The team bus rolled slowly through the cordoned-off exit at Old Trafford, blue lights flashing at the front as security guided them out into the Manchester night.
It was strange.
On one side of the road, a cluster of City fans had gathered—not massive, but loud enough. A few sky-blue shirts, phones out, grinning faces.
"Brandt! Come to City!" someone shouted as the bus crawled past.
A handful clapped.
One held up a sign with a crude drawing of a crown over the number 10.
On the other side?
Silence.
United fans stood with folded arms, scarves hanging limp around their necks. Some stared blankly at the bus. Some shook their heads. A few turned their backs entirely.
No boos. No shouts.
Just that cold, stunned quiet that only comes after something has truly hurt.
Inside the bus, a few Frankfurt players glanced out the window.
Uzun whistled softly. "They look like they've just watched a funeral."
Larsson leaned over the seat. "Technically they did."
