Old Trafford, 4th minute. The stadium was still vibrating from the atmosphere, but Liverpool had wasted no time asserting their intent.
Luis Suárez dropped deep, dragging Van Dijk with him. With one deft flick off the outside of his boot, he spun and released Coutinho into acres of space on the left. The Brazilian surged forward like a phantom, dancing past Rafael who lunged a moment too late.
Carragher (commentary): "That's what I'm talking about! Suárez just vacuumed Van Dijk out of position — and now look!"
Just a few minutes later, it was Coutinho who cut inside, eyes scanning. A one-two with Henderson opened a seam between Toby Alderweireld and Alonso. With a sharp turn of the hips, Coutinho fired a low, curling ball across the six-yard box.
De Gea dove instinctively — but it wasn't a shot. It whistled just past Sturridge's outstretched boot at the far post.
Neville: "That's a warning. It's too easy for Liverpool to carve through. United's back four looks stitched together with tape and panic."
Tyler: "It doesn't go down as a shot on target, but the danger… oh, the danger."
The Stretford End gasped in unison. Alderweireld barked at Alonso. Van Dijk clenched his fists. Suárez? He just smiled.
7th minute. Liverpool weren't just testing the water — they were storming the fortress.
This time it was Gerrard who picked up the tempo. With the swagger of a general on home soil, he intercepted a loose ball from Mahrez and strode forward with purpose. He didn't even glance at Lucas or Henderson. The command was his.
Carragher: "Look at the space! He's striding into midfield like Moses parting the Red Sea!"
Gerrard launched a looping diagonal pass to Glenn Johnson, who had ghosted behind Alonso. One touch, then a low cross to the penalty arc. Suarez let it run. Sturridge arrived like a bullet.
Alderweireld lunged desperately — the shot never came. Instead, Sturridge dummied and squared it back for Gerrard, who thundered onto it first time.
Tyler: "GERRARD—!"
It blazed past De Gea's left post by inches, the post shuddering from the wind of it.
Neville: "Bloody hell! That's the third time in eight minutes they've carved through. We're lucky that's not in the net."
Carragher: "Liverpool smell fear. That's not football — that's a siege."
Tyler: "Make no mistake, the King's men are under siege."
As the ball flew out for a goal kick, Tiger King stood arms folded, lips tight, unmoved — at least on the surface. But inside, even he knew — this was not a normal first ten minutes.
Liverpool hadn't scored yet. But they'd announced themselves. And the battle had only just begun.
Despite Liverpool's high-octane start, it would be a mistake to think Manchester United were simply weathering the storm. Even as the Red tide surged forward, the home side began to find moments — slivers of space, seconds of hesitation — where their own quality bled through.
In the 7th minute, Wayne Rooney dropped deep, ghosting into the pocket behind Lucas, and collected a zipped pass from Giggs. With a single turn, he left Henderson trailing behind, took two strides, and unleashed a thunderous strike from 25 yards.
"Rooney! He's going for it—" The ball whistled through the cold Manchester air and skidded just over the bar, shaving paint off the woodwork as it dipped late.
"Ohhh, not far off!" Tyler gasped.
"Vintage Rooney that," Neville chimed in. "Ball's rising, but the intention's clear — United are not here to sit back."
On the touchline, Tiger King nodded silently. He didn't flinch, didn't bark orders — he simply watched. He knew. The moment was coming.
And when it did — it came not with thunder, but with silk.
Scarlet Bar
"Must be okay!"
"Kill the kids of Liverpool today!"
The Scarlet Bar, nestled in the heart of Manchester's red-blooded neighborhood, was bursting at the seams. Every stool taken, every table crowded, and every inch of wall pulsing with the reflected glow of the big screen — all eyes fixed on the live broadcast from Old Trafford.
Scarves hung from rafters. Pints sloshed as cheers, jeers, and nervous chuckles rippled through the crowd.
It was a Wednesday, and most sane people should've been at work. But sanity had no place here — not today.
"Oi, why not grab a drink?" someone nudged his mate.
"Not today, mate. I ran out the office without even telling my boss — said I had food poisoning."
"Food poisoning?"
"Yeah, told'em I was hugging the loo. Instead, I'm hugging the bar. I need to sneak back during halftime, flash my face, pretend to be pale and miserable, then rush back here for the second half."
"Your insurance company's really got you by the neck, huh?"
"You think that's bad? If I go back stinking of lager, I'm as good as unemployed. So keep that pint well away from me."
"You coward," the man next to him bellowed, clinking his glass loudly. "You think the King would run from a little splash of beer?"
"Mate, the King's got Rooney, Giggs and van Persie. I've got a mortgage and Carol from HR."
The group howled with laughter, some nearly spitting their drinks as the camera on the broadcast zoomed in on Tiger King at the edge of the dugout — arms folded, eyes locked on Liverpool's shape.
"There he is!" someone shouted.
"Look at that stare — he's not blinking!"
"That's because he's burning holes through Rodgers' soul!"
"He's playing chess while Brendan's playing dominoes, lads!"
The room erupted again, voices rising in rhythm with every flicker of action onscreen. Outside, the city hummed unaware — but inside the Scarlet Bar, the war drums had started, and Manchester United's army was watching with blood in their eyes.
Just as they were about to continue their discussion, the scene changed and Scarlet bar erupted!
Back At Old Trafford
The ball kissed the back of the net, and in that instant, Old Trafford erupted.
"MARTIAL! He's done it!" Martin Tyler's voice rang out, barely audible over the explosion of sound in the Theatre of Dreams. "What a start from Manchester United — and what composure from the young Frenchman!"
Martial stood frozen for a heartbeat, arms outstretched in quiet defiance, before wheeling away towards the corner flag, his face lit with raw joy. Behind him, red shirts flooded forward in celebration, while the stands became a wall of thunder and limbs.
"That's not just a goal — that's a statement," Gary Neville shouted over the din, barely containing himself. "Mahrez opened the door, Fletcher unlocked it, and Martial walked right through. Cool as you like!"
It had all started with Riyad Mahrez, gliding down the right flank with the easy grace of a man possessed. His hips swayed, feet danced, and Glenn Johnson — veteran of countless battles — found himself spinning in circles, desperately trying to guess the next move.
"Mahrez is unplayable today!" Tyler exclaimed. "He's channeling young Giggs — and you can see why the Welsh wizard called him his heir!"
Mahrez didn't cross blindly. With the poise of a chess master, he cut the ball back low to Darren Fletcher, lurking just outside the box. The Scot, often unsung and overlooked, took a breath and passed the ball into the feet of Anthony Martial.
Martial, tightly marked by Martin Škrtel, didn't try to overpower him. He simply pivoted, leaned into the Slovakian's frame, and with a deft flick of his right toe, redirected the ball through the narrowest corridor — skimming past the tangled legs of defenders and catching Mignolet flat-footed behind his own man.
"It's pure instinct from Martial!" Neville roared. "Škrtel can't react, Mignolet can't see — and the ball's in the net!"
Jamie Carragher slapped the desk in frustration. "That's a nightmare for Liverpool's back line. You can't let Martial turn like that in the box — that's amateur stuff."
Across the city, in the packed Scarlet Bar, fans screamed and jumped with wild abandon. Beer sloshed. A chair toppled. One man clutched his phone mid-call, yelling, "He's done it! The kid's done it!"
"WHAT A BALL! FLETCHER!" one fan bellowed.
Another groaned, still in his work suit, "Now I really can't go back to the office — I'm not missing this bloodbath."
And at home, Victoria sat bolt upright on the sofa. Her worry from earlier was already turning into reluctant admiration. The bastard was back at it again.
On the touchline, Tiger King stood with arms crossed, eyes calm, but a proud smirk curling at the edge of his lips. The message was loud and clear — Liverpool had come for revenge. But Manchester United had drawn first blood.
And the war had only just begun.
Up in the stands, Mike Phelan could barely contain himself. Wearing a bulky United jacket and a red scarf wrapped twice around his neck, he jumped to his feet, blowing an imaginary whistle between his fingers like he was officiating the moment himself.
"Long live Manchester United! Long live Tiger King!" he roared, pumping his fist. "Martial is so bloody handsome! F* Liverpool!"
The rotund man seated next to him — Rodney, an old friend from the coaching days — leaned over with a wry smile.
"You're not this loud when you're on the touchline."
Phelan laughed, slapping his knee.
"Mate, that's because the FA officials are always lurking down there. I can't exactly scream 'F* Liverpool' with a clipboard in my hand!"
He leaned back with a grin. "Up here, though? It's freedom, baby. This is Old Trafford! I can say it all I want!"
Rodney chuckled. "You're unhinged."
"And loving it!" Phelan shouted.
The entire North Stand was swaying, a storm of scarves and clapping hands. Flags waved like wildfire, songs broke out from all directions, and strangers hugged like lifelong friends. After Martial's beautiful finish, Old Trafford had become not just a stadium — but a living, breathing monument of joy.
"TIIIGERRR KIIIING! TIIIGERRR KIIIING!" chanted the fans, shaking the rafters.
And somewhere below, down in the dugout, the Tiger King simply nodded, arms folded — his face calm, but his heart ablaze.