"Demolition. Ruthlessness. Destruction."
The commentator's voice rang through the stadium speakers and living room soundbars alike, low and deliberate.
He didn't raise it. He didn't need to.
It was the kind of tone that didn't demand attention—it held it, gripped it by the collar.
"Three words. Pick any of them. All of them fit. Because this hasn't been a game. It's been a statement."
The score still lingered on the screen.
Manchester United 0 – 8 Arsenal.
Even the font looked like it wanted to shrink from the screen.
"And if you're just joining us, no, that is not a graphic error."
The camera swept across Old Trafford, now hollowed out by the hour.
What had begun with nearly 70,000 strong had withered to patches of scattered figures—fans too shocked, too angry, or too faithful to leave.
Most seats were empty.
Some supporters still sat, still processing, while others had their hands in their hair.
Others had none left to pull.
