"Phew... the ref finally blow the whistle."
Gary Neville slumped back in his chair in the Sky Sports studio, staring at the final scoreline on the monitor.
He looked shell-shocked.
Tottenham Hotspur 0 - 7 Manchester United.
"I don't think anyone predicted this," Jamie Carragher said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't think anyone even dared to imagine it. Seven goals? At White Hart Lane?"
"Remember, this isn't a relegation team," Neville emphasized. "Spurs are fourth in the league. They beat Real Madrid and Dortmund in the Champions League this season. But today? They were an absolute shambles. They melted."
"United lost to Burnley last week," Carragher noted. "People said the wheels were falling off. People said the unbeaten run ending would break them. Instead? They roared back. They didn't just win; they committed a murder on live television."
"And the boy, Ling," Neville said, a smile creeping onto his face. "Four goals. He has set the record for an Asian player in the Premier League. Braces, hat-tricks, and now four in one game. It feels like a dream."
...
Down in the bowels of the stadium, the silence was deafening.
Hugo Lloris sat on the bench, still wearing his goalkeeper gloves.
He stared at the floor, sweat dripping from his nose. He didn't have the energy to scream anymore. Among the 22 players on the pitch, he was the most exhausted. He had spent 90 minutes picking the ball out of his net.
"Is this how we finish?" Lloris whispered, his voice cracking.
He looked up, scanning the room.
"Seven goals. At home. In the final season at the Lane."
Lloris stood up and kicked a water bottle across the room. It exploded against a locker.
"This is a fucking disgrace!" Lloris roared, veins bulging in his neck. "This match will be tattooed on you for the rest of your lives! You bottled it! You let them walk all over us!"
No one answered.
Kieran Trippier sat in the corner, holding an ice pack to his temple.
He stared blankly at the wall. He wanted to look away from the replays on the TV screen, but his neck was too stiff.
He felt sick. Not just from the score, but from fear.
Spurs had a culture of "tactical fouling."
They were known for the dark arts—the little stomps, the late hits. They had gotten away with it for years.
But today? They picked a fight with the wrong team.
Trippier touched the bruise on his temple. Ling's elbow. It wasn't an accident. It was precise.
It was vicious!
'If I hadn't stomped on him...' Trippier thought, a cold sweat breaking out. 'He nearly took my head off. If that elbow was an inch lower, I wouldn't be sitting here. I'd be in a hospital.'
He realized, with a sinking feeling, that he had woken up a monster.
Across the room, Son Heung-min sat with a towel over his head.
The sense of crisis he felt before the game—the fear of Ling breaking his records—was gone.
It was replaced by a hollow emptiness.
Ling had scored four goals.
He now had 22 for the season. He was only two behind Son. The record would be broken next week.
It was inevitable.
'What a fucking terrible game', Son thought bitterly.
But it wasn't just the stats.
Son remembered the brawl. When Trippier stomped on Ling, the United players went nuclear.
Lukaku, Pogba, Matic—they charged in like a pack of wolves to protect their cub. They fought for him. They were willing to bleed for him.
Son looked around the silent Spurs dressing room.
He had been at the club for years, but he still felt like an outsider. If he got fouled, would Dier or Dele start a riot for him? Or would they just complain to the referee?
He felt a pang of intense jealousy.
'That is what a team looks like' Son thought. 'That is what a family looks like.'
Son spat on the floor, threw his towel down, and walked silently toward the showers, leaving a lonely figure behind him.
...
The stadium was empty, except for the Away End.
The Manchester United fans weren't leaving.
They were bouncing!
"Oh, oh, oh! It's the team called Tottenham Hotspur!"
"They've got no Champions League, they've got no Premier League!"
"They've got fuck all!"
"But we came to the Lane and scored SEVEN!"
In the middle of the Red Sea, the Arsenal fan in the black jacket was still there.
He had linked arms with two United supporters, singing at the top of his lungs.
"SEVEN-NIL! SEVEN-NIL!" the Arsenal fan screamed, filming a video on his phone.
He hit send to his "Gunners For Life" WhatsApp group.
Message:Best night of my life. United did the Lord's work. North London is Red (and a bit of United Red too).
"Good lad!" A United fan slapped him on the back. "Your prediction was spot on! Get this man three more beers!"
"We're heading to the pub in Covent Garden after this," another fan shouted. "You're coming with us! No excuses!"
"I'll be there!" the Arsenal fan laughed.
The enemy of my enemy was definitely his best friend tonight!
...
Thirty minutes later.
The press room was packed and the air was thick with tension.
Jose Mourinho walked in.
He didn't look like a manager who had just won 7-0. He looked like a general who had just burned a city to the ground.
He sat down, unbuttoned his blazer, and stared at the journalists.
"Mr. Mourinho," a reporter from The Guardian stood up immediately. "Congratulations on the win. But I have to ask... what is your opinion on Ling's elbow on Trippier? It looked like malicious retaliation."
The room went quiet.
Mourinho leaned into the microphone.
A dark, dangerous smile curled on his lips.
"Opinion?" Mourinho scoffed. "You want my opinion?"
He pointed a finger at the camera.
"You should ask Pochettino why his player committed a malicious assault on the boy. You saw the replay. He deliberately stomped on Ling's Achilles. He tried to break his leg."
"If Pochettino thinks that is how you win championships," Mourinho paused, his eyes flashing with arrogance. "Then let me tell him... as a coach with two Champions League titles, two Europa Leagues, three Premier League titles... twenty-five trophies in total..."
Mourinho raised his hand, listing the trophies on his fingers.
"That approach... does not work."
He shook his finger gently, like a teacher scolding a naughty child.
"Respect," Mourinho whispered. "Respect the game."
The journalists scribbled furiously.
The "Special One" was back!
"Finally," Mourinho stood up, looking down at the reporter. "I saw what happened. And I told my players at halftime: protect each other."
"I support everything my players did today. Everything. If anyone wants to criticize them for fighting back? If anyone wants to punish them?"
Mourinho slammed his hand on the table.
"They will have to kill me first."
-----
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