The door of the locker room closed with a soft click as Tiger marked his entrance, but the silence that followed was deafening.
Boots scraped gently against the tile. Some players sat hunched, shirts half-off, sweat-soaked and staring into the floor. Others leaned back, heads tilted toward the ceiling, as if trying to comprehend how a match so full of spirit had slipped from their grasp.
The scoreboard still haunted them.
4-2.
To City.
But Tiger—still in his black coat, still carrying the fire in his eyes—didn't shout. He didn't pace. He stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips, looking slowly from one face to the next.
Rooney sat, breathing heavily, his fists still balled. Carrick had a towel over his head. Martial was crouched in a corner, boots off, eyes distant. And in one corner, Vidic—leg wrapped, jaw clenched—refused the wheelchair and sat upright like a wounded general.
Tiger's voice finally broke the silence. "No heads down."
His tone was calm—measured. Not a trace of anger. "Don't let that scoreboard lie to you. Because that… wasn't failure. That was a war. And we fought it with honor."
He walked a few slow steps forward. "We lost because of a decision none of you made. Nasri conned the ref, and Jones paid the price. From that moment on, we weren't just playing City—we were fighting the odds, the noise, the numbers."
He turned to Jones, who sat near the back, still looking like he'd swallowed glass. "Phil," Tiger said, "this isn't on you."
Jones looked up—eyes bloodshot. "You played your heart out. I asked for intensity. You gave me that. What happened out there was out of your hands."
He paused. Let the weight settle. Let the breath return. "You all kept fighting. Martial, that cut-back? Brilliant. Carrick, that pass to Kagawa—beautiful. Rooney, that header? You lifted the whole squad with that moment. And van Dijk—you stood alone and you still made them work for it."
He looked around again, softer now. "That's the spirit I ask for. That's the badge. That's us."
No one said a word, but their posture shifted. Rooney looked up. Martial blinked back into the room. Even Vidic gave a faint nod.
Tiger moved toward the exit, then stopped at the door. "We walk out of here with our heads high. They won the match. But we showed the world something more."
He looked over his shoulder. "We'll heal. We'll regroup. And when they come to Old Trafford… we'll remember."
Then he left, coat flaring behind him towards the Press Conference that normally follows the game.
Behind him, the silence in the room had changed. It wasn't heavy anymore.
It was focused.
The room was packed. Cameras clicked, lights flashed, microphones pushed forward. The buzz of the media hadn't died down—not after a derby like that.
At the front table, two men sat side by side: Manuel Pellegrini, poised and softly smiling in a navy blazer, and Tiger King, the fiery Manchester United manager, shoulders tight, jaw set.
Pellegrini spoke first. "We played with cohesion," he said, measured and calm. "The players executed the plan. Aguero's movement, Nasri's creativity, and Džeko's impact off the bench—it was all part of our offensive structure. We anticipated their midfield imbalance and exploited it when the opportunity came."
A reporter raised a hand, "Manuel, you said pre-match that you wanted to deliver something special for the fans. Do you feel you did that today?"
Pellegrini smiled, a little too satisfied. "I said I wanted to give you a wonderful Manchester Derby," he repeated. "And I did."
There was a pause. Then, Tiger leaned forward. He wasn't smiling. "The 'wonderful' thing Mr. Engineer refers to," he said, his voice smooth but ice-edged, "must include Nasri's dive, yes?"
Some journalists chuckled. Pellegrini's smile twitched.
Tiger continued, "It was a performance, I'll give him that. He should consider the West End. He sold it to the referee, got the penalty, and changed the game."
He glanced sideways, then back at the room, his voice steadying into steel.
"Before Jones was sent off, the game was finely balanced. 1–1 in spirit, if not in score. Both teams were testing each other, adjusting. That red card? It broke the symmetry. It tilted the board."
He leaned into the mic. "But even with ten men, we fought. We scored two goals playing uphill against a City side at home. My players gave everything. I'm proud of that."
There was silence for a beat—then murmurs, pens scribbling. One reporter asked, "Do you think Nasri should be retroactively punished for simulation?"
"I'm not a referee," Tiger replied with a smirk. "But I hope the disciplinary committee has a clearer view than the man in black today."
He rose, papers in hand, nodding at Pellegrini with a faint, razor-thin grin.
"Congratulations on the win," he said, tone polite but laced with venom. "Let's see how wonderful things are at Old Trafford."
Pellegrini nodded back—diplomatic, but quiet now. And with that, Tiger turned, his coat billowing slightly as he strode out of the room.
The war of football was over—for now.
The war of words had just begun.
The headlines across England the next day were merciless.
"Old Engineer Tames Young Tiger!" — The Daily Telegraph
"A Derby, A Waterloo." — The Times
Even The Sun got its bite in. Columnist Wolfe wrote venomously: "In Kante's absence, Phil Jones was given a golden opportunity to shine. Instead, he fumbled it, ruining not just the team's chances, but potentially his own future."
He didn't stop there. "Faced with City's offensive rhythm, Tiger's team looked riddled with holes. Several veterans looked past their prime. Vidic? Once the embodiment of iron and fire, was reduced to a limp exit. A shell of the warrior he once was. Slow, fragile. Time has caught up. A stint at a relegation club might be his only remaining path. With Ferdinand also sidelined and Jones suspended, United's back line is in crisis."
And on Sky Sports, Raman smirked into the camera. "I said before the game, without Kante, United would crumble under the Etihad lights. Looks like I was right."
Pundits tore into the team. Fans seethed. Although the league table hadn't shifted dramatically, the five-point gap to league leaders City now loomed large. Spurs and Arsenal breathed down United's neck, while Liverpool, Everton, and Chelsea, all victorious, were just a point or two behind.
Yet amidst the media inferno, Tiger King was absent.
But Tiger King wasn't watching. He had left Carrington that morning, entrusting Scholes with training. He had other business.
That morning, Tiger handed the reins of training to Scholes and quietly disappeared. He had just received two devastating updates: Vidic was officially ruled out for a month with a thigh strain, and Ferdinand, his old lion, was now out for two months due to a recurring toe injury sustained in the Champions League.
He drove straight to Ferdinand's house. Inside, Rio lay on his couch, foot propped up, trying to laugh through the pain.
"Boss," he smirked as Tiger stepped in, "you look more devastated than I am. Remind me, which one of us is injured?"
Tiger forced a laugh but his voice cracked. "I'd trade my toe for yours right now. First Nemanja, now you… The treble dream feels further away."
Ferdinand's smile faded. He stared at his foot and said quietly, "I don't know what happened. Just a routine jump. Landed badly. Maybe it's age… maybe I'm just not made for this anymore."
His voice trembled. "If this happens again, I'll retire at the end of the season. My contract's up, and maybe that'll be my Manchester United farewell."
Tiger immediately shook his head. "Don't say that. When this season ends, I'm putting a new contract on your desk. You're not done—not by a long shot. You think I'll lift a treble without Rio Ferdinand? Forget it."
Ferdinand was stunned. After Sir Alex retired, he had expected to be sidelined. But Tiger King had not only kept him, he'd entrusted him.
"You're more than a defender. You're a mentor," Tiger continued. "Toby, van Dijk, even Phil… they're watching you. And when you're back, I need you to shape them. Especially Jones."
Just then, a quiet knock interrupted the moment. Tiger turned—and there stood Phil Jones, awkwardly clutching a bouquet.
"Boss… I didn't mean to interrupt."
Ferdinand smiled. "Phil, thanks for coming."
Tiger raised an eyebrow. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Since… you said the treble's drifting away."
"Damn," Tiger muttered, "good thing I didn't badmouth you."
Phil set the flowers down and lowered his head. "I just wanted to say… I'm sorry."
Ferdinand reached out, placing a hand on Phil's arm. "You're thinking too much. This has nothing to do with you. I twisted it on landing. It would've happened either way."
Tiger nodded. "It was Nasri's trickery that led to your red card, Phil. It's not your fault."
As noon approached, Ferdinand offered to cook lunch, but both guests politely declined. Outside, as they stepped into the chilly Manchester air, Tiger clapped Phil on the back.
"Come on. You're buying me lunch."
Phil blinked. "Wait—me?"
"Why not?" Tiger smirked. "There's a great place nearby. Let's go."
The walk to the restaurant was quiet. Phil kept his eyes down, shuffling like a scolded child. Tiger finally broke the silence. "Still thinking about yesterday?"
Phil nodded. "Yeah. I can't shake it. I let everyone down."
Tiger stopped mid-step. "Phil, I'm disappointed in you. Do you know why?"
Phil tensed. "Boss, I—"
"It's not because of the red card," Tiger snapped. "That was Nasri's trickery. But you? You've been sulking ever since. Football is full of red cards, defeats, injuries. If you let it break you every time, you'll never grow."
He stepped closer, voice firm. "Instead of wallowing, you should be thinking: next time I face a player like Nasri, what do I do differently?"
Phil said nothing. Tiger sighed. "If I didn't care about you, I wouldn't waste my breath. But I do. So snap out of it."
Just then, Tiger's stomach let out a loud growl. Phil looked up, startled. Tiger gave him a sheepish look.
"I didn't eat breakfast," he muttered. "Now let's get that meal."
At the table, Tiger ordered heartily. Phil stuck to a lean athlete's meal. But conversation returned. "You've always been injured, haven't you?" Tiger asked, casually.
Phil nodded. "Even before United. I've always picked up knocks."
Tiger raised an eyebrow. "Your body's not the problem. Your playing style is."
Phil looked confused. "Your heart's in the right place. You fight, you dive in, you throw yourself at everything. But football isn't just about heart. It's about head."
Tiger picked up his fork and poked at his hand. "See? If I'm reckless, I stab myself."
Then he gripped his wrist. "But if I control my movement, even pressure won't hurt me."
"You need to play smarter, not harder. Work on your positioning. Read the game better. If you defend with intelligence, you'll last longer—and you won't keep getting hurt."
Phil sat back, processing every word.
Tiger looked at him, gentler now. "You've got what it takes, Phil. But passion without judgment is a fire that burns itself out. Channel it—and you'll become the player I know you can be."
Phil nodded slowly. "Thanks, Boss."