A pause where everyone processed what had just happened.
Then came the noise.
From the Liverpool end—detonation.
A thunderous wave of red shirts surging to the front rows, fists pumping, limbs colliding, strangers embracing like they'd just seen lightning strike gold.
"Virgil Van Dijk. Towering. Relentless. And just like that, Liverpool draw first blood in North London."
Van Dijk didn't sprint to the corner flag.
He didn't rip his shirt or dive into a celebration.
He turned slowly, walking back to his half like a man clocking out of a shift.
Eyes straight, chest out, and adjusting his armband on the way back.
As if to say: This was always going to happen.
Gabriel stood motionless near the penalty spot, staring at the place he'd lost the duel.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding, while Saka punched the post with his bare hand and mouthed a curse.
Partey shouted at no one in particular, both arms raised in fury.
