adjusted the collar of his coat slightly as they walked.
"You answered well," he said calmly.
Francesco glanced over briefly.
"So did you."
"That is my job."
"That's also my answer."
That earned the smallest smile from Wenger.
Rare.
Which made it matter more.
They continued down the corridor together before reaching the dressing room entrance again. The noise inside was already louder than before as it was not a wild celebration, but the relaxed energy of a team settling after the pressure had passed.
Wenger stopped at the door.
"Recovery tomorrow morning," he reminded him.
"I know."
"Sleep."
"I'll try."
"That means you will not."
Francesco laughed quietly.
"Probably not."
Wenger gave one final nod before stepping away toward the staff section of the stadium, leaving Francesco to push open the dressing room door again.
Warmth hit instantly.
Along with noise.
Walker was in the middle of retelling something dramatically to Giroud while using a water bottle as a visual aid.
"…and then I looked up and realized Theo was already halfway down the pitch."
"That is because Theo runs faster than you think," Giroud replied calmly.
"No one runs faster than I think."
"That sentence makes no sense."
"It makes emotional sense."
"Worse."
Laughter moved through the room again.
Francesco shook his head faintly as he walked back toward his locker.
Most of the players were already changed now.
Match kits replaced with Arsenal jumpsuits and winter jackets.
Some sat scrolling through phones. Others stretched quietly. A few were eating recovery snacks that staff had placed around the room.
Alexis glanced up as Francesco sat down.
"How many questions about your goal?"
"Enough."
"How many about the Champions League?"
"Too many."
Alexis smirked.
"They always ask too early."
"They always will."
Nearby, Cech zipped up his jacket carefully before standing.
"Bus leaves in ten," he said.
Of course he knew the exact timing.
Of course.
Koscielny stood beside his locker rolling stiffness out of his shoulders slowly.
"Tough match," he muttered quietly.
Francesco nodded.
"Tough first twenty minutes."
"They pressed well."
"But we adjusted."
"That's why we won."
Simple.
True.
The final bits of recovery finished quickly after that.
Tape discarded.
Bags packed again.
Phones checked.
One by one, players began standing and moving toward the exit.
The rhythm returning.
Always moving forward.
Francesco grabbed his duffel bag and slid the strap over his shoulder before following the group out through the corridor once more.
The stadium had changed again since kickoff.
Emptier now.
Cleaner.
The aftermath of the event already beginning to disappear into routine.
Security still lined parts of the hallway, though the atmosphere was calmer now. A few stadium staff members nodded respectfully as Arsenal players passed.
Outside, the Moscow cold greeted them immediately again.
Sharper late at night.
Their breath visible instantly under the floodlights surrounding the players' entrance.
The team bus waited nearby, engine humming softly in the dark.
Players climbed aboard gradually.
No rush.
Bodies heavier now.
Fatigue setting in properly.
Francesco stepped onto the bus and made his way toward his usual seat by the window again. Gnabry dropped into the seat beside him seconds later, still carrying the restless energy of someone who had scored in Europe.
"You know Wenger praised me in the press conference?"
"I heard."
"He said I was intelligent."
"You should frame that."
"That's exactly what I was thinking."
Francesco laughed softly, leaning back into his seat as the bus doors closed.
Around them, conversations drifted lazily through the aisle.
Ramsey and Walcott were discussing the counterattack for the third time.
Walker had somehow started talking about Russian desserts now.
Alexis had finally put headphones in, signaling the end of all unnecessary interaction.
The bus pulled away from the stadium smoothly.
And for the first time all night, the pressure fully disappeared.
Not because the match was forgotten.
Because it was completed.
Handled.
Outside the windows, Moscow passed by in streaks of light and shadow.
The roads glistened faintly under the streetlamps, the city quieter now than it had been before kickoff.
Francesco rested his head lightly against the seat, eyes drifting toward the glass.
European away wins always felt different afterward.
There was a calm satisfaction to them.
A feeling that you had taken something difficult and handled it properly.
Beside him, Gnabry checked his phone and immediately grinned.
"What?"
"My brother already posted my goal."
"That was fast."
"He works efficiently."
"Apparently."
"You think they'll show it again on Champions League highlights?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"Serge."
"What?"
"You scored. Of course they will."
"Fair point."
The ride back to the hotel felt shorter than the ride to the stadium.
It always did after wins.
Eventually the bus slowed, turning into the hotel entrance once more.
Lights glowed warmly through the tall glass windows as the bus came to a stop.
Doors opened.
Cold air returned.
Players stepped off slowly this time, carrying that post-match heaviness in their legs.
Inside, the hotel lobby remained active despite the late hour.
Staff moved quietly.
A few guests glanced over as the Arsenal squad entered together.
Some players immediately headed toward the elevators.
Others stayed near the lobby.
Hungry.
Still too wired to sleep.
Walker looked around dramatically.
"Food."
"That's all you think about," Ramsey said.
"It's all any of us think about after ninety minutes."
"That's not true."
"It is for me."
A small group peeled off toward the restaurant area almost immediately, including Ramsey, Walcott, Kanté, and several others.
But Francesco wasn't quite ready for food yet.
Not immediately.
He wanted to sit.
Breathe.
Let the night settle properly first.
So when Özil nodded toward the lounge area, Francesco followed.
Along with Alexis, Walker, Giroud, and Koscielny.
The hotel lounge sat tucked near the far side of the lobby, quieter than the restaurant and dimly lit with soft amber lighting. Leather chairs circled low tables, and the atmosphere felt relaxed in the way only late-night hotel lounges ever did.
The group settled naturally.
Alexis dropped into one chair with a sigh.
Walker immediately stole the largest sofa spot.
"Captain privileges," Francesco said.
"I got here first."
"That's not how captaincy works."
"It should be."
Giroud sat gracefully as always, somehow looking composed even after ninety minutes of football.
Koscielny leaned back carefully, stretching one leg out slightly.
Özil remained quiet at first, sipping slowly from a glass of water while listening to the others.
For a while, the conversation stayed easy.
Loose.
Football mixed with nonsense the way it always did after matches.
Walker insisted Walcott's goal counted as "basically an assist" because of "emotional support from the bench."
No one agreed.
Giroud calmly explained why Theo's finish had actually been more difficult than it looked.
Alexis argued they still should have scored more.
Of course he did.
"We wasted transitions," he muttered.
"We won 3–0," Walker replied.
"We could have won 5–0."
"There he is," Francesco said.
"The Alexis standard."
Alexis smirked slightly but didn't deny it.
At one point, the conversation drifted away from football entirely.
Toward travel.
Toward strange away trips.
Toward the worst hotel food anyone had experienced.
Walker claimed a hotel in Belgium once served him "a sandwich that looked emotionally damaged."
No one fully understood what that meant.
But somehow everyone accepted it.
The hours stretched gently after that.
Not late enough to feel irresponsible.
But late enough that exhaustion slowly started winning.
One by one, the group began standing.
Giroud first.
Then Koscielny.
Then Alexis, who simply pointed toward the elevators and said, "Sleep."
Probably the wisest thing he'd said all night.
Eventually Francesco stood too.
His legs felt heavier now than they had an hour earlier.
That delayed fatigue finally settling properly into the body.
As he reached the elevator beside Özil, the German midfielder glanced sideways at him.
"You handled the press conference well."
"So did you."
"I wasn't there."
"Exactly."
That got a quiet laugh.
The elevator doors opened.
And finally, the night ended.
Morning arrived softer than expected.
The exhaustion of the previous evening had settled heavily enough that most of the squad slept later than usual.
But not too late.
Never too late.
Travel day carried its own rhythm.
By late morning, the lobby had filled once again with Arsenal tracksuits, travel bags, and the familiar quiet efficiency of professional athletes preparing to move again.
This time, though, the atmosphere felt lighter.
A win did that.
Francesco arrived with his bag over one shoulder, coffee in hand, and found most of the group already gathered near the entrance.
Walker looked half asleep.
"How are you alive?" Ramsey asked him.
"I'm functioning on vibes."
"That's concerning."
"It's effective."
Nearby, Kanté stood calmly with headphones around his neck, somehow looking completely refreshed already.
Unfair.
Entirely unfair.
The team bus waited outside once more.
Same dark windows.
Same familiar routine.
But now there was a different feeling underneath it.
Mission completed.
As the squad climbed aboard, conversations came easier again.
More relaxed.
More laughter.
Even the Moscow cold seemed less sharp this morning.
Francesco took his seat beside the window again, watching the hotel slowly disappear behind them as the bus pulled away toward the airport.
The city moved around them quietly.
Morning traffic.
Grey skies.
Long roads stretching through Moscow's massive landscape.
Gnabry sat beside him once more.
Of course he did.
"You think Leah watched the match?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"She messaged me before the press conference."
"That's nice."
"It is."
Gnabry nodded thoughtfully for a second.
Then immediately ruined the moment.
"My brother says my goal looked better than yours."
Francesco stared at him.
"You woke up and chose violence."
"I'm just reporting facts."
"Those aren't facts."
"They are in my household."
The airport arrived not long after.
Private terminal again.
Efficient.
Structured.
The kind of smooth travel process elite clubs operated within almost automatically.
Bags unloaded.
Security cleared quickly.
Minimal waiting.
Francesco moved through it all calmly, passport tucked into his jacket pocket, headphones resting around his neck.
Around him, the team had shifted into that familiar travel quiet again.
Not unfriendly.
Just tired.
Satisfied.
Ready to go home.
Eventually they boarded the plane.
Same seats.
Same rhythm.
Francesco dropped into place beside the window again as the cabin filled steadily around him.
Walker immediately asked the most important question of the morning.
"What food do we get this time?"
"You just ate breakfast," Robertson replied.
"That was emotionally different."
"No normal person speaks like this."
"I'm creative."
The aircraft doors closed.
Engines hummed louder.
Seatbelts clicked into place.
And slowly, the plane began to move.
Taxiing across the runway beneath the pale Moscow sky.
Francesco looked out the window as the aircraft turned.
The city stretched in the distance one last time.
Cold.
Massive.
Memorable.
Then acceleration came.
The engines roared.
The runway blurred.
And Moscow slowly fell away beneath them.
The flight home settled into a quieter mood than the flight out.
Less anticipation.
More recovery.
Some players slept almost immediately.
Others watched films or listened to music.
A few reviewed moments from the match again on tablets provided by the staff.
Francesco spent part of the flight watching clips silently beside Cazorla, the two occasionally pausing to discuss movement or positioning briefly before continuing.
Even after a 3–0 win, details still mattered.
Always.
Hours passed gradually.
Clouds drifted outside the windows.
Cabin lights dimmed.
And eventually the captain's voice came over the speakers announcing descent into London.
That familiar feeling returned instantly.
Home.
The plane broke through cloud cover slowly, revealing England beneath them again.
Grey skies.
Green fields.
Familiar roads.
Different from Moscow immediately.
The aircraft touched down smoothly.
A soft jolt.
Reverse thrust.
Deceleration.
Back home.
Players began gathering bags quietly as the plane taxied toward the private terminal.
Phones buzzed back to life with messages.
Notifications.
Family.
Friends.
Media reactions.
Normality returning again.
Francesco grabbed his bag from the overhead compartment and waited calmly as the line slowly moved forward.
Then the doors opened.
And London air greeted them again.
Softer.
Damper.
Familiar.
They stepped down onto the tarmac before boarding the final team bus back toward Colney.
This journey felt the quietest of all.
Not awkward silence.
Content silence.
The kind that only came after good work.
Francesco sat back in his seat, watching the English roads pass outside the window while conversations drifted softly through the bus around him.
Training would resume soon enough.
Another match would come.
Another challenge.
Football never stopped moving.
But for now, just briefly, there was satisfaction in the stillness between moments.
And as the bus rolled through the gates of Colney once again, Arsenal returned not just with three points but with belief growing stronger every step forward.
______________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 18 (2016)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, 2015/2016 Community Shield, 2016/2017 Premier League, 2015/2016 Champions League, Euro 2016, Premier League Champion 2016/2017, and 2016/2017 Champions League.
Season 17/18 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 15
Goal: 19
Assist: 1
MOTM: 2
POTM: 0
England:
Match: 2
Goal: 2
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 16/17 stats:
Arsenal:
Match: 55
Goal: 87
Assist: 5
MOTM: 14
POTM: 1
England:
Match: 1
Goal: 1
Assist: 0
MOTM: 0
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 60
Goal: 82
Assist: 10
MOTM: 9
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Euro 2016
Match Played: 6
Goal: 13
Assist: 4
MOTM: 6
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9