Despite being an away match on paper, for Manchester United the trip to face Manchester City at the Etihad Stadium hardly felt like venturing into foreign territory.
After all, the blue half of Manchester was only a 20-minute drive from Old Trafford—less than 20 kilometers separated the two giants. The proximity may have spared the players from the usual wear and tear of travel, but emotionally, this was as far from a casual outing as it could get. This was a battle for the soul of a city.
While Manchester United are a global juggernaut, boasting millions of fans across continents, the local reality tells a different story. Within Manchester itself, it's City who enjoy deeper local roots. Historically, Manchester City was the original club of the city. Back then, the sky blues were the only game in town, with locals embracing them as the homegrown pride of Manchester. Manchester United, in contrast, was born in Newton Heath and only later relocated into the heart of the city, gradually building their empire—not just with ambition, but by poaching star players from City, and staking their claim on enemy turf.
That betrayal, in the eyes of many City supporters, was never forgotten. Football loyalty in England runs deep—hereditary even, passed from father to son like a family heirloom. And so, even with United's glittering trophy cabinet and international fanbase, City fans have never relinquished the belief that their club is the true heartbeat of Manchester.
As match day approached, the city buzzed with tension. The stadiums may have been close in distance, but the ideological divide between red and blue ran wider than ever. For United, this was a chance to assert dominance both in the league and in the local pecking order. For City, it was a chance to remind everyone—especially the neighbors—that history, pride, and loyalty can't be bought.
As Tiger King stepped out of the tunnel and onto the Etihad turf, a thunderous wave of boos came crashing down from the stands. Tens of thousands of sky-blue clad Manchester City fans had been waiting for this very moment—to greet their city rivals and their rising young manager with a wall of noise.
The roar was deafening, even more intense than what he'd heard at Anfield. And that was saying something.
Tiger glanced around calmly, unfazed by the hostility. After a few Premier League matches under his belt, he was already getting used to the bitterness of away grounds. He nudged Paul Scholes, standing beside him on the touchline, and with a crooked grin muttered, "Is this how City fans treat their neighbors? You'd think sharing a city would earn us some courtesy. Instead, it just means they scream louder."
Scholes didn't even crack a smile. His eyes were locked on the stands, his face as stern as ever.
"This is the derby, boss," he said. "In Europe—especially England—local derbies are sacred. Some fans don't care if their team finishes mid-table, as long as they beat the team across town. It's not just about the points. It's about pride. Bragging rights. Identity."
Tiger let out a short laugh and clapped Scholes on the back. "Relax, Paul. I was just poking fun. I know exactly what this means."
Then, his tone grew more focused as he continued."Look, City may have started strong—four straight wins—but they haven't played anyone from the Premier League's top six yet. They're still in their honeymoon phase. They've signed big names this summer, but their squad's still settling. Meanwhile, we're gelling. We know what we're about."
Mike Phelan stepped up beside them, practically bouncing on his heels with excitement. "The boss is right—we're taking this one. I can feel it. The lads are ready."
The three stood there, eyes scanning the pitch, soaking in the atmosphere as chants echoed, flags waved, and tensions simmered. The Manchester derby wasn't just another game. It was a war of identities, played on a field only 20 minutes apart, but divided by generations of rivalry.
And now, the young king of Old Trafford was ready to make his mark in enemy territory.
Manchester City lined up in a classic 4-2-3-1 formation. Between the sticks stood England's number one, Joe Hart. In front of him, a solid defensive line from left to right: Aleksandar Kolarov with his deadly left foot, the composed Nastasić, captain and defensive anchor Vincent Kompany, and the tireless Pablo Zabaleta on the right.
Shielding the defense were the powerful Yaya Touré and the disciplined Fernando, forming a robust double pivot. Just ahead, the attacking midfield trio was packed with creativity and pace: Samir Nasri threading passes from the left, Jesús Navas stretching play wide on the right, and Sergio Agüero lurking centrally, always a threat between the lines. Leading the line was Álvaro Negredo—strong, aggressive, and clinical.
And if the starting eleven wasn't daunting enough, City's bench spoke volumes about their depth—arguably stronger than the first teams of several Premier League sides. They had James Milner's work rate and versatility, Edin Džeko's proven goal-scoring touch, Javi García for added steel in midfield, Micah Richards' raw physicality, the experienced Joleon Lescott, Pantilimon as a reliable keeper, and the technically gifted Stevan Jovetić.
On paper, Manchester City's squad was stacked on both ends of the pitch. Balanced, dangerous, and deep—easily one of the top three lineups in the Premier League.
Manchester United lined up in their familiar 4-4-2 formation, with the ever-reliable David De Gea guarding the goal. The central defensive pairing was a powerful one: the composed Dutch colossus Virgil van Dijk alongside the experienced warrior Nemanja Vidić. On the flanks, Marcos Alonso started at left-back, providing calm distribution and vision, while Rafael offered pace and grit on the right.
With N'Golo Kanté sidelined due to injury, Tiger King turned to the versatile Phil Jones to fill the defensive midfield role—bringing energy and physicality. Just ahead of him, Shinji Kagawa slotted in as the attacking midfielder, ready to link play and unlock defenses with his vision.
On the wings, Tiger opted for fresh legs—Ashley Young patrolled the left flank, while Antonio Valencia brought his power and directness on the right. Riyad Mahrez and Nani, having run themselves into the ground in the last match, were given a breather and started on the bench.
Up front, it was the familiar strike duo—Robin van Persie and Wayne Rooney—trusted to carry the goal-scoring load and lead from the front.
Manchester United's bench was stacked with options: Brazilian shot-stopper Alisson, defensive rock Toby Alderweireld, academy product Jesse Lingard, veterans Michael Carrick and Darren Fletcher to shore up midfield if needed, and the explosive young forward Anthony Martial alongside the dynamic Anderson. A perfect mix of youth and experience, ready to make an impact.
Before the match, the two coaches exchanged a courteous handshake.
Pellegrini smiled and said, "It's bound to be a thrilling contest today."
Tiger King nodded. "That's for sure. Best of luck."
The referee's whistle echoed through the Etihad — the Manchester Derby had begun. In the Sky Sports commentary box, Morris and Raman were on the call.
Morris had just gone over the starting lineups when Raman jumped in, skeptical. "I'm still not convinced by Manchester United in this one," he said. "I think they're in for a heavy defeat at the Etihad."
Morris glanced at him with raised eyebrows. "That's bold. Both sides are in good form, evenly matched by most standards. Why so confident that United will lose, and badly?"
"Because they're without Kante," Raman replied firmly. "Through the first four league games, United scored nine and conceded only once — and that was from a free-kick. That tells you how solid their defense has been. And the foundation of that defense has been Kante."
Morris chuckled. "Didn't you call Kante a 'no-name pup from France' just a few weeks ago?"
Raman blushed slightly, but admitted, "Alright, I misjudged him. But it's obvious now — he's been vital. Just look at the Champions League match against Leverkusen. Even slightly injured, Kante wasn't his usual self, and United conceded twice. He's become the heartbeat of their defensive shape. Without him today, especially against City's firepower, United could struggle. I know you're a Red Devil through and through, Morris — but be honest, am I wrong?"
Morris frowned but nodded slowly. "Harsh, but fair. Kante's absence is a real blow. Replacing him with Phil Jones is a gamble."
Truthfully, Tiger King knew it too. He was taking a calculated risk. Last season, Sir Alex Ferguson seldom used a traditional holding midfielder. But it wasn't for lack of tactical awareness — it was because United lacked a true anchor. Ferguson leaned on relentless attacking play to mask defensive fragility, and while that was enough to clinch the league, it faltered on the European stage — where Real Madrid ended United's run in the Round of 16.
This season, with Scholes retired and the league more competitive, Tiger King made it a priority to reinforce the midfield's spine. Kante had delivered immediately. His positional awareness, energy, and defensive coverage had turned heads. Tiger believed in him — not just as a short-term fix, but as the cornerstone of his long-term vision.
So when the medical team told him Kante needed a week of rest, it stung. It wasn't serious, thankfully, but even missing a couple of crucial matches could tip momentum.
After weighing his options, Tiger chose Phil Jones as the replacement. Jones had played in the role before under Ferguson and brought physicality, aggression, and stamina. The fans trusted him, and he was fired up, ready to fill the gap and prove his worth on derby day.
In fact, among the players Tiger King inherited from Sir Alex Ferguson, the ones he's most optimistic about are David De Gea, Rafael, and Phil Jones.
Rafael needs no further explanation. Since Tiger took charge, he has firmly established the Brazilian as his undisputed first-choice right-back. Rafael's pace, tireless work rate, and especially his ability to surge forward and support the attack have made him a natural fit in Tiger's system — a manager who values full-backs who can stretch the pitch and contribute offensively.
And then there's David De Gea — no need to even hesitate. To Tiger King, De Gea is a gem at the core of Manchester United's future. The Spanish goalkeeper, once questioned for his slight frame and occasional errors during his early days at Old Trafford, has since evolved into one of the best shot-stoppers in Europe. His lightning reflexes, command of the box, and calm under pressure have become a bedrock for United's new-look defense. Tiger doesn't just see De Gea as a great keeper — he sees him as a pillar of this next era, someone who could wear the armband one day.
Phil Jones, too, remains in Tiger's plans. Though injuries have often interrupted his rhythm, Tiger admires his versatility and commitment. Whether at center-back or as a makeshift defensive midfielder, Jones never shirks responsibility. For this derby, his selection in place of the injured Kante wasn't just out of necessity — it was a show of faith.
As soon as the match kicked off, Phil Jones made his presence felt. Manchester City's No. 10, Sergio Aguero, received a sharp pass from midfielder Yaya Touré and burst through the middle, accelerating straight toward the United penalty area.
But Jones wasn't going to let him through so easily. Aguero tried to shift direction to evade the "silly big man" in front of him—but Jones lunged in from the side with a perfectly timed challenge, sending both the ball and Aguero to the ground.
"Foul!" roared the home fans. But the referee waved play on, signaling that Jones got the ball cleanly.
Rooney jogged over to pat Jones on the shoulder. "Good job, Phil!"
Jones didn't respond. He just stared at Aguero as he slowly got back to his feet, licking his lips and muttering to himself, "Try breaking past me again, little man."
A few meters away, Nasri helped Aguero up. "You okay?"
"That brute's dangerous," Aguero muttered.
Nasri shrugged. "Good. Let him keep charging like that. He'll trip up sooner or later, and we'll earn a penalty—or better yet, a red card."
Twenty minutes in, both sides had been probing without success. Manchester City's solid back line, anchored by Kompany and shielded by Yaya Touré and Fernandinho, held firm against United's attack. On the flanks, Valencia and Ashley Young replaced the usual starters, Mahrez and Nani, bringing more defensive stability even if they lacked the same offensive flair.
Meanwhile, City's trio of Nasri, Aguero, and Navas found themselves constantly disrupted by Jones's intense pressing. Every time they tried to build momentum, he was there—legs flying, body charging, disrupting their rhythm. In fact, Jones had already broken up three promising City attacks, showing exactly why Kante's absence wasn't spelling immediate doom.
"Jones is playing like a man possessed," Scholes observed from the sideline, impressed. "If he keeps this up, Kante might not walk straight back into the starting eleven."
Tiger agreed, though deep down, he was a little worried. Jones was playing with fire, and all it would take was one mistimed tackle to get him booked—or worse.
And as if on cue, disaster nearly struck. In the 43rd minute, Aguero darted into space at the top of the box. Seeing Negredo tightly marked, he opted to take the shot himself. Jones, never one to hesitate, slid in again—taking the ball but also bringing Aguero down hard.
"Jones knocks down Aguero! That's a penalty!" screamed Raman in the Sky Sports studio. "It's a penalty—and a red card package deal!"
But after a moment of hesitation, the referee pointed outside the box. Free kick only. He gave Jones a yellow card—his first of the match—and denied City's protests for a harsher punishment.
In the crowd, Manchester United fans breathed a collective sigh of relief. The decision was tight, but crucial.
Nasri stepped up for the free kick and curled it just wide of the far post. Close—but not close enough.
The first half ended in a fiery stalemate. No goals, but no shortage of drama. Both sides had picked up several bookings, with the derby's intensity fully on display.
In City's locker room, Pellegrini remained composed. Calm and elegant, just like his reputation, the "Engineer" laid out his plan: shift the attack through the middle, target Jones—who was already walking a tightrope with that yellow card—and exploit United's slower central defenders with pace and trickery.
"We'll crack them open from the center," he told Aguero, Nasri, and Navas. "Push him, draw the foul. Make them pay."
Meanwhile, in the United dressing room, Tiger King gathered his players with steady confidence. He turned to Van Persie, who looked gassed. "You've put in a shift, Robin. I'm bringing on Martial in the second half—give the wingers something to aim at in the box."
Then he faced Jones. "You've done well, but be careful. You've got a yellow now, and they'll be coming for you."
Jones nodded, clenching his fists. "As long as I'm on the pitch, no one's getting past me."
Tiger forced a half-smile. "As long as you're on the pitch, huh? That's what worries me."
"Boss, why do you look worried?" Phil Jones asked, puzzled by King's expression.
Tiger King sighed and furrowed his brow. "Phil, you're already on a yellow card. I trust you—your performance in the first half was outstanding. But if you pick up a second yellow and get sent off, we'll lose our defensive anchor in the middle of the park."
Jones nodded, a hint of sheepishness on his face. "Got it, Boss. I'll be more careful. I'll try my best not to get booked again."
But King wasn't satisfied with that. He leaned in and spoke more firmly. "No, Phil. This isn't about trying. You cannot afford to get booked again. We're playing away at the Etihad—everything is stacked against us. If we can keep our shape and composure, we'll find cracks in their defense and take our chance. But we won't survive a second half with ten men."
Jones clenched his jaw, his usual fire tempered now with caution. "Understood, Boss. I'll keep it tight."
Just then, the fourth official signaled the end of halftime. With instructions fresh in their minds, both teams emerged from the tunnel, the roars of over 50,000 fans cascading down like a wave. The second half of the Manchester Derby was about to begin.
Just five minutes into the second half, Tiger King noticed something unsettling. Manchester City's attacking trio—Nasri, Aguero, and Navas—had completely shifted gears. Gone were the delicate, intricate short passes of the first half. Now, their approach was ruthless and direct: attack Phil Jones. Every time one of them received the ball, they drove straight toward Jones like wolves sensing weakness.
Twice in quick succession, Jones brought Aguero and Navas crashing to the turf with thunderous sliding tackles. Though both challenges were deemed legal, they sent chills down Tiger King's spine.
Unable to stay seated, he stormed to the touchline. The moment the ball went out of play, he called over assistant coach Mike Phelan and barked, "Keep an eye on Jones! If he keeps going like this, it's just a matter of time before he gets sent off!"
Phelan nodded, turned to the bench, and quickly relayed instructions to van Persie, who jogged to the edge of the technical area and shouted to Jones, "Watch your tackles, Phil! No more cards!"
Jones gave a thumbs-up, but those who knew him—really knew him—understood how impossible that ask was. This was just how Jones played: heart over head, always. Seeing the danger, Ashley Young and Antonio Valencia began tucking in more frequently to shield Jones, adjusting on the fly to reduce his exposure.
On commentary, Raman was animated. "Manchester City have come out flying! Three shots on goal in the last ten minutes, all with real venom!"
Then came the moment. Nasri drifted infield, slicing past Ashley Young with ease. He laid the ball into Aguero near the penalty spot. The Argentine spun expertly, shrugged off van Dijk, and fired.
But Jones—of course it was Jones—came flying in out of nowhere to block the shot with his body.
"Jones! Unbelievable bravery! He's just thrown himself in front of Aguero's shot like a human shield!" Raman shouted.
The away end erupted, chanting his name. Jones got up, beaming, waving to the fans like a war hero saluting from the battlefield. For a moment, all the doubts, the risk, the recklessness—it was all worth it.
Tiger King exhaled, a bead of cold sweat trailing down his temple. "That was close," he muttered. "If Jones hadn't tracked back, Aguero scores. De Gea was completely screened."
On the bench, Scholes shook his head. "That's what makes him great—and what gets him injured every other month."
Phelan, standing nearby, nodded. "We've got to make a decision soon."
Before Tiger King could answer, something on the pitch caught his eye. Yaya Touré, recognizing United's structure holding firm, gave Fernandinho a nod and pushed forward. "I'm going up," he said.
"Go. I'll cover," Fernandinho replied.
Giggs wasn't on the pitch, but Rooney immediately noticed the shift. He turned and shouted instructions to the midfield: "Track Yaya! Don't let him run free!"
But it was too late.
United had just finished a fruitless attack, and several players were still high up the pitch. Touré received a crisp ball from Fernandinho and surged forward like a freight train.
Jones stepped up to stop him—but a voice rang out from his right. "I've got him! You take the runner!"
It was Antonio Valencia.
Jones veered away, trusting his teammate, and turned toward Aguero, who was making a sharp cut to the right side of the box.
Touré shrugged off Valencia's challenge and quickly shifted the ball right, sending a perfectly timed through-ball toward Aguero.
Aguero caught it on the move and, seeing Smalling approaching from his blindside, calmly flicked the ball left to Nasri, who had darted into space.
Jones immediately switched again, sprinting toward Nasri as the Frenchman took a delicate first touch. Nasri glanced up and saw the blur of Jones charging in.
Instead of shooting, he dragged the ball with his right foot and let his left leg trail just enough to catch Jones's outstretched tackle.
Nasri hit the deck with a dramatic roll. The Etihad erupted. "Nasri's down! The referee's sprinting over!"
The whistle blew. A sharp point to the spot. Then the flash of red.
"Red card! Penalty to Manchester City!"
Tiger King's heart sank.
Valencia and Vidic swarmed the referee. "He dived! He left his leg behind! That's not a foul!" Vidic roared.
Van Persie joined the protest. "Ref, he was already falling before contact!"
City's players were just as animated—especially Yaya Touré, who shoved van Dijk. "You call that nothing? Look at Nasri!"
Van Dijk stood his ground. "You know he dives, Yaya. Don't pretend you don't."
The referee stepped in, flashing yellow cards to both van Dijk and Yaya Touré for unsporting behavior. The chaos swirled, but Tiger King didn't move—until he saw Mike Phelan march toward the fourth official, red-faced and yelling.
"That's not a penalty! This game's being robbed!" Phelan shouted.
The referee stormed over and issued a second red card—this one to Phelan.
Tiger King was about to explode, but Scholes caught his arm. "Boss, don't. If you go now, we've lost the dressing room."
Tiger King breathed hard, clenched his fists, and backed off. He walked down the touchline and shouted toward his players, "Settle down! Stay focused! Let's not lose more than we already have!"
With his intervention, tempers cooled. Van Persie and Vidic pulled teammates back. Ashley Young helped calm down a fired-up Valencia. Even Joe Hart waved to his teammates to relax.
The referee finally restored order. As Jones walked toward the sideline, head bowed, the boos of the home crowd rained down. But Tiger King was already waiting for him.
Jones looked ashamed. "Boss... I—"
Tiger King cut him off, putting a hand on his shoulder and saying with a smirk, "You kept your promise. You didn't get a second yellow—you skipped straight to red."
Jones cracked a weak smile through the disappointment. "I just wanted to stop the goal…"
Tiger King nodded. "Go sit down. Wait for us to win this."
Behind him, Eric Steele raised a brow. "That's it? You're not going to tear into him?"
Tiger King glanced at Steele. "He's already down. And that wasn't his fault. Nasri knew exactly what he was doing. The referee got duped. Jones doesn't need blame—he needs belief."
Scholes leaned forward, arms folded. "That was the right call, boss. He'll remember that."
The penalty was yet to be taken. But as the dust settled and the players reset, Tiger King looked to the pitch—not in fear, but with fury burning in his eyes.
The war wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
As the dust settled and the protests died down, Aguero stood alone at the penalty spot. The weight of the Etihad rested squarely on his shoulders—but he wore it lightly, like a prince returning to his throne.
Across from him, David de Gea stood tall. Silent. Focused.
De Gea began his ritual—stretching both arms out wide, swaying slightly left and right to make himself appear larger. His fingers twitched with anticipation. His eyes locked on the ball, trying to read every subtle twitch in Aguero's posture. He took one last deep breath and leaned slightly to his left.
Aguero didn't flinch.
The referee's whistle pierced the night.
Aguero stutter-stepped... then calmly slotted the ball to De Gea's right.
De Gea had guessed left.
The net rippled.
GOAL!
"Aguero scores the first goal of the game!" Raman exploded in the Sky TV commentary booth, practically leaping from his seat. "Manchester City have finally broken the deadlock! They've withstood United's pressure and now give a deadweight to the enemy from the same city!"
In the co-commentator's chair, Morris shook his head in disbelief. "This goal has changed everything. It's the 63rd minute. Manchester United are down to ten men and now trail by one. For Tiger King, this is an absolute nightmare. He's no longer just facing a numerical disadvantage—he has to attack now."
Raman, emboldened by the goal, continued with biting commentary. "I said before the game that United would suffer without Kante—their defensive wall, their irreplaceable anchor. And look at Jones, his replacement. Positioning poor, timing rash—even if he went to a relegation-zone team, he might not start! And believe me, there will be more goals today... but not for Tiger's side!"
The camera cut to Tiger King on the touchline—stone-faced, arms crossed. But his eyes… his eyes were a storm. Calculating. Burning.
Then he turned to the bench. In an instant, the response began.
He walked over to Valencia and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Well played. We need fresh legs now." Valencia nodded, exhausted, and made way for Michael Carrick.
Tiger King then called over Anthony Martial, gesturing sharply toward the right flank. "Just like Leverkusen. Go wide. Take them on. Make something happen."
Martial nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. His performance up top had been lackluster—physically outmatched and isolated—but now, out wide, with space to run, he could be a different kind of weapon.
Carrick came on and took his place beside Kagawa in central midfield. The contrast was immediate. Where Kagawa buzzed around like a wasp, pressing and probing, Carrick exuded calm—his first touch was a soft layoff to Vidic under pressure, immediately steadying the rhythm.
Then came another change—Marcos Alonso, struggling to match the tempo, was withdrawn. Jesse Lingard came on to the left wing. Tiger King clapped Alonso off but quickly turned to Young.
"You're at left-back now. Help Jesse out. Keep that flank alive."
Young gave a short nod and sprinted back. The shape shifted again. United's 4-4-1 morphed into a swirling, dynamic machine: Lingard on the left, Martial on the right—but with instructions to interchange frequently, confuse City's fullbacks, drag them out of position.
And up top, alone but undaunted, stood Wayne Rooney.
Tiger King pulled him aside during the break in play. "You're the point of the spear now. Hold the ball. Draw fouls. If you get a chance—bury it."
Rooney gave him a grin. "Boss, I live for games like this."
Back on the touchline, Scholes leaned in. "You're going for it now?"
Tiger King's jaw tightened. "No choice. We sit back, we lose. We attack—we've got a shot."
On the pitch, the changes began to show. Carrick's passing lanes gave Kagawa more freedom. Martial, on the right, began to surge past Kolarov with pace and flair. Lingard, hungry and explosive, darted at defenders like a man possessed.
Rooney, battered and doubled up on, fought like a lone general behind enemy lines—chesting down long balls, holding off Kompany, screaming at teammates to push higher.
Tiger King paced the edge of the technical area like a caged lion.
He clapped his hands, shouting over the roar of the Etihad. "This game isn't over!"
And deep down, every player—every fan watching at home—knew one thing:
Tiger wasn't just fighting Manchester City. He was fighting fate.
But just as Tiger King's tactical adjustments began to bring some order back to the chaos—disaster struck again.
Only three minutes after the substitutions were made, Manchester City struck a second time.
It came like a flash flood—swift, devastating, and impossible to stop.
The build-up was deceptively calm. Aguero held the ball at the edge of the box, closely marked by Vidic and van Dijk, who stood firm like twin towers ready to smother any shot or dribble attempt. Behind them, Carrick and Kagawa scrambled to re-organize the midfield. But there was a gaping hole—a Kante-sized void. With Phil Jones sent off, and Carrick just introduced, City's trio—Nasri, Aguero, and Navas—now roamed freely in that vulnerable zone between midfield and defense.
Aguero feinted left, drawing Vidic ever so slightly. Then, like a surgeon with a scalpel, he slipped the ball backward to an onrushing Samir Nasri.
It was clean. It was fast. It was cruel.
Nasri didn't hesitate. From 25 meters out, he took one touch and fired a curling shot that cut through the air like a knife, bending away from De Gea's outstretched gloves and screaming into the top left corner.
BOOM!
The net bulged. The Etihad exploded.
"GOAL!! Nasri scores an absolute stunner!!" Raman was nearly choking on his words, already standing up in the Sky TV commentary box. "Manchester City lead 2-0! What a strike, what a moment!"
"This is a killer blow," Morris muttered darkly. "Ten-man Manchester United, already on the back foot, have now been pushed off the edge."
Nasri, his face flushed with adrenaline and arrogance, sprinted to the stands and threw his arms wide—mocking, daring, drinking in the adoration of the home fans. Teammates swarmed him. Kolarov lifted him up. Navas punched the air. Aguero smiled with quiet satisfaction.
The Etihad was shaking.
Fans leapt in jubilation, some chanting "Blue Moon" with their scarves twirling like victory banners. In the stands, they were already imagining the morning headlines. Already picturing themselves mocking United supporters at the office coffee machine. The humiliation was being printed in real-time.
On the pitch, Rooney was seething. He stormed toward the referee, pointing angrily at Nasri. "Look at him! LOOK! You gave them a penalty for that dive? And now he's dancing around like he's never even been touched!"
The referee's patience snapped. He reached into his pocket and brandished a yellow card.
Rooney stared in disbelief. "You're joking!"
Carrick was there in a flash, grabbing his captain by the shoulders. "Wayne, don't. Don't give them the satisfaction. We've got too few players left as it is. You want revenge? Score. That's the only answer."
Rooney's chest heaved. His eyes, bloodshot with rage, never left Nasri and the celebrating City players. Then, in a moment of raw frustration, he smashed his right fist into his left palm. CRACK.
He muttered under his breath, eyes narrowed like a predator stalking its prey. "You think only City can score?" "We're not done. We're Manchester United."
Carrick stepped beside him, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. Behind them, Kagawa, Valencia, Young, and the newly introduced Lingard and Martial nodded in unison. They didn't need words. Tiger King saw it too.
Back on the touchline, Tiger King stood frozen, arms folded, a storm raging inside him. For a moment, he didn't even move. But his mind was racing. This wasn't just a derby anymore. It was a war. A war of belief, identity, pride.
The fire in his eyes was unmistakable. He wasn't thinking about damage control. He was thinking about a comeback.
The United manager called his players over during the brief lull after Nasri's goal.
Tiger's voice was low but firm, cutting through the noise. "Show them who we are. Manchester United doesn't lie down. Not now. Not ever. Attack. Every last drop you've got."
Martial's jaw tightened. Lingard cracked his neck. Even van Dijk, who had stepped into the midfield line during the commotion, nodded silently.
From the Sky Sports commentary box, Morris leaned into the mic with growing excitement: "City may lead 2-0, but don't count United out. There's a fire in those eyes now, a storm coming. Just look at Rooney, he's not done yet."
Raman, always pessimistic, shook his head: "They're brave, yes—but they're down to ten men and without their general in midfield. It's a mountain. Martial and Lingard are young; the pressure might crush them."
United surged. Carrick's presence brought calm to the chaos, linking up effortlessly with Kagawa and Lingard. The passing triangle formed like clockwork—tick, tick, tick—each touch more precise than the last. Manchester City's backline, momentarily stunned by the sudden tempo shift, began to show cracks.
Martial, switched to the left, burst into life. He drove at Zabaleta, feinted once, twice, and cut in. His cross wasn't a desperate hoof—it was deliberate. Measured. A curled delivery at 45 degrees, arcing perfectly toward the six-yard box.
Rooney rose. Fury behind his forehead. The header thundered past Hart.
"Look at the ball!" Raman shouted, his voice rising. "Martial has found space—Rooney's there! HE'S THERE!"
The Etihad groaned. Rooney sprinted toward the United bench, veins bulging with fury and pride.
"Rooney pulls one back!" Raman shouted. "Against all odds! Manchester United have life! They've clawed one back—Rooney, with vengeance written all over him! One goal away now, and we've got a derby on our hands!"
Morris sighed, lips tight. "If United somehow pull this back, it'll be one of the greatest comebacks in derby history."
"They're not going quietly. There's fight in these ten men yet." Raman responded.
The pressure flipped. Carrick and Kagawa turned into magnets in midfield. Lingard, introduced with fresh legs, danced past Clichy. The ball zipped—Lingard to Carrick, to Kagawa, and back.
Then Carrick stepped into space. No hesitation. One clean strike. Low. Driven. Unstoppable.
He pulled the strings like a maestro. He fed Kagawa, who turned and found Lingard. The triangle formed again—quick touches, short passes. Lingard slid it back to Carrick at the edge of the box.
BOOM. A low drive. Perfectly placed.
GOAL. 2-2.
The away end erupted, and the home fans sat stunned.
Tiger clenched both fists and pumped them into the air. This was the spirit. This was United.
But fairytales need time. And time was never on their side.
Raman: "CARRICK! Like an assassin from the shadows! United have drawn level! From 0-2 down with ten men! This is madness!"
Morris: "You've got to admire their spirit. Ten men? Doesn't feel like it."
Tiger King clenched his fists, then raised them high, shouting to the crowd and his bench. "YES! That's how we fight!"
The City manager wasted no time. He ordered three changes in rapid succession:
Richards replaced Zabaleta to tighten the right.
Xavi García came in for the yellow-carded Yaya Touré.
Negredo, frustrated all evening, was hauled off for the ever-dangerous Edin Džeko.
Pellegrini barked orders—tighten the wings, press Carrick, collapse space around Kagawa.
City began probing again. Aguero dropped deep, combining swiftly with Nasri and Navas. The midfield triangle was spinning again—but this time in sky blue.
Then, disaster. A lofted ball from Fernandinho floated in from the left. Ferdinand—tired, dragging—lost sight of Džeko for just a moment.
That was enough. Džeko rose high, overpowering the United veteran and thundering a header past De Gea.
3-2.
Raman's voice dropped: "Heartbreak. Džeko with a dagger. What a header."
Morris: "That may be the knockout punch. United have given everything—but that's the risk when you fight with one arm tied."
Worse was to come.
Vidic, the immovable warrior all night, suddenly pulled up—clutching his thigh. His legs had betrayed him. Too many minutes, too many battles, and now… this.
He fell to the turf. Agony on his face. The team doctor rushed over.
Tiger jogged over, crouched beside the defensive stalwart. The doctor looked up and shook his head.
"Not good," he whispered. "Could be a month. Maybe longer."
Tiger King stood, fists clenched, muttering beneath his breath: "Sh*t…"
He slammed the turf. Vidic was helped off. United were down to nine.
City smelled blood. Garcia stripped Rooney of the ball in midfield and sent a long ball over the top.
Aguero latched on. Only van Dijk remained. One-on-one.
A feint. A shimmy. A burst of pace. Aguero was past him.
De Gea charged out—arms stretched, desperate—but Aguero's finish was delicate and cruel.
4-2.
Raman: "And that… will do it for Manchester United"
Morris: "Brave. So brave. But in the end, it just wasn't enough."
Manchester City 4 – 2 Manchester United
Tiger King stood on the touchline, arms crossed, lips tight. His team had fought like warriors—ten, then nine—but came up short.
The scoreboard didn't reflect the blood spilled or the hearts poured out. But every United fan knew: This team refused to bow.
And Tiger? He walked off slowly, already thinking about the next battle.
Because United always rise.
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