The atmosphere in the press room was heavy.
Vincenzo Montella wiped sweat from his brow, looking like a man trying to sell a used car with no engine.
"Mr. Montella," a reporter from Marca asked, "what are your thoughts on today's match? You conceded two away goals."
"We didn't perform well in defense," Montella sighed, loosening his tie. "We allowed Manchester United's number 7 to play in an armchair. He had time, he had space. This shouldn't have happened! It really shouldn't have!"
"But," Montella added, attempting to regain some dignity, "we have lost the battle, not the war. There is no point in assigning blame now. We learn."
"Are you confident for the second leg at Old Trafford?"
"Of course," Montella lied smoothly. "We caused United a lot of trouble. In the second leg, I will have a specific plan. We will be better. I just hope the fans stay with us."
His eyes betrayed him.
He knew that if he crashed out of Europe, the Sevilla board—notorious for their short patience—would likely show him the door.
...
United Press Room
In the adjacent room, Jose Mourinho was blunt. There were no excuses, only cold analysis.
"We didn't perform well," Mourinho stated, staring down the journalists. "And that is my fault. I take responsibility."
"The result proves one thing: the 4-3-3 formation is not suitable for this group of players right now. We tried it. It failed. We move on."
He stood up, buttoned his jacket, and left.
Short. Sharp. Ruthless.
...
The squad flew back overnight. There was no time to rest.
The schedule was relentless.
In three days, Matchday 28 of the Premier League began.
Manchester United vs. Chelsea.
It was a clash of titans. At the same time, Manchester City would face Arsenal in the Carabao Cup Final (and league shortly after).
The "Big Six" were eating each other.
For United, this game had extra spice.
Last time, United had scraped a 2-1 victory. But this Chelsea side was different.
In the winter window, they had added Olivier Giroud, a target man who loved physical battles, and Emerson Palmieri.
But the real narrative was David Luiz.
The Brazilian defender had been exiled by Antonio Conte, banished to the stands for questioning the manager.
Mourinho had rescued him. Now, Luiz was desperate to show Conte exactly what he had thrown away. He was training like a man possessed.
While United prepared, the results of the Round of 16 First Legs rippled through Europe.
Porto 0 - 5 Liverpool: The "Reds" were terrifying.
Sadio Mané bagged a hat-trick. Salah and Firmino danced through the Portuguese defense. Klopp's heavy metal football was playing at full volume.
Manchester City 4 - 0 Basel: Guardiola's machine rolled on. They were effectively through to the quarter-finals already.
Real Madrid 3 - 1 PSG: The clash of the Galacticos.
Neymar dazzled but lacked end product.
Mbappe ran into blind alleys. Cavani looked isolated.
It was a team of individuals against a team of champions. Cristiano Ronaldo, the inevitable man, scored twice (one penalty, one tap in) to reach 100 Champions League goals for Madrid.
Chelsea 1 - 1 Barcelona: Heartbreak at the Bridge.
Willian had hit the post twice before scoring. But then, came a moment of madness.
Andreas Christensen played a suicidal pass across his own box. Andres Iniesta intercepted, cut it back, and Lionel Messi finally broke his curse against Chelsea.
The contrast was stark.
Liverpool and City were flying. Real Madrid were clutch. United? They had scraped a 2-1 win against Sevilla.
The doubts began to creep back in.
[Football Forum / Reddit]
@Madridista: Looking at Real, the Three-Peat is on. Ronaldo is a cyborg.
@TacticalTim: PSG are a joke. Neymar and Mbappe occupy the same spaces. It's FIFA street ball, not Champions League football.
@RedDevil: I'm worried about us. We struggled against Sevilla. People are saying the 7-0 vs Spurs was a fluke. If we play like that against Barca or Bayern, we get smoked.
@ABU_Fan: United are Premier League leaders but look like Quarter-Final fodder. It's typical Mourinho. Win the league and bore everyone to death in Europe.
@Optimist: At least we won away! Chelsea drew at home. We are in the driver's seat.
...
Cobham Training Ground, London
Antonio Conte stared into the bathroom mirror. He ran a hand through his hair.
It felt thinner.
At this rate, he would need another hair transplant before May.
The stress was eating him alive. The Barcelona result was a gut punch—dominating the game only to concede to a childish error. And now, the league.
Chelsea were fighting for their lives to stay in the Top Four.
They had United away, then City away. It was a gauntlet of death. Given Roman Abramovich's history, two losses here could mean the sack.
Conte shook his head, slapping his cheeks to wake himself up.
'Focus, Antonio. Fight.'
He strode into the video analysis room. The players were waiting.
"This match," Conte began, his voice raspy, "is the turning point of our season. We lose, and we are in trouble. We win, and we are alive."
He pointed to the medical report on the screen.
"Good news. Ander Herrera is injured. He is out."
A murmur went through the room. Herrera was United's engine, their pest.
"This changes everything," Conte said, circling names on the whiteboard. "Matic. Pogba. McTominay."
"Look at them. They are giants. They are all over 1.90 meters tall."
Conte turned to his team, eyes blazing. "Giants are strong. But giants are slow to turn."
"We exploit this. We do not fight them in the air. We keep the ball on the ground. Willian. Eden [Hazard]. You are the key. You drift. You pull them wide. You make the big trees run."
"When the gaps open," Conte pointed to Danny Drinkwater, "you punch through the middle."
Then, Conte's expression darkened. He pulled up a clip from the previous fixture.
It showed Ling scoring, then running to the corner flag and putting a finger to his lips, shushing the Chelsea fans.
The room went quiet.
The Chelsea players felt the sting of humiliation.
Conte turned to the smallest man in the room.
"N'Golo."
N'Golo Kante looked up, his expression calm as always.
"Your task is simple," Conte said, his voice dropping to a growl. "You see that Number 7? He is their engine. He creates the width. He creates the transition."
"Do you remember the disrespect?"
"I want you to mark him. Not zonally. Man-to-man. Wherever he goes, you go. If he goes to the toilet, you go with him."
"Keep him pinned on the flank. Do not let him turn. Do not let him breathe. Can you do this?"
Kante didn't smile. He didn't boast. He just nodded once.
"Boss," Kante said softly. "He won't leave my sight."