Chapter 476: The Villain Of Manchester.

Haaland shifted onto it instinctively, dragging it across his body with one touch, then snapping at it with his left foot—low, angled, with just enough venom to send hearts lurching.

The ball skidded across the goal, and Raya rooted to the spot.

It whispered past the far post.

Just.

A ripple of gasps cascaded through the stadium, the Arsenal fans freezing mid-chant while City’s faithful stood halfway out of their seats.

“OOOOOH!” Beglin exclaimed. “You thought that was in!”

Peter Drury: “From our angle… I saw the net move. But no—wide. Just wide. Erling Haaland, by a blade of grass.”

Raya, still frozen from the shot, slowly exhaled and trotted to place the ball for a goal kick, shaking his head with a rueful smile.

The camera panned to Pep Guardiola, who didn’t flinch, only clapped—twice—then pointed forward.

Arsenal’s players exhaled too, exchanging glances.

That was a warning.

A subtle one.

A brutal one.

But the message was clear: Manchester City were far from done.

………..

FWEEEEE

And there it was.

A piercing whistle cut through the roar of the Etihad, bringing the first half to a close.

Peter Drury’s voice carried the weight of it all.

“An intoxicating half of football—full throttle, bare-knuckled, and blazing with talent. Arsenal struck first with a moment of individual sorcery from their teenage prodigy, Izan Hernández, only for Haaland to hammer City’s response a minute later.

But it was the sudden absence of Rodri, City’s midfield metronome, that carved open a path for Arsenal’s second. It’s been tight, it’s been tactical, and it’s been beautiful.”

Jim Beglin added, “We knew this would be a classic, Peter. But the sheer pace and intelligence on display—it’s almost exhausting to watch. And it’s only half-time.”

Drury: “What more can the second half possibly bring?”

Beglin: “A lot more if the first forty-five was anything to go by.”

Drury: “So as the players head down the tunnel, the score reads: Manchester City 1, Arsenal 2. Don’t go anywhere.”

The broadcast wiped to the BBC studio, the halftime graphics spinning in with dramatic orchestration as the familiar setup flickered onto screens.

Gary Lineker, seated comfortably, leaned into the camera with a wide smile.

“Well, if you thought the hype was just media fluff, this first half has shattered all doubts. Arsenal, the upstarts. City, the established empire. And we’ve got a real fight on our hands.”

Alan Shearer shook his head with a grin. “Izan. That lad. He’s just twisting world-class defenders like ribbons. It’s not even fair.”

Alex Scott added, “But it’s not just flair. Arsenal have structure. Intent. They’re brave in the press, aggressive in duels… and that Calafiori finish? A statement.”

Micah Richards—on guest duty for the day despite not being a BBC regular—chuckled.

“City’ll be fuming they lost Rodri. That’s massive. Pep’s gonna be livid in that dressing room.”

“Let’s actually shift focus to that—City, one down at the break, and missing their anchor. What now for Guardiola?” Lineker’s voice lingered, his tone floating in midair—

But the hum of the studio began to warp—

The edges of the screen blurred, smearing blue and white like wet paint before turning black to show the face of Pep Guardiola, who had just turned off the television in the locker room.

A thud.

Leather sole on concrete.

Another.

Bright light cut into the shadows, revealing white tile, rows of benches, opened gear bags, and crushed water bottles.

Steam hissed in the corner from a running shower.

The Manchester City locker room.

Muted. Still. Tense.

Joško Gvardiol was leaned over, forearms resting on thighs, sweat clinging to the tips of his hair.

Sávio toweled off near his locker, his mouth set in a tight line.

Haaland sat stone-still, elbows on knees, his breathing heavy but measured, like an engine idling.

The room wasn’t silent, but no one dared raise their voice.

Just the buzz of overhead lights.

The clink of plastic water bottles.

The distant echoes of chanting fans beyond concrete walls.

Then—

Squeak.

The sound of a marker sliding across a whiteboard.

Pep stood there.

Pale-blue training top clinging to his back.

No one had noticed him move.

But now he stood in front of the board, cap off the pen, back turned to them all.

For a second, he didn’t say a word.

Then, without turning, he spoke—his tone deceptively calm.

“You think it’s over?” he said, voice heavily tinged with his Spanish accent.

He spun, writing in jagged strokes: 10 — IZAN.

“You think this one—this kid-is—is going to stop running?”

He underlined the name once.

“You think they won’t press harder—faster—just because they’re up at the half?”

The underlined name became a circle.

Then another, tighter one. Ink bleeding into the board.

“You lot laughed yesterday,” Pep said, finally meeting their eyes.

“When I said he’d be the problem.”

A beat of silence. Then, his voice dropped the Catalan edge sharpening.

“Now fix it.”

No tactics yet. No markers for positioning.

No instructions for press lines.

Just that name. Just that presence.

In the back, Ederson looked down at his gloves. Bernardo muttered something in Portuguese.

Even Walker wasn’t chewing gum anymore.

Because they knew it, too.

They had a problem and had to figure out how to stop that problem before the second half began.

……..

Jerseys, scarves, and flags were fluttering and waving beneath the deepening Manchester dusk.

A pocket of City supporters near the East Stand was visibly agitated.

Arms waving, one man, probably in his late forties, shook his head as he turned to the man next to him, voice thick with disbelief.

“Of all days—Rodri? Today? Why not against bloody Luton, huh?”

His friend groaned.

“You lose your spine, you lose your shape. It’s like pulling out the engine of a car and expecting it to drive the same.”

“Yeah, well, we’re not driving—we’re stalling.”

Behind them, a younger fan chimed in, crossing his arms tightly.

“No Rodri, no control. Pep knew this would be bad. And now Izan’s running the game like he owns it.”

That name—Izan—carried weight now.

You could hear it roll bitterly off the tongues of the home fans, like a bad taste they couldn’t wash out.

Just a few rows over, the red and white corner of the away end was vibrating with joy.

Arsenal fans were practically leaning into each other’s ears, every sentence louder than the last, not just over the noise but over their own excitement.

“D’you see him?” one man shouted, eyes wide. “D’YOU SEE HIM? Izan sat three of them down! I counted—three!”

His friend, already halfway hoarse, was punching the air.

“Mate! If we had that kid ten years ago, we’d have been Champions League royalty by now!”

A group of teenagers with red scarves were singing songs, reworking chants in real time to accommodate their new star.

“He came from Spain, he dances through pain—Izan! Izan! Remember the name!”

They laughed, unfiltered and wild, rattling the barriers with their knees.

Down front, a father looked to his son, both wrapped in Arsenal gear, the boy’s voice shrill with the thrill of being right here for it.

“Did you see him, Dad? He went past Dias like he wasn’t even there!”

The dad chuckled, still catching his breath.

“I saw it, lad. The whole of Manchester saw it. And I bet Pep wishes he hadn’t.”

Suddenly, a group of City fans turned with glares—no real menace, just bruised pride.

The Arsenal dad raised his hands defensively, but he was still grinning.

“Hey, we’ve had our share of pain, too. Let us enjoy a little magic, yeah?”

Someone behind him muttered, “Let’s see how much magic’s left when Kovacic’s gears start turning.”

“Yeah,” someone else growled, “and when Haaland remembers he’s not on vacation. Even if he’s scored, he still has more to do.”

Still, there was no hiding the swing in the air.

The balance had shifted. Arsenal had gone from hopeful visitors to real threats. And the fans knew it.

The camera panned once more—sweeping across the stadium, the light catching the contrasting shades of elation and anxiety—before cutting down to the pitch…

Where the sprinklers had stopped working and were retreating into the grass, signaling that the start of the second half was near.

After that scene, a half-chaotic trickle of bodies emerged from the tunnel mouth into the furnace of noise and floodlights.

The players were bunched, scattered in no particular order, chatting in short bursts or just staring out into the glowing bowl of the Etihad.

Out first came Jurrien Timber, bouncing slightly on his heels, his fingers twitching with readiness.

He squinted into the lights above the pitch, then turned back to slap hands with Declan Rice, who emerged with an elastic stretch of his arms and a grin that was more a grimace.

Behind them, Izan Hernandez stepped out.

Focused. Head lowered slightly. Hands on his hips.

The crowd volume surged just as his boots touched the turf again, waves of booing from the City fans who had just endured a first-half masterclass at their team’s expense.

He barely flinched.

Beside him, Saka jogged out and nudged his shoulder with a grin.

“You hear that?”

Izan smirked.

“Music.”

A/N; First of the day. Have dun reading and I’ll see you when I wake up. It’s one am currently

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