⏱️ POST-MATCH — OLD TRAFFORD PITCH
The final whistle had blown, but Old Trafford refused to empty.
Seventy-four thousand fans stood in the freezing, spitting Manchester rain, singing the names of the men who had just dragged them through the Spanish trenches. Down on the pitch, the mud-soaked United players were walking a slow, triumphant lap of honor.
Kwame Aboagye jogged lightly near the center circle, executing a series of warm-down dynamic stretches with Casemiro. His pristine red kit was entirely clean, a stark, almost supernatural contrast to the Brazilian veteran beside him, who looked like he had been dragged behind a tractor through a swamp.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the stadium PA system boomed, echoing over the roar of the Stretford End. "Tonight's UEFA Champions League Player of the Match... Number 62, Leo Castledine!"
A massive cheer erupted from the stands.
Near the touchline, a UEFA official holding a sleek, angular glass trophy approached the young Brazilian winger. Leo looked entirely caught off guard. He pointed at his own chest, mouthing, "Me?" He had genuinely assumed Bruno Fernandes or Matthijs de Ligt would take the honors.
The official handed him the heavy glass award.
Leo didn't drop to his knees in humble disbelief. He was a Samba boy. Humility was for training sessions.
Leo kissed the glass, flashed a blinding, arrogant smile, and hoisted the trophy high into the air for the dozens of flashing cameras lined up behind the advertising boards. The photographers shouted his name, demanding different angles.
"Castledine! Over here! Look here, Leo!"
Leo lowered the trophy, scanning the pitch. His eyes locked onto Kwame, who was politely clapping from thirty yards away.
"ICEBOX!" Leo roared over the stadium noise, violently waving his free hand. "Get over here!"
Kwame raised an eyebrow, shaking his head slightly, indicating that this was Leo's moment. He didn't want to steal the spotlight. But Leo wasn't having it. The Brazilian sprinted over to the center circle, grabbed Kwame by the back of the neck, and physically dragged the teenager toward the media scrum.
"Make sure you get the Icebox in the frame!" Leo yelled at the photographers, violently pointing a finger directly at Kwame's chest while keeping the trophy firmly tucked under his own arm. "He put it on a silver platter! I just brought the Samba! This is the future of United right here!"
The cameras flashed like strobe lights, capturing the iconic image: the mud-soaked, grinning Brazilian holding the Champions League trophy, his arm slung around the neck of the composed, pristine, unreadable 17-year-old playmaker.
Kwame couldn't help but smile, a genuine, rare break in his icy demeanor. Just a few weeks ago, trapped in a penthouse suite, he had been terrified of losing his spot, obsessing over his own stats and algorithms. Now, he was entirely secure. He had leveled up. He was the Continental Operator. He didn't need the trophy to validate his gravity.
As the media scrum dispersed, the players continued their lap of honor toward the Stretford End. The noise was deafening. Fans were hanging over the metal barriers, desperately reaching out for high-fives and thrown shirts.
Kwame jogged along the touchline, clapping his hands above his head in appreciation.
"General! Hey, General!"
Kwame stopped, turning toward the voice. Leaning precariously over the front row barrier was a young man, soaking wet, his face flushed red from screaming. He was wearing a retro #42 United kit.
Kwame looked at him, instantly recognizing the face from the chaotic, confetti-filled pitch of Gresty Road during Crewe Alexandra's promotion parade. It was Liam, the fan who now commanded the massive @General_AllDay account. Kwame had seen his relentless, fiercely loyal posts defending him in the digital trenches all season.
Kwame jogged directly over to the barrier. Liam's eyes widened to the size of saucers as the £40 million midfielder actually approached him. The fans around Liam pushed forward, crushing him against the railing, desperate to get close.
"Liam, right?" Kwame said, a genuine, warm smile breaking through his icy demeanor, easily cutting through the chaotic noise of the crowd. "The promotion parade at Gresty Road. 'Build the statue, I'll bring the bricks.'"
Liam froze, his mouth hanging slightly open.
"I still see your posts, by the way," Kwame continued, his smile widening. "Thanks for fighting for me online."
Liam looked like he was going to pass out. The fact that the General—the boy who had just dismantled Diego Simeone in the Champions League—remembered him from a pitch invasion in League Two, and actually acknowledged his Twitter account, was completely incomprehensible.
"I... I can't believe you remember that," Liam stammered, pulling his phone out with trembling hands. "General... can I get a picture?"
"Sure," Kwame said, leaning over the barrier.
Liam snapped a rapid-fire burst of selfies, capturing his own ecstatic, rain-soaked face next to the calm, composed Icebox.
"Thanks, K," Liam breathed, staring at the photo. Then, as Kwame turned to jog away toward the tunnel, Liam remembered something. He leaned over the barrier, shouting over the crowd noise. "Hey! General!"
Kwame turned back.
"Check your Insta DMs!" Liam roared, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Check the message request!"
Kwame offered a single, sharp nod, disappearing down the tunnel into the flashing lights of the broadcast zone.
⏱️ 30 MINUTES LATER — HOME DRESSING ROOM
The vibe inside the Manchester United dressing room was absolutely immaculate.
The heavy, suffocating tension of the Cholismo Test had entirely evaporated, replaced by pure, unadulterated relief. Leo had seized control of the auxiliary cord, and a heavy, pulsing Brazilian funk track was vibrating the lockers. Players were half-dressed, laughing loudly, throwing muddy towels into the laundry bins, and checking their phones.
Kwame sat quietly in his corner, sipping a blue recovery fluid from a branded bottle. The adrenaline was finally leaving his system, leaving behind a dull, heavy ache in his legs.
He closed his eyes and summoned the Platinum Interface.
The golden screen materialized in his vision, casting a faint, warm glow against his closed eyelids.
[OVERALL RATING: 86 (Stable)][MATCHDAY XP GAINED: +1200]
He swiped past the raw stats, navigating directly to the hidden condition that had flashed at the final whistle.
⚠ [Hidden condition progress detected: System's Final Evolution — 22%]
Kwame stared at the golden text. System's Final Evolution. The wording was heavy. It didn't say "Next Skill." It didn't say "Class Upgrade." It said Final.
He mentally queried the Interface, demanding clarification. What happens at 100%? What does the Final Evolution look like?
The golden text shimmered, pixelating briefly before a new prompt appeared.
[SYSTEM RESPONSE: Data Insufficient. Parameters currently locked. Evolution requires complete paradigm shift. Preparation for Apex Predators recommended.][More Info: ??]
Kwame sighed silently, swiping the menu away. The system was remaining frustratingly cryptic. But the warning was clear. Preparation for Apex Predators recommended.
"Boys."
The music suddenly cut off.
Luke Shaw stood in the center of the dressing room, holding his smartphone up in the air. The veteran left-back wasn't smiling. The immaculate, celebratory vibe in the room faltered slightly.
"Look at this," Shaw said, his voice entirely devoid of celebration.
Casemiro, wrapping his ankle in ice, looked up. Bruno Fernandes stopped untying his boots.
"What is it?" Bruno asked, a frown creasing his forehead.
"City," Shaw replied, turning the screen around so the room could see.
It was the full-time graphic from the Juventus Allianz Stadium in Turin.
JUVENTUS 1 - 4 MANCHESTER CITY.
The room went completely, utterly silent. The heavy, pulsing bass of the Brazilian funk track had already faded, leaving only the low, sterile hum of the dressing room ventilation fans.
Juventus was arguably the best defensive team in Italy. They were a European heavyweight, playing in their own formidable fortress. A month ago, this exact United squad had gone to Turin and fought an agonizing, bruising, blood-and-guts war just to scrape a gritty 1-1 draw. They had celebrated that single point like a hard-fought victory.
And Manchester City had just gone to that same stadium and casually dismantled them.
Kobbie Mainoo completely stopped toweling his hair, freezing in place as he stared at the screen. "Four?" the young midfielder whispered in sheer disbelief. "They scored four in Turin?"
Matthijs de Ligt stared at the phone, his face paling slightly. "We bled for ninety minutes just to get a point there," the Dutch center-back murmured, remembering the cynical fouls and the bruises. "Bremer and Locatelli nearly killed us. How did they score four?"
"Because they didn't even let them play," Shaw said grimly, scrolling down his timeline, his face illuminated by the harsh glow of the screen. "Look at the timeline. It's a massacre."
Casemiro let out a low, heavy, completely humorless laugh, shaking his head at the muddy floor.
Bruno Fernandes closed his eyes, rubbing his temples and muttering, "Madre de Dios... (mother of God)" under his breath.
"Hat-trick," Shaw continued, his voice dropping into a hollow register. "He scored three. Bullied Bremer on two of them."
Nobody had to ask who he was.
The global timeline was already a digital inferno. The terrifying contrast between United's gritty survival and City's effortless destruction was becoming the ultimate talking point ahead of the weekend.
Social Media
🔵 @CityZen_Blue: Turin is just a training ground for the robot! 🤖🇳🇴 4-1 against the best defense in Italy! United must be absolutely shaking in their locker room right now. Saturday is going to be a bloodbath at Old Trafford!
🌍 @EuroTactics: The gap between Manchester City and the rest of Europe is genuinely terrifying right now. United survived Juventus using pure grit and dark arts. City just walked in and violently dismantled them. The Manchester Derby this weekend isn't just a rivalry match; it's a reality check.
🔴 @UTD_Zone: 4-1 in Turin? Yeah, I'm going to be sick. I'm actually terrified. How are we supposed to stop that machine on Saturday?
The reality of the schedule came crashing down on the United dressing room like a ton of cold, wet cement. They had survived Diego Simeone's dark arts. They had passed the Cholismo Test. But the Champions League was already in the past.
Today was Wednesday.
On Saturday afternoon, under the lights of Old Trafford, the Manchester Derby was waiting.
Manchester City sat at the absolute pinnacle of world football. They were first in the Premier League, boasting a flawless 10-0-0 record. They were second in the Champions League's League Phase, boasting a flawless 4-0-0 record. They were a perfectly calibrated, ruthlessly efficient machine of possession and violence.
Elias Thorne stepped into the dressing room. He didn't have his usual post-match tactical notes. He looked around the silent room, feeling the sudden, heavy shift in the atmosphere. He looked at the physical dread settling over his players, looked at Shaw's phone, then looked at his captain.
"Enjoy the shower," Thorne said quietly, his voice carrying an iron edge.
"Wash the mud off. Tomorrow morning, we prepare for the machine."
⏱️ MEANWHILE — AWAY DRESSING ROOM, ALLIANZ STADIUM (TURIN, ITALY)
If the Manchester United dressing room was experiencing a reality check, the Manchester City dressing room was a lair of absolute, arrogant monsters.
The away dressing room in Turin felt like a conquered kingdom. The dark away kits of the City players were pristine, looking disturbingly fresh after ninety minutes of European football. They hadn't just beaten Juventus; they had toyed with them.
In the corner, Rayan Cherki—the £85 million French Trickster—was casually juggling a size-three training ball. He kept the ball in the air with effortlessly flicked heels, his feet moving in blindingly fast blurs of technical perfection, completely ignoring the Italian press outside the door.
Across the room, sitting side-by-side like twin statues of pure violence, were Josko Gvardiol and Rúben Dias. The Wall and The Enforcer. They were currently icing their knees in complete silence, their faces set in permanent, intimidating scowls. They were the reason Juventus had only registered a single, pathetic shot on target all night.
In the center of the room, sitting on a tactical cooler, was Rodri. The Field General. The undisputed best defensive midfielder on the planet. He wasn't celebrating the 4-1 victory. He was staring intensely at a club-issued iPad, his mind already deconstructing the geometric heat maps of the match, looking for the tiny, microscopic inefficiencies in his own flawless performance.
Antoine Semenyo, the blistering Ghanaian winger, sat near his locker. He was holding his iPhone horizontally, the volume turned up slightly.
"Hey, look at this," Semenyo called out, an impressed grin on his face.
Cherki caught his juggling ball with a soft touch of his instep, walking over. Dias and Gvardiol didn't move, but their eyes shifted. Rodri looked up from his iPad.
Semenyo turned the screen around. It was a viral replay of the Manchester United vs. Atletico Madrid game.
The clip played out the exact moment of the 89th minute. It showed Koke and Llorente completely wiping each other out. It showed Kwame Aboagye jogging to the top of the 'D'. It showed the impossibly cheeky, no-look, reverse backheel nutmeg through José María Giménez's legs, teeing up Leo Castledine for the rocket into the top corner.
"The internet is having another meltdown over my countryman," Semenyo said proudly, tapping the screen. "The General just dismantled Cholo's block with one touch."
Cherki leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he watched the backheel.
"This 'Icebox' hype is getting exhausting," Cherki smirked, his voice dripping with pure, dismissive contempt. "He chips a keeper in London, hits a few nice passes in Africa, and the world thinks he's a god. Cute footwork. But Giménez committed way too early. It's flashy, but against a real defense, he loses the ball."
"Let him try that 'Maestro' shit against me," Rúben Dias scoffed from across the room, his deep voice rumbling with menace. "I'll put the boy in row Z. I don't care how many viral TikTok edits they make of him."
Rodri didn't speak immediately. The Spanish maestro stood up, walking over to Semenyo's locker. "Play it again."
Semenyo restarted the clip. Rodri didn't look at the ball, and he didn't look at the backheel. His analytical eyes tracked Kwame's head movements in the seconds before he received the pass from Bruno.
"He didn't just guess," Rodri muttered, his voice cold and analytical. "Look at the timing. He manipulated Oblak's hips. He knew exactly where the space was going to be before Bruno even passed it. The kid processes geometry fast. Very fast."
Rodri's eyes didn't blink. "But geometry collapses when you remove time."
"Everyone is crowning him the Continental Operator," Semenyo nodded, oblivious to the chill in the room. "Saturday is going to be a bloodbath."
Suddenly, a massive, terrifying shadow fell over Semenyo's locker.
The temperature in the dressing room seemed to drop several degrees. Cherki instinctively took a half-step back. Even Rúben Dias stopped icing his knee.
Erling Haaland stood there.
The 6'5" Norwegian cyborg was a physical anomaly. His blond hair was tied back tight, his pale blue eyes carrying the chilling, dead-eyed focus of an apex predator. He was the Devourer. He had just scored three goals against Juventus, and he looked entirely bored by the accomplishment.
Haaland didn't ask for permission. He reached down with a massive, pale hand and took the phone directly from Semenyo's grip.
Haaland held the phone close to his face. He watched the clip in absolute silence.
He watched Kwame let the ball roll across his body to evade Koke. He watched the perfectly disguised backheel. But more importantly, Haaland watched the aftermath. He watched the replay zoom in on Kwame's face—the cold, unbothered, imperious smirk as seventy-four thousand people screamed his name.
For a long, deeply uncomfortable moment, Haaland just stared at the frozen image of the 17-year-old on the screen.
Then, a slow, terrifying, entirely villainous smile spread across the Norwegian's face. It wasn't a smile of joy; it was the smile of a hunter who had finally found prey worthy of a chase.
"Good," Haaland rumbled, tossing the phone casually back onto Semenyo's bag. "I was getting bored. These ones break too easily."
Haaland turned around, grabbing his towel, his massive shoulders rolling as he headed for the showers.
"Saturday," Haaland threw back over his shoulder, his voice echoing in the tiled room.
"... let's see if the Icebox cracks."
The Manchester Derby was no longer just a fixture on the calendar.
The monsters were coming to Old Trafford.
And they were coming for the General.