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***
As the players emerged for the second half at Camp Nou, the online world had already caught fire. A 3–0 Manchester City lead—at halftime—against Barcelona, at the Camp Nou, was not just a shock. It was a footballing earthquake.
Twitter, predictably, was the epicenter.
@FootballGuy1994"Is this real life or am I watching a FIFA simulation on Legendary difficulty? City are dismantling Barça in their own backyard. Adriano is playing like he's Prime Pele and Maradona mixed together!."
@BarcaLover84"I want to cry. This is worse than anything I imagined. This was supposed to be our year! Kane ghosted past Piqué like he wasn't even there."
@NeutralFan_23"Kimmich pocketed Messi. Hazard is dancing on the wing with no marking. Kane is surgical. And Adriano… what even IS this guy? One goal and One assist? Two maybe in 2nd half? Might as well be five with the chaos he's causing."
One viral post showed Adriano photoshopped as a surgeon in scrubs operating on the Barcelona crest with the caption:
"Dr. Adriano performing emergency surgery at Camp Nou. Patient: FCB. Condition: Critical."
Another popular video meme featured a clip of Barcelona fans screaming in despair during a previous loss, dubbed over with "We can't keep getting embarrassed like this!"
Barça fan forums were in meltdown.
"Where is the fight?"
"Why is Xavi still starting?"
"Why are we letting ADRIANO look like Ballon d'Or material???"
One user on a popular thread simply wrote in all caps:
"I PAID 200 EUROS FOR THIS MATCH. MY SEAT IS NEXT TO THE CORNER FLAG. I'M CLOSER TO MESSI THAN OUR MIDFIELD IS."
Replies ranged from sympathy to gallows humor.
"At least you got to witness history."
"Take pics of Kane when he scores his fourth."
Meanwhile, in England, Manchester City fans were losing their minds.
@MCFC_Bluemoon"I've waited my whole life for this. Barcelona getting schooled in their own house. I'm not crying, YOU'RE crying."
@CityTillIDie"Three away goals in the FIRST HALF? Kane? Adriano? Hazard? My grandkids will hear about this one."
@ManuelP_FanAcc"Pellegrini masterclass. That man plays chess while Enrique's out here playing Jenga with broken blocks."
Even neutral pundits were stunned.
Gary Lineker tweeted:"This is not just a defeat. It's a deconstruction. And at Camp Nou? This is one for the books."
YouTube's comment sections were full of live-watch reactions. The most-watched video titled "BARCA 0-3 CITY LIVE WATCHALONG – I'm Not Okay" had a streamer screaming into a pillow for a full minute after Kane's goal.
One comment under it read:
"Adriano's vision is illegal. Someone check his passport, he's not from this planet."
Across group chats, phones were vibrating non-stop.
In Manchester:"Get in! It's happening!!""What did Pellegrini feed these lads??""We're not just winning, we're playing them off the park!"
In Barcelona:"I turned the TV off at 2–0. Please tell me it's not worse.""It's worse."
At bars, living rooms, pubs, and watch parties from São Paulo to Seoul, fans were united in shock, awe—and disbelief.
Meanwhile, back at Camp Nou, a thousand phones stayed locked on screens during the halftime break. Some fans couldn't bear to look up. Others just sat with their faces in their hands, muttering prayers to the footballing gods.
A Barcelona fan in the front row held up a handwritten sign scrawled in marker:
"We don't need a remontada. We need a resurrection."
And at that exact moment, the players began walking out from the tunnel again.
Barcelona's second half was about to begin.
But around the world, the verdict was already in:
Manchester City had blown the doors off the cathedral of tiki-taka.
****
As the teams re-emerged from the tunnel for the second half at Camp Nou, the noise was deafening—not in celebration, but in fury. A rising storm of whistles, jeers, and howls of frustration from the home crowd rained down upon their own team. A banner in the upper stands that once read "Més que un club" now hung limp in the wind, as the scoreboard glared a cold, unforgiving truth: Barcelona 0 – 3 Manchester City.
The match resumed after the brief moment of silence and shock from the 3-0 scoreline at halftime. Manchester City returned to the pitch brimming with confidence, their body language telling the story of a team in control.
Barcelona, on the other hand, looked visibly shaken. Luis Enrique's instructions had been clear—tighten up the lines, don't get caught out in transition—but it was easier said than done against this rampant City side.
The Camp Nou was still buzzing, but the cheers had a frustrated edge. Many of the home fans had stayed in their seats during the halftime interval, hoping for a swift response from their side.
But instead, they witnessed the beginning of something far more brutal.
From the kickoff, Busquets pinged it to Rakitic, who laid it off to Messi, the tempo urgent and breathless. Suarez darted inside, Neymar hugged the touchline, and both full-backs—Jordi Alba and the newly-positioned Vermaelen—pushed high, turning City's flanks into highways for crosses. It was the all-out assault Enrique demanded.
Martin Tyler:"They've come out like they've got a fire lit beneath them. It's no longer about tactics—it's desperation. This is about pride now."
By the 47th minute, Messi had already slipped past Casemiro once, with a trademark shoulder feint and burst of acceleration that left even the Brazilian flat-footed.
The Argentine then slotted a quick ball toward Suarez, but Mats Hummels—unshaken, composed—read it like a bedtime story.
He stepped forward with perfect timing and swept the ball clear, launching a pinpoint diagonal toward Salah on the right. The Egyptian took it down expertly and immediately turned Vermaelen inside out.
Alan Smith:"Hummels… again. Reads the game like it's slowed down for him. Salah's ready to counter every time they overcommit."
Barcelona responded with fury.
In the 49th minute, Neymar collected wide, danced past Kimmich with a step-over that left the young German briefly off-balance, and cut inside. Mangala tracked him every inch, and as Neymar tumbled theatrically at the top of the box, the Camp Nou roared for a penalty.
The referee waved his arms. Nothing.
Martin Tyler:"Neymar's gone down... but there's hardly anything in it. The referee's unmoved, and he's right to be."
Alan Smith:"That's frustration, Martin. Neymar's trying to win something that's not there. They're running out of options."
Neymar threw his arms up and barked at the official, while Busquets jogged over to calm him. Meanwhile, Casemiro was already marshaling City's midfield like a foreman on a construction site. He signaled to De Bruyne and Kimmich: hold position. Let them come. Wait for the space.
Then came a moment.
50th minute. Vermaelen, clearly uncomfortable as a makeshift right-back, played a lazy sideways pass under pressure. De Bruyne pounced like a wolf, intercepting it mid-stride and instantly slid the ball into Kane's path.
Kane peeled off Mascherano—who was a yard off the pace—and surged into the channel.
Martin Tyler:"Oh, Kane's in here! This could be four—!"
But Kane's first touch was just too heavy. Ter Stegen, sprinting like his life depended on it, smothered the ball at the edge of the box before Kane could poke it beyond him.
Kane smacked his forehead in frustration and turned back.
Kane, muttering to Adriano:"Should've buried that. Should've bloody buried it."
Adriano:"Next one's yours. Just keep making the run."
Back in the technical area, Pellegrini gave a small nod—encouragement, not rebuke. He knew the chance would come again.
Barcelona, despite their urgency, looked stretched. Overcommitted. Messi dropped deeper to collect, but Casemiro shadowed him like a second skin. The space they once thrived in now vanished under pressure from City's disciplined block.
The 52nd minute brought another Barcelona chance—this time from Rakitic. Neymar cut inside from the left and pulled it back to the Croatian near the D. He took one touch and unleashed a curling effort toward the far post.
Martin Tyler:"Rakitic with a hit—oh it's not far away!"
But the shot flew inches wide of the post. Joe Hart dived, just in case.
Alan Smith:"Closest they've come so far. But it's still not on target. No end product yet from all this pressure."
City remained dangerous. A quick one-two between Hazard and De Bruyne nearly opened the gate again, and in the 60th minute, Kimmich overlapped and whipped in a low cross toward Adriano. The Brazilian tried a flicked backheel that zipped just wide of the near post.
Adriano, grinning to Hazard:"You'd be clipping that one for socials if it went in."
Hazard, laughing:"Would've made you a statue."
City didn't need to score again. But the crowd knew: another one, and it was lights out.
Barcelona pushed harder, but their structure began to fray. Vermaelen was out of position constantly, Jordi Alba's overlaps were increasingly predictable, and Mascherano's lack of match fitness showed with every desperate stretch.
And behind it all, City stayed patient. Calculated. Ready.
Martin Tyler:"It's been minutes of controlled defiance from Manchester City. They've weathered the storm so far. Barcelona may be winning the half… but they're losing the war."
The tie hung in the balance.
But City still looked like the only team in command.
And the clock kept ticking.
The storm wasn't over yet, but as Barcelona surged again in the 54th minute, there was a growing sense of desperation. Busquets, with a rare moment of space, split City's midfield line with a precise pass into Suarez's feet.
Suarez spun sharply, evading Mangala with a deft turn, and immediately laid it off to Messi in the pocket just outside the box.
Messi took one touch to steady, another to shift inside, and then—bang.
A curling left-footed shot arced toward the top corner, the kind of effort that usually ends with the net rippling and arms raised.
Martin Tyler:"Ohh... Messi with a moment—!"
But Joe Hart was already airborne, hurling himself to the right at full stretch. With a firm punch, he turned it around the post.
Martin Tyler:"Big save from Joe Hart! That's the kind of moment that changes games."
Alan Smith:"You don't stop those unless you're switched on from minute one. Hart has been faultless tonight."
Camp Nou reacted instantly—the loudest cheer of the night so far, not for a goal, but for the hope it represented. The home fans rose in unison, flags waving, drums thundering. The referee signaled for a corner.
Rakitic sprinted across to take it, hair plastered to his forehead, urgency in every step. He whipped in a fierce, inswinging cross toward the near post.
Mangala, alert as ever, attacked the ball early and rose above Mascherano to head it out with authority. It bounced to Jordi Alba at the top of the D, who let it bounce once before smashing a half-volley wide of the right post into the advertising boards.
Alan Smith:"Lovely technique from Alba, but that's miles off target. And you can hear the groans now—it's starting to wear thin."
Back the other way came City.
In the 57th minute, Casemiro stepped in front of Messi to intercept a lazy pass from Busquets. A quick touch to control, then a short pass to Adriano, who found himself drifting into central space. No one closed him down quickly enough.
Adriano looked up, eyes scanning ahead.
Salah was already moving. Ghosting in from the right, sprinting between the space Vermaelen and Mascherano had left wide open.
The through ball was sharp, low, and threaded like a needle.
Martin Tyler:"Adriano with the ball… oh, Salah's onside here!"
The Egyptian's first touch was silky, cushioning it just ahead of him. Ter Stegen charged again—but Salah wasn't looking to shoot. He squared it first time across the box to Kane, who was arriving at full tilt.
But before Kane could tap it in, Jordi Alba came crashing across like a missile and got a toe to the ball—just enough to deflect it away.
Alan Smith:"That's world-class defending. Salah had the right idea, Kane was there… but Jordi Alba! What a tackle that is!"
Kane, throwing his hands up:"He's everywhere, man. How's he still got legs?"
Salah, breathless:"Next time I shoot."
Adriano jogged up and patted him on the back. "It was the right ball," he muttered. "We'll get the next one."
Barcelona's tempo remained frantic. In the 59th minute, Suarez leapt for a 50–50 aerial challenge with Hummels—and lost it cleanly. But as he landed, he shoved the German with both hands. The assistant raised his flag.
Foul. Suarez exploded.
Suarez, yelling at the assistant:"He's climbing on me all night! You see that now?!"
Martin Tyler:"Suarez is losing his composure here. He's desperate, and it's showing."
Enrique barked from the touchline, gesturing at Rakitic and Neymar. He wanted movement. But it wasn't coming. The passes were labored. Messi was dropping deeper and deeper, often receiving the ball inside his own half just to get involved. Rakitic spread his arms and yelled back at the bench, unsure where to position himself now that Casemiro was locking down the central lanes.
By the 60th minute, the tide had slowed. The relentless storm of Barcelona's second-half push had lost its momentum. They'd thrown everything—skill, pace, aggression—but City hadn't bent.
The blue shirts were compact, lines close, fullbacks tucked in, Casemiro patrolling the edge of the box like a guard dog. Every pass had to be perfect, and Barcelona weren't hitting them.
Martin Tyler:"They came out swinging, but City are still standing. And now, you wonder—how much energy did Barcelona spend in that storm?"
Alan Smith:"It's the classic rope-a-dope, Martin. City let them flail, and now they've soaked it all up. Casemiro's been the brick wall in the middle—absolutely everywhere."
The crowd's noise dipped. Murmurs, whistles, a faint chant trying to rally belief. But something had changed. The energy was ebbing.
In the 61st minute, Adriano was taken down cynically by Rakitic near the halfway line. The referee blew immediately and showed a yellow.
As Adriano picked himself up, brushing grass from his sleeve, he turned to his teammates and gestured toward the City end, where a pocket of blue was bouncing, chanting louder than ever.
Adriano:"Eyes up. This isn't done. Let's end it."
The message was clear.
Barcelona had given their all. But Manchester City?They were just getting started.
After the initial burst of pressing in the second half, Barcelona's offense had sputtered. Their attempts to re-establish control through midfield rotations were met with constant disruption. Casemiro, brought on precisely for this phase of the match, was putting in a masterclass performance in shielding the back line and snapping at the heels of Iniesta and Busquets.
Alan Smith on commentary pointed out, "Casemiro has plugged the leaks before they even start forming. That defensive mid role, it's the unsung job—and he's doing it to perfection."
Martin Tyler added, "And it's giving players like De Bruyne and Adriano the license to go and do what they do best. That space, those transition moments—they've got the freedom to exploit it now."
****
The 62nd minute marked the breaking point—not just for Barcelona's tactics, but for their belief.
Inside the center circle, Iniesta was trying to do what he always did best—control tempo, pick the right pass, calm the chaos. But Casemiro was on him like a shadow. The Brazilian had smelled the moment. As Iniesta hesitated, looking to slide a pass through midfield, Casemiro lunged forward with perfect timing, intercepting cleanly. The snap of boots on turf, a slight stumble from Iniesta—it was all City needed to pounce.
Martin Tyler:"Casemiro again! That's textbook reading of the game, and now City are on the break!"
Casemiro didn't waste a touch. One glance left, then a smart layoff to De Bruyne, who had already seen the entire map open up like a tactical blueprint. Adriano had peeled off Busquets and was already in stride. De Bruyne's ball? A masterpiece.
Alan Smith:"What a pass! Threaded right through the heart of Barcelona—Busquets and Mascherano completely split!"
Adriano's first touch was perfect. He didn't slow down. Busquets chased desperately, but he had no hope. Mascherano stepped up, trying to force him wide, but Adriano ghosted past with a shoulder dip and a touch inside.
Martin Tyler:"Adriano... still going! He's glided past Mascherano like he wasn't even there!"
Piqué came sliding across, last-man desperation, but he was a fraction too late. Adriano was already into the box, now face-to-face with Ter Stegen. The German keeper charged, arms wide, boots scraping the turf—
But Adriano was ice.
A little feint to the left. Ter Stegen bit. Adriano rolled the ball to his right and left him sprawling on the ground.
Alan Smith:"Ooooh, that's cold! He's sat him down!"
The net opened up like an empty canvas. Adriano steadied himself. No rush. No panic. Then, with a calm side-foot, he tucked it into the bottom right corner.
Martin Tyler (as the net ripples):"Adriano... slots it home! That... is four!"
Goal Announcer over PA:"GOOOOOAAAALLLLLLL!!! ADRIANO! MANCHESTER CITY MAKE IT FOUR! THE CATALAN DREAM HAS TURNED INTO A NIGHTMARE!"
The away end at Camp Nou detonated. Blue flares lit up. Drums thundered. Flags waved in violent rhythm. Grown men were hugging each other and leaping into the aisles. Security could only look on as the traveling support erupted in euphoria.
Adriano didn't wheel away wildly. He jogged calmly to the net, scooped up the ball, then turned back toward the halfway line. But just before he got there, he stopped.
Facing the away fans, he pointed at the back of his jersey—at the golden crown stitched above his name: AR10. Then he raised four fingers and bowed.
The away fans roared in unison:"THE KING IS HERE! THE KING IS HERE!"
The City bench stood. Zabaleta was pumping his fists in the air. Fernandinho grabbed Navas and shouted, "He actually did it again!" Pellegrini, arms folded, allowed himself a small smile. Behind him, Brian Kidd muttered, "I've got chills, boss."
Even Joe Hart ran out nearly to the halfway line, clapping, laughing, calling to Adriano, "Finish them off then! Go on!"
Hummels, back in the defensive line, turned to Mangala. "We've just silenced Camp Nou."
Mangala grinned:"Who needs drama when you've got Adriano?"
Back in the VIP box, the cameras caught Kate, rising to her feet, clapping with measured pride. She raised two fingers toward Raul, sitting beside her in a crisp suit. He laughed, nudging her with his elbow. "Another inside bet?"
Kate winked, smiling wide. "He's keeping his promise."
Barcelona's players looked shell-shocked. Mascherano knelt, head down. Piqué swore under his breath, gesturing toward the sideline. Busquets threw his hands up in disbelief. Only Ter Stegen, hands on hips, simply stared at the turf.
Alan Smith:"They're out of ideas, Martin. And it's not just tactics anymore—it's psychological. That fourth goal has broken them."
Martin Tyler:"You come to Camp Nou expecting magic. But tonight, the magic has been all blue."
City's players regrouped near the halfway line. Kane patted Adriano on the back.
Kane:"Next one's mine, alright?"
Adriano grinned:"Only if you keep up."
De Bruyne, breathless but smiling:"That was disgusting, by the way. Sat three of them down in 10 seconds."
Adriano shrugged:"Just doing my part."
Back at the center circle, Barcelona were still stunned. Messi walked slowly, head bowed. Neymar bent over, hands on knees. Suarez stood with arms akimbo, shaking his head.
From the technical area, Luis Enrique shouted instructions no one seemed to be hearing anymore.
From the City touchline, Pellegrini said nothing.
The scoreline of 4-0 said everything.
Barcelona were unraveling.
From the very next kickoff, the cracks deepened. Suarez dropped off the front line to link play, but his layoff to Neymar was sluggish. Mangala, reading it a step early, lunged in and clattered into Neymar's space, winning the ball cleanly and roaring in frustration and hunger. The Camp Nou groaned, a low murmur of disbelief sweeping the crowd. Within seconds, the ball was cycled back to City.
Alan Smith:"It's like Barcelona can't get out of their own way. Mangala's aggression there—perfect timing."
Then came the 65th minute. The moment that would be replayed for years.
Mangala, still surging with energy, stepped out from the back and threaded a calm pass to De Bruyne just inside City's half. The Belgian didn't even take a touch to control it—just turned into space, head swiveling.
Martin Tyler:"De Bruyne again… oh, he's seen Salah!"
Salah had already taken off like a bullet, ghosting in behind Jordi Alba before the left-back could react. De Bruyne's lofted ball wasn't hopeful. It was surgical—dropped precisely in stride just beyond the halfway line, curling toward the right channel.
Salah met it with a soft touch near the edge of the penalty area. Alba was scrambling, recovering, trying to cut the angle—but Salah didn't rush. He paused, teasing Alba with a quick shimmy, then lifted his head.
Across the box, like a thunderbolt, Adriano was coming. Accelerating between Mascherano and Piqué, both caught off-balance. Salah waited half a beat longer, then clipped a floating ball over Alba—arcing, inviting, falling between defenders.
Alan Smith:"There it is… what a cross! That is delicious!"
Mascherano twisted awkwardly, legs tangling beneath him. Piqué, caught in two minds, hesitated. And Adriano—Adriano didn't.
The Portuguese phenom ran straight into the channel, letting the ball drop just over his shoulder. And then—he launched. A full scissor motion, right leg whipping through the air like a blade. It was all in one breathtaking blur.
Martin Tyler (with growing disbelief):"OH MY WORD—HE'S HIT THAT! HE'S HIT THAT!!"
The ball exploded off Adriano's boot with perfect contact. Ter Stegen dove full stretch to his left—but he had no chance. The ball slammed into the top-left corner, the net rippling violently before snapping back into place. A picture-perfect strike. The Camp Nou held its breath.
Then, from the away end—the eruption. An earthquake of limbs, flares, and roars.
Goal Announcer:"GOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL! ADRIANO! IT'S A HAT TRICK! A SUBLIME BICYCLE KICK FROM THE King OF MANCHESTER! IT'S FIVE—YES, FIVE nil for Manchester City AT THE CAMP NOU!"
The rest of City's players sprinted. Kane got there first, wrapping him in a bear hug and taking him to the ground. Hazard jumped on top, laughing uncontrollably. Casemiro ran over, pointing at the spot where Adriano had just taken flight.
Kane, breathless:"You are not human, mate!"
Adriano, grinning as he stood up:"Did you see that?"
Hazard:"Saw it? I'm framing it!"
On the touchline, Pellegrini turned to his assistants with a wide smile, shaking his head in disbelief. Even the usually reserved Chilean was laughing now.
Pellegrini:"Three goals. In this stadium. Like that. Incredible."
Joe Hart jogged all the way from goal to the halfway line to pat Adriano on the back.
Hart:"I was about to start warming up for penalties. Guess I'll relax now."
Adriano, soaking in the moment, turned toward the VIP section. His gaze locked on Kate. He kissed three fingers and raised them into the air. She stood, clapping slowly, a wide smile on her face. Her fingers mirrored his—three held up proudly.
Kate shouted, voice rising above the chaos:"Three for three!"
In the commentary box, Martin Tyler could hardly contain himself.
Tyler:"Alan, we talked about whether this tie was already over. It might be now, but I'll tell you what—it won't be forgotten. Not after that."
Alan Smith:"Camp Nou has seen some of the greatest ever—Ronaldinho, Messi, Ronaldo. But this? This is one of the most clinical, jaw-dropping hat tricks you'll ever witness."
As the City players regrouped for the restart, a few Barcelona fans began to rise from their seats. Some shaking heads. Some clapping out of pure admiration. Some—just walking out, done with the suffering.
Down on the pitch, Suarez had his hands on his hips. Neymar was bent double, glaring at the grass. Messi didn't say a word. He just stood there, still, eyes on the scoreboard:
Barcelona 0 – 5 Manchester City.Minute: 66.
And there were still twenty-four long, painful minutes to play.
****
Barcelona tried to regroup after the restart, holding the ball deeper in midfield, trying to calm things down. But their passes lacked intent. Iniesta and Busquets exchanged two, three sideways touches, but they weren't going anywhere.
Where once there had been awe and anticipation among the home supporters, now there was only resignation. The empty rows shone under the floodlights, abandoned by fans who couldn't bear to watch any longer. On the touchline, Luis Enrique stood arms folded, lips pursed, eyes scanning a team that looked like strangers in red and blue.
The 70th minute arrived like a distant echo of the first, yet the match had taken on a completely different shape. Manchester City, five goals to the good, showed no signs of letting up. Their fans, packed into the top corner of the Camp Nou like a storm cloud ready to burst, had been singing without a breath of pause. Blue Moon rang out once again, bouncing across the open spaces of the half-empty stadium.
Martin Tyler observed, voice somber, "There's no spark left. No belief. You sense they just want this to be over."
Alan Smith added, "And who can blame them? You're not just being outplayed—you're being outclassed, and on your own pitch."
The Camp Nou, a cathedral of football, had never felt so stunned, so quiet, so utterly drowned in disbelief. Barcelona, the kings of possession, the architects of tiki-taka, were being torn apart on their own sacred turf. The scoreboard was merciless: Barcelona 0 – 5 Manchester City.
The Blaugrana faithful stood frozen in their seats, scarves limp in their hands, while pockets of travelling City fans bounced and sang in a corner of the stadium, their voices carried loud and proud under the Barcelona night sky.
Manchester City were in full control—dominant, ruthless, electric. Every pass had purpose, every touch a knife through butter.
This was not the Barcelona of old. Not tonight. And this City side, led by the calm, methodical Manuel Pellegrini, had come to make a statement.
And that statement was about to get louder.
In the 72nd minute, It started with a broken Barcelona move—again. Ivan Rakitić tried to force a pass into Neymar, but it was too heavy, and Casemiro pounced on it like a lion. With one touch, he released De Bruyne, who broke through with a sweeping run through the center of the pitch.
He glanced up and spotted Adriano, who had tormented Barça all night—drifting into space down the right. The pass was crisp, perfectly timed. Adriano took it on in stride, and with the outside of his boot, nudged it forward into open field.
"Here goes Adriano again," Martin Tyler called, his voice sharp with anticipation. "This guy has been electric tonight, Alan."
"Absolutely, Martin. He's got Jordi Alba in his back pocket, hasn't he? The lad's got pace, confidence—he's playing like a seasoned pro, not a youngster at the Camp Nou."
Adriano surged forward, Alba chasing but fading fast. The City winger dropped his shoulder and cut inside, feinting as if to shoot. Mascherano stepped up—too eagerly—and was wrong-footed completely as Adriano pulled the ball back with a delicate drag behind his standing leg.
The space opened up in a flash.
Now just outside the box, Adriano slowed. His eyes scanned the area for a fraction of a second—then he struck a curling low cross with the inside of his right foot, zipping it just between Piqué and Vermaelen, threading it like a needle into the six-yard box.
And there was Kevin De Bruyne, arriving right on cue.
"Look at this run from De Bruyne—timed to perfection!" Alan Smith shouted, almost before the strike came. "They've pulled Barcelona apart again!"
De Bruyne met it with his left foot, no panic, just clinical composure. He angled it across Ter Stegen, the ball brushing the inside of the far post before nestling in the back of the net.
"Six–nil!!" Martin Tyler bellowed. "Can you believe what you're seeing?! Kevin De Bruyne adds to the destruction—and what an assist from Adriano Riveiro! It's stunning. It's surgical. It's sensational from Manchester City!"
The City players gathered around De Bruyne, but he didn't do a wild celebration. He just turned to Adriano, gave him a firm hug and a high five, and mouthed something only they would understand. Salah patted him on the shoulder , and Hazard jumped on his back. Adriano, chest heaving, grinned through sweat and ran his fingers through his damp hair as he jogged back into position.
"That's a pass made in heaven, Martin," Alan said with a laugh of disbelief. "Right into the danger zone. Adriano's playing like he's done this on this stage for years. What a performance."
The camera panned to Pellegrini on the touchline. The Chilean stood with his arms folded, his expression calm, but the faintest hint of a smile betrayed him. He knew what this meant. He had brought this team here, to the heart of Catalonia, and had them play with courage, with control, and now with complete dominance.
Barcelona's players looked shell-shocked. Messi stood near the halfway line, staring down at the turf. Piqué barked at his teammates, but no one responded. The defense had crumbled. The midfield was gone. The aura—shattered.
"You almost feel sorry for them," Alan said quietly. "This is their home. Their fortress. And they're being torn apart, brick by brick."
Martin Tyler let the silence hang for a moment before answering.
"Manchester City came to Camp Nou tonight with one goal: to prove they belong among the giants of Europe. And tonight—they haven't just proven it… they've buried the old guard."
Back at the center circle, De Bruyne waited with the ball tucked under one arm. Adriano gave him a thumbs-up as he trotted past, and somewhere high above, under the glare of stadium lights, the sky over Barcelona was turning Manchester blue.
Pellegrini, always pragmatic, moved quickly and gestured for changes in the 75th minute. Salah, having run himself into the ground, came off to a chorus of applause from the City fans, replaced by the experienced frame of Yaya Touré. At left-back, Robertson, who had worked tirelessly against Messi's constant threat, was replaced by Kolarov to keep the legs fresh.
Alan Smith commented, "That's smart from Pellegrini. He's protecting the lead, but he's not parking the bus. Yaya brings physicality, and Kolarov's got a wand of a left foot going forward."
The change in tempo was immediate. Touré's first action was a statement—bulldozing Iniesta off the ball near the centre circle, all within the laws of the game.
Touré, grinning as he took possession:"Easy, Andres. Not tonight."
Touré didn't dawdle. He pivoted, spotted Adriano already in motion near the halfway line, and played a crisp pass forward into the channel.
Adriano, having sensed the space before the pass even arrived, sprinted into it without hesitation. Mascherano gave chase, but every stride felt heavier, more desperate. Piqué held the line briefly, then dropped too late. Adriano didn't even glance at them. He pushed forward like a predator in full pursuit.
With Ter Stegen creeping forward, trying to narrow the angle, the stadium collectively braced for the inevitable shot.
But Adriano, as calm as if he were alone in training, cut his stride ever so slightly and turned his head.
Martin Tyler:"He's looking… he's seen Kane!"
The ball was rolled perfectly across the box—weighted with surgical precision, bypassing the outstretched studs of Piqué.
Kane had peeled off his marker at the right time. He didn't need to blast it. He didn't even break his stride. He side-footed the ball low, sending it smoothly into the far bottom corner as Ter Stegen dropped helplessly to his knees.
GOAL ANNOUNCER (roaring through the PA):"GOOOOOOOAAAALLLLL! HARRY KANE! SEVEN FOR MANCHESTER CITY! SEVEN AT THE CAMP NOU!"
The scoreboard blinked and refreshed.Barcelona 0 – 7 Manchester City.
The few thousand remaining fans in the stands either buried their faces in their scarves or stared blankly in disbelief. It was happening. They were watching it happen. And they could do nothing.
On the pitch, Kane jogged away, fist raised, but he immediately turned back and pointed to Adriano.
Kane, grinning,"Could've taken it yourself, mate!"
Adriano, breathless, shrugged,"I've got enough for tonight, yeah?"
Hazard and De Bruyne were already on top of them, with Mangala joining in moments later. The group laughed, high-fived, and patted each other on the back.
Hart, yelling from his goal with a wide smile,"Hey, someone check if they've still got eleven men! Feels like we're playing shadows!"
On the touchline, Pellegrini quietly whispered something to his assistant, still composed, but his faint smirk gave him away.
Alan Smith:"This is getting painful to watch for Barcelona fans… but you can't take your eyes off it. This is history unfolding."
Martin Tyler:"Barcelona—beaten, broken. And Manchester City? Ruthless. This isn't just a result. This is a statement. And look at Adriano, he has demolished Barcelona utterly. 3 goals and 3 assists, Barcelona absolutely failed to contain him."
The chants from the away section intensified. Shirts had come off. Scarves were being spun like helicopter blades. One fan waved a cardboard cutout of Adriano's signature crown.
All across Spain, television viewers watched in stunned silence. In living rooms, bars, restaurants—no one could quite believe what they were seeing. Barcelona had been dismantled. Deconstructed. Dethroned. By a Manchester City side that refused to stop playing, refused to stop believing.
And yet, as the match ticked past the 80-minute mark, there was a sense that this might not be over. Not yet.
As the match restarted, a quiet stillness settled over the Camp Nou—a far cry from the electric atmosphere that had greeted kickoff. The scoreboard still blinked its damning verdict: Barcelona 0 – 7 Manchester City. The home crowd, what remained of it, sat in stunned silence. Only the away section still roared, louder than ever, their flags fluttering and scarves spinning like propellers. "Blue Moon" rang out with defiance, echoing against the hollow seats and concrete.
On the pitch, the tempo had slowed considerably. Players on both sides were running on fumes now. There was no longer any urgency from Barcelona—just a desire to avoid further humiliation. Messi, who had spent much of the second half walking between lines, dropped deep, receiving the ball in his own half with little intention of sparking anything.
Martin Tyler, voice hushed but reflective, observed, "This is the look of resignation. You don't often see it at Camp Nou, but tonight… the air has gone out of the sails."
Alan Smith added, "It's been a dismantling. City have been ruthless, clinical. Barcelona just look shell-shocked."
Manchester City no longer pressed with the same intensity. Casemiro, now parked just in front of the back four, calmly directed traffic, urging his teammates to stay composed. Touré and De Bruyne still advanced when space appeared, but it was measured now—controlled.
In the 87th minute, a sharp move down the left sparked another chance. De Bruyne picked up the ball in the middle, exchanged a quick one-two with Hazard, and then fed the Belgian winger down the flank.
Hazard, calling out:"Kevin! Inside run!"
De Bruyne darted wide, dragging his marker with him, allowing Hazard to cut in on his right foot. Spotting a gap, he whipped a curling shot toward the far corner.
Martin Tyler:"Oh, that's beautiful from Hazard…!"
But Ter Stegen, who had spent the night under siege, was still alert. He flung himself to his left, fingertips just brushing the ball wide.
Alan Smith:"Well, at least someone in a Barcelona shirt can still stand tall. That's a fine save."
Hazard jogged past the keeper, clapping his hands in acknowledgement.Hazard, with a grin:"Alright, Marc. You're not totally broken."
Ter Stegen didn't reply—he just collected the ball and booted it upfield with visible frustration.
Moments later, in the 89th minute, another opening appeared. Touré intercepted a tired sideways pass from Busquets and quickly released De Bruyne. The Belgian drove forward and, spotting a sliver of space, tried a dipping shot from 25 yards.
Martin Tyler:"He's struck it well… ohhh just wide!"
The ball shaved the outside of the post and rippled the side-netting. De Bruyne exhaled, hands briefly on hips, before clapping toward Adriano for making the decoy run.
De Bruyne, turning toward him:"Should've played you in, eh?"
Adriano, grinning:"Next time. I'll forgive you this once."
Four minutes of added time were shown by the fourth official. It barely registered. The match had already slipped into a surreal blur. On the sidelines, Pellegrini stood with arms behind his back, exchanging nods with his staff. He didn't look elated—just thoughtful. As if trying to process the scale of what had just occurred.
Alan Smith:"You almost forget this is just a quarterfinal first leg. That's how overwhelming this performance has been. Manchester City has demolished Barcelona beyond recognition."
Martin Tyler:"It feels like something far greater has just taken place. An era tilting. A power shift. "
The referee glanced at his watch, then finally raised the whistle to his lips. The long, shrill tone echoed through the stadium—and with it came the end not just of a match, but a myth.
Barcelona had been thrashed, dismantled piece by piece on their own pitch. The players looked shattered. Messi didn't even glance up as he walked off, head down, boots dragging. Neymar, shoulders slumped, trudged silently behind him. Iniesta, dignified to the end, passed the captain's armband to Busquets and jogged toward the tunnel, alone and expressionless.
Martin Tyler:"It's not just a defeat—it's a reckoning. A night Barcelona will want to forget, and Manchester City and Adriano will never let them."
In stark contrast, Manchester City's players erupted into celebration. Hugs, high-fives, and disbelief rippled through their ranks. Hazard jumped onto Kane's back. Hummels threw his arms around Mangala. Even Joe Hart ran the length of the pitch to join in the joy.
Pellegrini finally stepped onto the grass, moving methodically from player to player, shaking hands, offering pats on the back. When he reached Adriano, the two paused, smiled, and shook hands with a knowing grip.
Pellegrini, with a rare chuckle:"You didn't hold back at all, lad."
Adriano, still catching his breath:"I had a promise to keep."
Just then, the crowd around the touchline stirred as Kate appeared, slipping past security and staff with purpose. Cameras flashed as she darted toward Adriano and wrapped her arms around him. He kissed her with zero hesitation, and she returned it just as fully, the crowd noise melting away.
When they pulled apart, he whispered something only she could hear.
Adriano:"I fulfilled my promise… and did a little extra."
Kate, resting her head against his chest,"Mmhmm. You were incredible tonight, babe. The whole world saw it."
Hummels strolled past with a smirk."You two want to get a room and spare the rest of us the drama?"
Kane chimed in with perfect timing."Yeah, mate. At least let me score a hat trick before you start flexin' the romance."
Adriano laughed, arm still around Kate."Don't hate me because I'm incredible."
Kate rolled her eyes and gave him a playful slap on the shoulder."Enough. Go do your press conference. We'll celebrate later."
Behind them, photographers snapped away furiously, catching every grin, every touch, every gesture. The scoreboard in the distance remained lit like a beacon in the dark:
Barcelona 0 – 7 Manchester City
And standing beneath it, arm around the woman he loved, Adriano soaked in the moment—not just a win, but a legacy carved in steel.
****
Current Stats of Adriano:
Premier League
Matches: 20
Goals: 27
Assists: 19
Current top scorer of the Premier League, and top on the assists list.
*
Champions League
Matches: 9
Goals: 21
Assists: 8
Current top scorer and top on Assists list.
*
FA Cup
Matches: 1
Goals: 2
Assists: 2