On the touchline, Antonio Conte stared down at his palm.
A clump of dark hair lay there, torn from his own head in a moment of subconscious rage.
He felt a pang of genuine heartbreak.
Chelsea's defensive tactics weren't fundamentally flawed. N'Golo Kante had performed admirably for thirty minutes.
But that breakthrough by Manchester United's Number 7 was simply unreasonable.
As a professional coach, Conte wasn't surprised that Ling had beaten a man one-on-one; attackers naturally hold the initiative, and no defender maintains a 100% success rate.
What terrified Conte was the intelligence.
He replayed the goal in his mind.
Ling's positioning before he received the ball.
He had occupied the exact geometric node in Chelsea's defensive web where neither Danny Drinkwater nor Marcos Alonso could provide cover once Kante was beaten.
It was surgical.
"He reads the game like a veteran," Conte muttered to his assistant, crushing the hair in his fist. "In our last encounter, he was just fast. Now? He sees the matrix."
He snapped back to reality and roared, his voice cracking with fury.
"Gary! Go warm up! Now!"
He turned to the pitch, cupping his hands. "N'Golo! Danny! Tighter! Close the half-spaces! Do not let him isolate you again! Protect each other!"
...
In the adjacent technical area, the mood was euphoric but analytical.
"For a player with the ball," Jose Mourinho lectured Rui Faria, waving his arms excitedly, "most face the immediate opponent. Some can think one step ahead—where to pass. Some can think three steps ahead—where the space will open."
Mourinho pointed at Ling, who was jogging back to position.
"But Ling? He thought four steps ahead. He knew Kante would wait, he knew Christensen would panic, and he knew where the space would be before the ball even left Matic's foot. That is simply outrageous."
Rui Faria nodded vigorously, a spark of recognition in his eyes.
"Boss, it reminds me of the Barcelona days," Faria said. "Remember the training plan I developed for Ronaldo? The one based on micro-movements and psychological manipulation of defenders?"
"I remember," Mourinho smirked. "He didn't appreciate it back then."
"I dug it out," Faria admitted. "I've been refining it for Ling using modern biomechanics. It seems... it is working."
Suddenly, the cameras cut to a bizarre scene on the near touchline.
Andreas Christensen, face pale and sweating profusely, was ignoring Gary Cahill's attempt at a high-five.
The Danish defender clutched his stomach, looking green, and sprinted directly down the tunnel.
"Well, that sums up Chelsea's first half," Gary Neville noted drily on commentary. "Christensen has literally run away. We've seen this before—Gary Lineker, Ronaldo Nazario... sometimes the nerves affect the stomach. But for Chelsea, it's a disaster."
Gary Cahill entered the fray, bringing experience but lacking speed.
The match resumed, and Conte's adjustments began to take hold.
Chelsea compacted their shape. They flooded the central channel.
Whenever Ling touched the ball now, two blue shirts were instantly on him.
Kante was the shadow, and Drinkwater or Azpilicueta acted as the wall. They showed him full respect—bordering on fear.
Under these suffocating circumstances, Ling found it difficult to replicate his earlier magic.
Instead, he played the decoy.
He dragged the Chelsea defense inward, creating acres of space on the flanks for United's fullbacks.
However, the service was lacking.
Ashley Young received the ball in space, looked up, and floated a cross that sailed harmlessly over everyone.
Minutes later, Luke Shaw drilled a low ball that hit the first defender.
The game descended into a gritty stalemate.
Peep! Peep!
Referee Martin Atkinson blew the whistle.
"And that is halftime at Old Trafford!" Martin Tyler announced. "Manchester United lead 1-0 thanks to that moment of brilliance from Ling. It's tight, it's tactical, and it's tense."
"Conte and Mourinho are the grandmasters of in-game management," Neville added. "The second half will be a different game. Chelsea have to come out and play."
@TacticalTim: United need better fullbacks. Imagine if Ling had Marcelo or Dani Alves overlapping him. Young and Shaw are killing the attacks. #MUNCHE
@CFC_Fan: Christensen running off to the toilet is the perfect metaphor for our season. We are literally crapping ourselves. 🚽
@RedDevil: 1-0 is dangerous. We need to kill this game. Ling is being triple-marked now. Someone else needs to step up.
...
Home Dressing Room
The atmosphere was calm and professional.
Mourinho allowed the players to hydrate and catch their breath. He stood in the center of the room, hands in his pockets.
"We are in control," Mourinho said softly. "They are scared. They are reacting to us. We do not change. We keep the shape. We wait for the mistake."
He knew that making proactive changes now would only disrupt their rhythm. Patience was the weapon.
Away Dressing Room
Next door, the walls were shaking.
"MOVE!" Conte slammed a water bottle against the tactics board.
"Alvaro!" He turned on his striker, Alvaro Morata. "Get the front line moving! Don't go down at the slightest contact! This is the Premier League, not La Liga! You are being bullied by Smalling! It is embarrassing!"
Morata stared at his boots, his face flushing red.
Conte spun around to his star man.
"And Eden You want to go to Real Madrid? Then show me! Dribble! Charge at them! Force Matic and Pogba to drop back! You are walking around like a tourist!"
"And the midfield..." Conte's voice dropped to a sinister growl. "I don't care if you get a yellow card. I don't care if you get a red card. Stop the Number 7. Do not let him enter the final third. Foul him. Kick him. Just stop him!"
Silence.
Only N'Golo Kante nodded softly, his eyes focused.
The rest of the squad sat with downcast eyes.
The toxicity was palpable.
The rift between the manager and the players, exacerbated by the exile of Diego Costa and Luiz, had turned the dressing room into a morgue.
It was a battle of wills.
Conte was trying to rule by fear, but he was losing his grip.
...
The fifteen minutes evaporated and the teams re-emerged into the Manchester drizzle.
Old Trafford roared, sensing blood.
Despite the internal grievances, the Chelsea players were professionals.
This was their livelihood.
And for Eden Hazard, it was a matter of pride.
He received the ball near the center circle.
Hazard felt a surge of indignation.
He was supposed to be the best player on the pitch. How could he let a teenager steal the headlines?
'Not today,' Hazard thought.
He started to run.
His low center of gravity was his superpower. With a series of quick, stuttering steps, he shifted his weight rapidly, mesmerizing the defenders.
Paul Pogba stepped up to engage him.
Pogba didn't dive in.
He knew Hazard wanted the foul. He jockeyed, trying to guide the Belgian wide.
But Hazard was in the zone.
He saw the picture clearly.
David Luiz was charging out of the defensive line to support Pogba.
Nemanja Matic was distracted by Willian's run on the right.
This left a pocket of space centrally.
And there, Alvaro Morata had done something intelligent for once.
He had dropped deep, pulling away from the center-backs, finding a pocket of space at the edge of the D.
'Now.' Hazard accelerated violently to the left, baiting Pogba to turn his hips.
As soon as Pogba committed, Hazard reversed the ball with the outside of his boot.
Smack!
The ball zipped through Pogba's open legs—a nutmeg of pure disrespect.
"Oh, that is magical from Eden Hazard!" Tyler screamed. "He has nutmeg'd Pogba and opened the game up!"
"The vision is incredible!" Neville shouted. "He's found Morata in the pocket!"
Alvaro Morata received the ball.
He was unmarked.
David De Gea, in the United goal, crouched low. He knew Morata well from the Spanish national team. He knew that trying to predict Morata was futile.
The striker was "two-footed."
He could go left or right with equal power.
Morata felt the pressure. He heard Conte's insults ringing in his ears.
'Soft. Weak.'
'I will show you soft,' Morata thought bitterly. 'I will save this team, and then I will tell you to shut up.'
He didn't take a touch to settle. He let the ball roll across his body, setting up the strike.
His form was text-book perfect.
He planted his left foot and swung his right leg like a giant pendulum.
BOOM!
The ball shot off his boot like a cannonball toward the top corner.
---------
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