The morning after the second semi-final was noisy before the sun even had the chance to stretch across Europe.
From Madrid to Marseille, from North London to Naples, the football world woke up with one voice:
"How did it end 4â0?"
A game everyone was expecting to go down to the wire, possibly.
A game that had all the star power, but only one teamâs star power came through.
Phones buzzed on nightstands.
Twitter (or X, depending on who you asked) was a riot of laughter, disbelief, and meme warfare.
In Barcelona, cafés opened early, and laughter came free with the morning cortado.
"Real Madrid, trophyless. Kylian Mbappé, finished before he started,"
one fan tweeted, attaching a photo of MbappĂ©âs face edited onto a crying baby wearing a Real Madrid bib.
Within minutes, it had over fifty thousand likes, and so the replies came flooding in.
@ItsMeixzi:
Bro left Paris to escape humiliation of not winning the UCL and to possibly win one, only to end up on Real Madridâs bottle-job timing.
@MadridistaKing:
Say that again when youâre not celebrating a pre-season trophy.
@Pistacho031_3:
Pre-season? You mean the 3 trophies we beat you four times across the season and three separate tournaments to claim?
The thread exploded, drawing in fans from every corner of Europe.
Some defended MbappĂ©, but most didnât.
Every Madrid fan who tried to type something found themselves buried under memes of empty trophy cabinets, Luka ModriÄ photoshopped with a "retirement plan" banner, and a looping clip of Bellingham walking off the pitch shaking his head.
By mid-morning,
Marca
tried to calm things down with an article titled
"A Difficult Year for Real, But The Future Is Bright."
But that didnât help either.
The replies under the headline were merciless.
"The future? What, your club bottling everything after signing the supposed best player of the current generation?"
"Bright? The only thing bright is the 4â0 on the scoreboard."
"Imagine telling us a year ago that Mbappe would join Real Madrid on a free, with a news station telling Barcelona and the world to get ready, only for them to lose 4 El ClĂĄsicos in a row, go battered 4-0 by Mbappeâs former club, who were supposed to be the problem back when Mbappe was there, and go trophyless. I am a Barca fan, but I would have bet my balls a year ago that it was impossible."
Meanwhile, across the Pyrenees, Paris was quiet.
Too quiet.
French outlets went from cautious to defensive overnight.
RMCâs morning show tried to play it cool.
"PSG still have the final,"
one host said, flipping through papers.
"And all I can say about that is that theyâve earned the right to be there."
But even he didnât sound convinced.
His co-host laughed under her breath.
"Final or not, they looked scary yesterday. And Arsenal were in the stands. You could see it, they were studying."
Online, PSG fans tried to regroup.
Hashtags like
#InLuisWeTrust
trended briefly before being hijacked by Arsenal and Barcelona fans with clips of Arteta nodding in the stands, arms folded.
@Tyler Saylor
Bro was studying like itâs the end of the world if he loses, even after winning a quadruple. This is the greed they talk about in the bible.
@CoolVamp:
Paris serving 4 to Real Madrid, but are about to be the next victims of Artetaâs HaramXIzan ball.
@TxSadz:
Who remembers Izan dropping the quote on the Parade that Arsenal would bring the Club World Cup to North London? Gives me the chills now that we are in the final. Bro could be a prophet if this football thing doesnât work out.
And by noon, Arsenal fans were living it up.
Compilation edits flooded TikTok, "Road to the Final," backed by the usual drill beats and overdramatic captions:
"From North London to the World."
But in the middle of it all, Barcelona fans remained the most vocal; their agenda was simple: mock Madrid at every opportunity.
In one popular clip, a Catalan YouTuber named Xavi Ferrer leaned into the camera, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Four El ClĂĄsicos. Four losses. No league. No Europe. No cups. Nothing. The mighty Madrid, reduced to memes. MbappĂ© left Paris for trophies, and now Paris is in the final while heâs in bed watching. Football, señores, is beautiful."
The chat flooded with laughing emojis and comments:
"God bless karma."
"Madrid tried to buy a dynasty, but they bought disaster."
"MbappĂ©âs agent needs to start selling apologies."
Even neutral fans joined in, Italians, Germans, and even a few from South America.
The tone was unanimous:
Real Madrid had fallen, and Europe was feasting.
But in North London, the energy was different.
On a podcast recorded that morning, one host summed it up perfectly.
"Paris are next. Madrid are gone. This is our time. But if we lose... man, the memes will last forever."
Her co-host laughed.
"Nah, not this team. When was the last time you actually saw Arsenal losing a game? I, for one, canât really think of one except the first leg of the UCL semi-final. Thatâs how good this team has become, and with that 17-year-old demon carrying us, you know damn well that this trophy is ours."
...
The screen dimmed after the last clip played, a Barcelona fan screaming through his phone about Madridâs "trophy drought of the decade."
Saka was lying back on a hotel couch, phone in hand, the reflection of the screen flickering over his grin.
Around him, a few of the Arsenal boys were sprawled across the lounge of their New York hotel in their slides and white socks with snacks on the table and bottles of water everywhere.
Nwaneri leaned forward, laughing as another meme popped up.
"Nah, this oneâs mad! Look, look, they put MbappĂ©âs face on a fish in a tank, and the caption says, âLeft the ocean for a bowl.â"
The room burst out laughing.
"Bro, these fans have no mercy," Calafiori said, shaking his head, trying not to choke on his protein bar.
"Theyâve been cooking him since last night."
"Deserved, though," Saka replied, still smiling. "You canât lose 4â0 like that and expect silence."
Even Merino, usually quiet in moments like this, let out a short laugh.
"Spanish media havenât stopped crying. My uncle texted me this morning, talking like it was World War all over again."
Saka chuckled again, flipping through a few more posts before putting the phone face down on the table.
The laughter still lingered, but the air softened a little.
The weight of what was next, the final, hung somewhere in the back of their minds, just waiting for one person to say it.
And Saka, of course, did.
He sighed, scratching his neck like someone about to admit something risky.
"Alright, Iâm not supposed to say this," he started, "but if we lose that final..." He paused, looking around at the faces watching him. "...weâre cooked. Finished. The internetâs gonna bury us alive."
The room reacted instantly as a loud groan rolled through the lounge.
Rice threw a pillow at him first.
Then someoneâs slide came flying, missing Sakaâs shoulder by inches.
"Oi!" he laughed, ducking as another one bounced off the table. "Iâm just being real!"
"Donât say stuff like that, man," Saliba said from the corner, deep voice carrying over everyone elseâs noise.
"That kind of talk brings bad luck, so if you canât say anything good, keep it shut. Donât ruin it for us by jinxing an injury or something."
The room went half quiet, half amused as Saka put his hands up like heâd been caught stealing biscuits.
"Alright, alright. My bad."
He stood up from under the table, grinning as another slide whizzed past his leg.
"Relax! I didnât mean it like that."
Saliba leaned back, shaking his head.
"Donât care how you meant it. Just donât say it."
"Fine, fine," Saka said, laughing as he ducked behind a chair for cover.
"I take it back! Weâre winning, happy?"
"You better," Rice said, still smiling, tossing another pillow his way.
"Manâs trying to curse us before kickoff."
Saka peeked out from behind the chair, both hands raised like a peace offering.
"Alright, alright, I surrender."
He looked around the room, eyes landing on Izan, whoâd been quiet through it all, sitting on the edge of the sofa with his phone in hand.
Saka grinned.
"Alright, future Ballon dâOr," he said, voice playful but curious.
"You havenât said anything all night. What do you think? Whatâs the score gonna be?"
All eyes turned to Izan, wanting to hear what the literal heart of their team had to say about the game.
Izan, on the other hand, just looked up from his phone, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Weâre going to win," he said simply.
For a moment, nobody said a word.
Then Nwaneri let out a low whistle. "Man didnât even blink."
Saka smiled, dropping back into his chair.
"Alright then," he said softly, nodding like he believed it too.