The journey back to London was a world away from the tense, silent pilgrimage north. The same bus, the same seats, the same motorway, but a completely different universe.
The air was thick with the sounds of boisterous laughter, terrible singing, and the triumphant, exaggerated retelling of every key moment from the match.
Christian Benteke was holding court at the back, re-enacting both of his goals with the dramatic flair of a seasoned performer, arms spread wide each time he mimed the finish, the rest of the lads roaring with approval.
Even Damien Delaney, who had walked into the training ground three days ago with his arms crossed and his skepticism worn like a badge of honour, was laughing.
Genuinely laughing. The rigid hierarchy of the dressing room: the one built on years of seniority, on Premier League appearances, on wages had been shattered by ninety brutal, brilliant minutes at Anfield.
