Truth be told, Manchester is usually a quiet city.
It is a working-class city of grey skies and industrial rhythm.
On ordinary days, aside from the occasional jogger pounding the pavement or a fitness enthusiast braving the drizzle, the streets are rarely bustling with activity.
But today was different.
The moment the final whistle blew, the tranquility of Manchester was shattered into a million pieces.
The pent-up passion of over 75,000 fans at Old Trafford erupted with the force of a volcanic event.
It wasn't just a cheer; it was a roar that shook the foundations of the Sir Alex Ferguson Stand.
They celebrated United's 2-1 victory over their noisy neighbors with near-frenzied ecstasy.
This wasn't just three points; this was a statement.
United had equaled Juventus' legendary record of 44 unbeaten home matches.
United had climbed to the summit of the Premier League table.
United had rediscovered the gritty, never-say-die spirit that had been lost in the post-Ferguson wilderness.
And most importantly, United had found their new Number 7.
A player who didn't just wear the shirt, but carried the weight of its history.
Each individual element would be enough to send the fans into a delirium, but tonight, they were all gathered together in a perfect storm of euphoria.
In the Stretford End, flares were pulled from pockets.
Fizz!!!
Red smoke hissed and billowed outward, painting the cold night sky a deep, blood crimson.
The powerful floodlights above Old Trafford cast beams of light through the thick, swirling smoke, creating a spectacular Tyndall effect.
Shafts of light cut through the red haze like a cathedral, making the fans feel as if they were witnessing a religious resurrection.
For the older fans, countless fragments of memories surged forth through the mist.
They saw Eric Cantona's collar standing tall against the world.
They saw David Beckham's right foot swinging through a mesmerising curve.
They saw Cristiano Ronaldo's dazzling step-overs and lightning speed.
And now, through the smoke, they saw Ling.
This was the legacy of the Red Devils.
It had returned.
Strangers embraced strangers, tears streaming down faces flushed with cold and joy.
They sang the anthem, their voices hoarse but powerful.
"Glory, Glory, Man United!""As the Reds go marching on, on, on!"
The impassioned melody echoed through the skies, drifting over the canals and terraced houses of Manchester.
The Manchester City fans in the away end had largely vanished.
They left early, unable to bear the sight of the celebrations. Watching your bitter rivals party is a specific kind of torture that no football fan handles well.
It wasn't their fault they were heartbroken.
This match carried the weight of the season. Most crucially, the "Blue Moon" had been knocked out of orbit.
With 21 rounds of the Premier League completed, the table had shifted:
1. Manchester United - 61 Points
2. Manchester City - 58 Points
3. Tottenham Hotspur - 48 Points
4. Arsenal - 47 Points
What did this mean? It signified that Manchester United were on pace for a historic centurion season.
They had the chance to set a record that would be forever etched into English football history.
Of course, the City fans trudging back to the train station weren't entirely without hope.
They were only three points behind—a single slip-up.
The FA Cup was starting in January, the Champions League in February.
The schedule would become a meat grinder.
City's squad depth, funded by oil money, was far superior to United's. United's squad was thinner, prone to injury.
For now, United were merely the "Winter Champions."
City fans secretly cursed under their breath, hoping United would be struck by the infamous "Arsenal Curse"—a total collapse after spring, dropping points against relegation fodder.
One wonders how Arsenal fans would feel catching strays in the thoughts of City supporters?
...
The referee led the players in the customary post-match walkaround to thank the fans.
The snow was still falling lightly.
Ling, his adrenaline finally fading, noticed a young ball girl shivering near the advertising hoardings.
Her nose was red, and she was rubbing her arms to stay warm.
Without hesitation, Ling took off the heavy training jacket Mourinho had draped over him earlier and gently placed it over the girl's shoulders.
The girl, Amelia, froze.
She instinctively turned to look back, her eyes wide with disbelief.
She asked timidly, her voice trembling, "Ling... can I take a photo with you later?"
Ling smiled, his expression gentle and warm in the cold night.
"Of course. No problem. Autographs, photos—and this jersey? It's yours to keep as a memento."
"Really?"
"Really. Just promise me one thing," Ling said, winking. "Keep supporting Manchester United."
Amelia gazed up at him.
To her, he wasn't just a player; he looked like a superhero.
She clenched her small fist tightly and nodded firmly. "I'll always support you! Always!"
The walkaround concluded.
The City players had long since disappeared down the tunnel, licking their wounds.
The United players lingered, soaking in the adulation.
"Great job, lads!" "The sky over Manchester is Red tonight!" "We are going to win the league!"
Mourinho stood by the tunnel entrance, high-fiving every player.
When Ling approached, shivering slightly in just his kit, Mourinho shot him a glare.
"I gave you that jacket to keep your muscles warm, not to play Santa Claus," Mourinho grumbled.
Then, without a word, he turned to his assistant, Rui Faria, stripped Faria of his jacket, and draped it over Ling.
"Boss, that's mine..." Faria protested weakly.
"He scored the winner, Rui. You just sat there," Mourinho deadpanned.
Ling sheepishly rubbed his nose, hiding a smile.
He quickly signed a spare jersey for Amelia, took the promised photo, and jogged into the warmth of the locker room.
Meanwhile, on the forecourt outside the Megastore, the chaos of "Fan TV" was in full swing.
A host with a microphone and a cameraman were surrounded by a mob of cheering fans.
The host pulled a young boy, no older than twelve, out of the crowd.
"What did you think of the game, lad?"
The boy, wearing a scarf that was too big for him, was breathless.
"When City scored, I was gutted. I thought we were done. But then... everything changed! The last ten minutes! Ling was amazing! Lingard, Rojo... they were all warriors!"
"You sound like you've lost your voice!" the host laughed.
"I have!" the boy screamed. "And I've decided... I'm not going to school tomorrow!"
"You're not going to school?"
"No chance! I'm celebrating!"
"YEAHHHH!" The crowd behind him erupted, lifting the young fan onto their shoulders and tossing him into the air like a trophy.
The host laughed into the camera, bewildered.
"Well, you heard it here first. Education can wait. United are top of the league!"
...
Thirty minutes later.
The press room was packed, the air thick with humidity and anticipation.
Facing the flashbulbs, Jose Mourinho wasn't his usual explosive self.
He sat back, looking almost philosophical.
"There are people who say Pep is smarter than me," Mourinho said softly, toying with a water bottle.
"People say he is better at crafting an image. You could say he is completely different from me. But at the core? We are the same animal. We are obsessed with winning."
"Just as Pep said before the match," Mourinho continued, "we are merely head coaches. There is no winner or loser between us as men. Only between the teams."
A reporter from The Sun frowned.
This was too polite.
Peace didn't sell newspapers. He needed a headline.
"Jose," the reporter interrupted. "You two once worked together at Barcelona. It is well known that you wanted the Barcelona job back in 2008, but the executives chose Guardiola instead. Do you feel this win is revenge for that rejection?"
The room went silent.
Mourinho's expression darkened instantly.
The mask of politeness slipped.
He couldn't help but recall the past.
He remembered 2008 vividly. Barcelona executive Txiki Begiristain had come to him.
Mourinho had prepared a PowerPoint presentation, a meticulous dossier analyzing every player, outlining the reinforcements needed.
He had poured his soul into that pitch.
And then? They gave the job to the rookie. To Pep.
It felt like swallowing poison.
Betrayal.
That was the word he detested most. The glorious image of Barcelona in his heart died that day, and his relationship with Guardiola was fractured forever.
"Sorry," Mourinho said coldly. "I refuse to answer that question."
"But if Manchester United were to face Barcelona in the Champions League knockout stage," the reporter pressed, sensing blood, "how would you feel about that?"
Mourinho slowly leaned forward into the microphone.
A smirk curled on his lips—the arrogant, dangerous smirk of the "Special One."
"How would I feel?"
He paused for effect.
"They are weaker than they were in 2010. And I am stronger than I was in 2010. It wouldn't be a thrilling match," Mourinho said dismissively.
"It would be a formality."
Camera shutters clicked furiously.
There was the headline!
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