The ball hit the net.
The sound—a sharp, violent ripppp—was the only thing audible in the entire stadium.
For a moment everyone on tottemham sides was stunned silent.
Davinson Sánchez, Tottenham's record signing, stood frozen in the six-yard box.
He looked like a man who had walked into a room and forgotten why he was there.
He had spent the last 48 hours studying video tapes of Manchester United's number 7.
He had notes on his iPad: Watch the cut-inside. Don't dive in. Force him wide.
But the notes didn't say anything about what to do after eleven fucking seconds.
Reality crashed back in.
Hugo Lloris scrambled up from the turf, his face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.
He punched the grass so hard a divot flew up.
"FUUUUUUUUUCK!"
The scream echoed around the silent penalty area.
He had been made the highlight reel victim again.
Lloris turned on his defenders, veins bulging in his neck.
"What the fuck are you all doing?!" Lloris roared, pointing a shaking finger at Vertonghen and Sánchez.
"We haven't even started! Why are you standing there like fucking statues?!"
"Wake up! Jesus Christ, wake up!"
"They walk into our box in ten seconds! Ten seconds! What am I supposed to do?!"
No one answered him.
Vertonghen looked at his boots.
Sánchez looked at the sky.
They chose silence because there was no defense for what had just happened. It was indefensible.
It was embarrassing.
Thirty yards away, Son Heung-min stood with his hands on his hips, watching the wild celebration in the corner.
He felt a sick, heavy feeling in his stomach.
It wasn't just disappointment, it was a creeping sense of crisis.
He watched Ling slide on his knees, surrounded by Pogba and Lukaku.
'Nineteen.'
With that tap-in, Ling had nineteen Premier League goals.
Son clenched his jaw.
He had 24 Premier League goals in his entire career so far.
The gap was closing terrifyingly fast.
The record for the most goals by an Asian player in the Premier League—a record Son rightfully felt belonged to him—was under threat.
'He's catching up to me me,' Son thought, a bitter taste in his mouth.
'Luck played a part today, sure. But luck follows him.'
...
"Good evening, viewers... and... well..."
Martin Tyler's voice faltered for the first time in years.
"If you have just switched on your television sets, do not adjust the picture. The scoreline is correct."
"Manchester United have launched a Blitzkrieg in North London! They have the ball in the net just eleven seconds after the referee blew his whistle!"
"It is absolutely unbelievable!"
Gary Neville, sitting beside him, was frantically checking his notes, looking stunned.
"It's the fastest goal of the season, Martin. Without a doubt," Neville said, his voice rising in pitch.
"I'm looking at the history books... This is the third-fastest goal in Premier League history!"
"Ledley King is number one—9.9 seconds. Alan Shearer is second at 10.4 seconds. And now, Ling clocks in at 11.1 seconds."
"Eleven point one," Neville chuckled, shaking his head. "That's an unlucky number for Spurs, isn't it?"
@SpursOfficial:Kickoff... and... Goal for Manchester United. 0-1.
@ArsenalFanTV:HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. LADS, IT'S TOTTENHAM! WHAT DO WE THINK OF SHIT?
@RedDevil_DNA:I went to the toilet as the whistle blew. I came back and we're winning. WHAT HAPPENED?!
@TacticalTim:Is Mourinho a wizard? That was a fucking voodoo not a tactics.
@LingFan99:11.1 seconds. Lloris is officially Ling's lucky charm. Does anyone have the QR code for that temple? I need to donate five quid immediately.
@UnitedStand:BUILD THE STATUE ALREADY!
...
Down on the touchline, the scene was almost comedic.
Mauricio Pochettino and Jose Mourinho had walked toward each other to shake hands, smiling like old friends.
The whistle blew. They extended their hands.
Roar.
They froze.
Their hands were still extended, locked in a handshake that never happened.
A photographer snapped the picture—two legendary managers looking like confused statues.
Slowly, silently, they withdrew their hands.
Mourinho turned around and jogged over to Rui Faria.
His face was bewildered.
"How the hell did that happen?" Mourinho whispered.
Faria was laughing, gesturing wildly. "Jones hoofed it. Lukaku bullied Vertonghen. Lingard shot. Lloris saved. Ling tapped it in. Boom. Simple."
Faria wiped a tear from his eye. "Boss, it's a shame you missed it. Maybe next time, keep your eyes on the pitch instead of hugging Poch."
Mourinho shook his head, a smirk creeping onto his face.
"Damn it. That goal has completely disrupted my game plan. But... what a wonderful February this is going to be."
Behind them, on the bench, the new signings were in shock.
Mateo Kovacic swallowed hard.
He leaned over to David Luiz.
"Do they... do they always play like this in England?" he asked in broken English.
David Luiz let out a loud, cackling laugh. "No idea, brother! It must be that Manchester United luck!"
Luiz leaned back, crossing his arms.
He had a feeling joining this team was the best decision of his life!
...
A few yards away, the mood was apocalyptic.
Mauricio Pochettino turned and viciously kicked the plastic siding of the dugout.
BANG!
The force shook the camera mounted above the coaching area. If he hadn't ducked, the lens would have smashed him in the head.
Usually, Pochettino was calm.
He was philosophical.
But everyone has a breaking point.
This was the eruption of months of accumulated stress.
The schedule was brutal—United, Liverpool, Arsenal, Juventus.
And the board? They demanded Champions League football. They demanded trophies.
And they gave him a budget of £40 million.
He looked across at the United bench. Mourinho had spent £100 million in the summer and just added more.
Pep had spent the GDP of a small country.
'It's impossible,' Pochettino thought, the bitterness rising in his throat. 'How am I supposed to compete with this?'
But he forced himself to breathe.
He was the leader. If he cracked, the team cracked.
He strode to the technical area, clapping his hands aggressively.
"Heads up! Focus!" he screamed at Dier and Dembele. "Establish the line! Press them! Do not let them breathe!"
...
The match resumed. But the damage was done and Spurs were rattled.
United, sensing blood in the water, launched an aggressive press.
They didn't sit back and they hunted.
The effect was immediate.
Under pressure from Lingard and Matic, Tottenham's midfield crumbled.
The passing lanes were cut. The ball ended up back at Jan Vertonghen's feet.
He looked up. Panic.
Dier was marked. Sánchez was marked.
The nearest open teammate was twenty yards away.
Vertonghen couldn't risk losing it again. He did the only thing he could—he hoofed a miserable, high ball upfield.
"That is food and drink for the defenders," Neville noted on commentary.
Harry Kane battled bravely, fighting through the sandwich of Smalling and Phil Jones to flick the header on.
But United were sharper.
Antonio Valencia snapped onto the loose ball, beating Son to the punch. He played a crisp diagonal pass to Pogba on the left.
United broke.
"Watch this transition," Neville said. "Pogba clips it long... to Ling!"
The ball soared toward the right flank.
Kieran Trippier, Tottenham's right-back, was caught too high. He backpedaled frantically, terror in his eyes. He knew he didn't have the legs.
Ling killed the ball dead with his chest.
He faced Trippier up.
"This is a mismatch," Neville said. "This is what we call 'isolated dominance'."
Pochettino had played Trippier for his crossing ability, hoping to pin United back.
But he had overlooked one fatal flaw: Trippier couldn't defend one-on-one against elite speed.
Ling dropped his shoulder.
Trippier froze.
Zoom.
Ling blew past him on the outside like he was standing still. Trippier tried to grab his shirt, but he grabbed only air.
"He's ghosted pass him!" Tyler shouted.
Ling reached the byline. He looked up. Romelu Lukaku was charging into the box.
Ling whipped a low, hard cross toward the near post.
Lukaku arrived like a freight train and he met the ball on the volley.
Thwack!
The net rippled—but it was the side netting. The ball whistled inches past the post.
The crowd groaned.
Lukaku stomped the turf in frustration, spitting on the grass.
"Fuck!"
He turned to Ling and gave a thumbs-up. "Great ball, kid!"
"I forgot you're left-footed!" Ling shouted back, grinning. "I should have played it a yard further forward!"
Lukaku waved him off, laughing.
United were purring.
They were 1-0 up, playing at the Devil's Home Ground, and they looked like they owned the place.
---------
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