The players reemerged from the tunnel to a wall of noise, the stadium rocking as if it had never stopped during the break. Red smoke flares hissed from the Stretford End, while the traveling City fans bounced defiantly, chanting "Blue Moon"with every ounce of voice they had left.
"One-one at the break," Martin Tyler reminded. "And both teams will feel there's more here. Goals in this game, Alan. You can sense them."
Alan Smith nodded, leaning in. "City have the sharper edges in attack, Martin, but United have the crowd — and in a derby, that can carry you."
The whistle blew. The second half began.
United came out snarling. Rooney charged into Van Dijk, shoulder to shoulder, winning a throw. Herrera pressed Adriano immediately, clipping his heels. The referee waved play on, and Old Trafford roared its approval.
In the 49th minute, Martial lit the stadium on fire. Picking up the ball from Mata, he turned Kimmich inside out, burst into the box, and let fly. Donnarumma stretched, fingertips brushing it, but the ball clanged against the post and rolled wide.
"Oh, what a warning that is!" Tyler cried. "Martial — electric!"
Kompany stormed over to Kimmich. "Closer! Don't let him turn!"
"I've got him, skip!" Kimmich barked back, gritting his teeth.
But five minutes later, Martial couldn't be denied.
Herrera split the midfield with a diagonal ball. Rooney cushioned it perfectly into Martial's path. The young Frenchman darted inside Robertson, feinted right, and smashed a low shot across Donnarumma. This time, no post. The net bulged.
"GOAAAAL! Anthony Martial!" Tyler's voice was drowned by the roar of the Stretford End. "United lead 2–1 in the derby!"
Red erupted everywhere — scarves whirled like hurricanes, fans screamed into the night, and Van Gaal clenched both fists on the touchline. Rooney sprinted to Martial, pulling him close. "That's it! That's how we hurt them!"
Meanwhile, City players regrouped. Van Dijk punched the turf in frustration. Donnarumma slapped his gloves. Kompany clapped twice, calling: "Heads up! Still plenty left!"
Adriano simply jogged back to the center circle, calm, focused. He muttered to De Bruyne, "Give me the next ball."
And when it came, he delivered.
The 64th minute. De Bruyne floated left, pulling Valencia with him, before sliding a perfectly weighted ball inside to Silva. One touch, and Silva released Adriano between Smalling and Blind.
"He's in!" Tyler shouted.
Adriano took it in stride, dropped his shoulder, skipped past Blind's desperate lunge, and with one subtle flick of his right boot, chipped it delicately over De Gea. Time seemed to pause as the ball hung in the air before dipping under the bar.
"GOAAAAL! Adriano equalizes for City!" Tyler thundered. "The nineteen-year-old wonder again! 2–2 in the derby!"
The away end exploded, sky blue bodies leaping as one, scarves flying. Adriano ran to the corner, sliding on his knees, arms stretched wide. Hazard grabbed him from behind, yelling in his ear: "You don't miss, brother! You don't miss!"
De Bruyne arrived next, slapping his chest against Adriano's. "That's how you answer!"
Alan Smith's voice was reverent. "What composure. Blind at his heels, De Gea charging out — and Adriano just lifts it over them. The lad plays like he's got ice in his veins."
The game tightened after the equalizer. Fouls flew in — Herrera scythed down Silva, earning a yellow. Kompany clattered Rooney near halfway. Martial was caught offside twice, the crowd groaning in frustration. Both teams threatened — Aguero had a curling shot tipped wide, Mata struck one straight at Donnarumma.
But in the 80th minute, the match cracked wide open.
Robertson, marauding down the left, whipped a cross into the box. Smalling stretched, but the ball skimmed off his head and dropped to Adriano, who had ghosted in at the penalty spot. One touch to control. Another to lash a venomous strike into the roof of the net.
"GOOOAAALLL!!! ADRIANO AGAIN!" Tyler bellowed, nearly out of breath. "3–2 to Manchester City! The boy is unstoppable!"
Adriano turned, face fierce, pounding his chest. "This is ours!" he roared to the City fans. Kompany sprinted over, lifting him into the air like a trophy. Salah slapped his head. Silva whispered into his ear, "Keep going — one more, and it's over."
Old Trafford fell quiet, stunned. Only the United bench screamed, urging their players forward. Van Gaal waved them up, arms chopping furiously. "Attack! Everyone forward!"
United pushed desperately. Rooney headed wide from a Valencia cross. Martial scuffed a shot under pressure from Van Dijk. Mata curled one narrowly over the bar. The clock ticked toward the final minutes, the crowd urging, demanding.
And then — the dagger.
86th minute. Adriano collected the ball deep in his own half after a United corner broke down. He glanced once — space ahead. Then he ran.
"Oh, he's going, Martin!" Alan Smith gasped.
Adriano sprinted past Carrick, sidestepped Herrera, and surged into United's half. Valencia lunged in, missed. Smalling tried to step up — Adriano chopped the ball inside, leaving him stumbling.
"He's tearing through them!" Tyler shouted, voice peaking.
Now only De Gea stood in his way. Adriano slowed, fainted right, then rolled the ball left, sending the keeper sprawling the wrong way. Calm as ever, he tapped it into the empty net.
"GOOOOOAAAALLLLL!!! ADRIANO — SENSATIONAL! A SOLO GOAL TO SEAL THE DERBY AND HIS HAT-TRICK!" Tyler screamed. "Four–two to Manchester City at Old Trafford, and the nineteen-year-old king has conquered Manchester!"
The away end was in delirium, limbs everywhere, fans tumbling over seats, voices gone hoarse. Kompany dropped to his knees, hands to the sky. Silva grabbed Adriano's face with both hands, yelling, "You're not human!" Hazard leapt onto his back, laughing uncontrollably.
On the United side, heads dropped. Rooney kicked the turf in frustration. Martial stared at the ground, hands on his hips. Van Gaal turned away, face stone.
Alan Smith could barely find words. "That… that was world-class. Strength, speed, composure. He's just destroyed United, Martin. That's not just a goal — that's a statement."
Tyler, breathless, summed it up. "He's nineteen years old, Alan. And he's ripping apart Old Trafford like it's his playground. If he continues this, this era belongs to him."
The final minutes ticked away in a haze. United threw men forward, but City, organized and brimming with confidence, swatted them aside. Donnarumma claimed every cross, Kompany cleared every loose ball, and Adriano, still chasing, still hungry, kept demanding the ball as if three goals weren't enough.
When the whistle blew, City players collapsed in joy, mobbing Adriano in the center circle. Fans in the away end sang his name with every ounce of voice left.
"Full time at Old Trafford," Tyler declared. "Manchester United 2, Manchester City 4. A derby for the ages. And the night — the night belongs to Adriano. A hat-trick, and then some. A performance that will live in derby history."
Alan Smith exhaled, almost in disbelief. "We talk about legends in this fixture. Rooney, Scholes, Aguero. Tonight, there's a new name etched into the derby's story — Adriano. The boy has become a king."
And above it all, in the stands, the City fans sang it loud, over and over, drowning Old Trafford in defiance:
"THE KING IS HERE. THE KING IS HERE."
*****
The whistle snapped Old Trafford shut like a slammed door, and then it blew wide open again — a sky-blue roar tearing through the night. City's players sprinted to the away end, shirts yanked, arms thrown high, Adriano hauled onto shoulders as if the crowd had elected him. In truth, they had long ago. The King had ruled the derby: a second-half hat-trick, 4–2, and the red side of Manchester left staring at the grass.
United trudged inside, the corridor echoing with studs and anger. In their dressing room, silence fell heavy enough to be heard. Rooney ripped the tape from his wrists and fired it at the floor.
"We were ahead," he growled, pacing. "We were ahead and we let him run the match."
Martial sat with his head bowed, still breathing hard. "I thought I had him," he said, voice flat. "Twice I thought I had the angle. He… he just changes speed like that." He snapped his fingers.
Van Gaal's face was granite. He looked across his defenders, measured, not loud. "There are players," he said, "and there are problems you cannot solve with shape. He is one of the latter. Learn." He turned to the whiteboard, stabbed a marker at a frozen frame of Adriano's 86th-minute run. "This is not where we lost it" he tapped on the penalty area, "but here." Tapping on midfield. "We let him turn. You let a king turn, he'll walk to the throne."
Down the hall, City's room shook with music and laughter. Bottles hissed open. Boots thudded. Kompany stood on a bench like a ringmaster, arms wide. "That," he shouted over the noise, "is how you win their ground!"
Adriano slumped back, shirt off, hair plastered, the grin he tried to hide refusing to leave. De Bruyne hooked an arm around his neck. "Majesty," he teased, tapping his temple, "you're taxing them by the mile."
Hazard wandered by, flicked sweat at him. "You've got half of Manchester paying tribute tonight."
Silva, calmer, leaned in close. "You managed the moments," he said, voice low so only Adriano heard. "64: calm over the keeper. 80: pure violence. 86: ice."
He squeezed his shoulder. "That's a champion's sequence."
The door swung and Manuel Pellegrini stepped in — not smiling wide, but with that glint he saved for nights that mattered. He waited for the room to exhale, then lifted a hand. The music dropped.
"Listen," he began, voice steady. "Derbies are about control. Not just of the ball , of yourselves." He looked around the room one by one. "When we went behind, no panic. When we equalized, no complacency. When we led, no madness." He nodded toward Adriano. "We have stars, yes. But stars need a court. Every run, every block, every pass — that's why he can finish it."
Kompany thumped his chest. "We serve the crown," he joked, and the room laughed.
Pellegrini's mouth twitched. "Enjoy it," he said. "Tonight you earned the right. Tomorrow we work again." He turned to Adriano directly. "And you, keep your feet where they always are. On the grass."
"Yes, míster," Adriano replied, voice soft.
Phones buzzed like hornets. Clips of the 86th were already everywhere: Carrick missed, Herrera clattered, Smalling wrong-footed, De Gea sent the wrong way. One angle caught Adriano's head still, eyes cold, as if he was counting heartbeats while the world panicked.
Reporters packed the press room before the players had even showered. Flashes strobed as Pellegrini took his seat.
"Manuel, describe Adriano's impact tonight."
He dryly lifted an eyebrow. "You want me to describe the sun?" A ripple of laughter. He went on. "He is the Ballon d'Or winner for a reason. But you saw how we built his moments — Silva and Kevin controlling, Kompany and Virgil organizing, Andy's cross for the third. We are a team. The King sits on the chair because the table is strong."
"Is he the best player in the world right now?"
Pellegrini shrugged, palms out. "He has the medal that says so. But if he asks me tomorrow, I will tell him the same thing I tell him every day — 'Run. Press. Pass. Then decide the game.'"
United's turn was more bruised. Van Gaal tightened his jaw at the first question.
"What went wrong after the 2–1?"
"We stopped controlling the middle," he said. "We let him receive on the turn. We were not compact around the ball. And when you give that to a player who already has the world's award, he will show you why he has it." He paused. "We score a beautiful goal from Martial. We are 2–1. But to beat City now, you must beat Adriano. We did not."
Back in the City dressing room, the trophy they hadn't lifted — the result — felt like silver in the air. Salah sat on the floor unlacing boots, still shaking his head. "That cut inside on Smalling… my god. I was behind thinking, 'He's going to roll the keeper.' And he did."
Robertson pointed, laughing. "I put one on a plate for your second, King. You owe me dinner."
Adriano shot back, deadpan. "You'll get a crown-shaped pizza."
"Make it two," Kompany said, dropping onto the bench beside him. Then his voice dropped. "You know this is different now." He tapped the Ballon d'Or patch stitched on Adriano's training top. "You wear that, and every ground is a hunt. Tonight you hunted. Keep it like that."
Adriano nodded once. "Always."
Silva clapped his hands to gather everyone. "Picture," he said, and the squad bunched in, arms over shoulders, the scoreboard glowing on a phone screen. Someone shouted, "Three for the King!" and the room erupted again as the shutter clicked.
Outside, the mixed zone swarmed. Microphones pressed like spears. Adriano stepped into the light, eyes still bright with the match.
"Three goals in a derby — what does that feel like?"
He thought for half a breath. "It feels like the team trusts me," he said. "We were down, we didn't panic, we kept playing. The goals are the end of the story. The beginning is Kompany shouting, Silva calming, Kevin threading, Robbo flying. That's City."
"You're nineteen, Ballon d'Or winner, Champions League winner — are you surprised you're already here?"
He smiled, small and real. "I'm grateful. Surprise is for people who didn't see us work last year."
"What about the celebration — the crown gesture again to the away end?"
He shrugged. "They started it. I just return it."
On the bus later, Manchester blurred by in neon streaks. Blue scarves thumped against windows, fans jogging alongside, phones raised, mouths wide with song: THE KING IS HERE… THE KING IS HERE…
De Bruyne replayed the 64th on his screen and nudged him. "The chip," he said, almost admiring. "You made De Gea look small."
"Don't say that," Adriano replied. "Respect." He rewound the 80th instead — Robertson's cross, his first touch out of his feet, the cannon into the roof. "That's the one," he murmured. "Time stopped."
Hazard leaned over the seat. "No, no. The run. The 86th. That's the poster. Kids will stick that on walls."
Kompany, standing in the aisle with a paper cup, lifted it. "To the champions," he said, then tipped it toward Adriano. "And to The King — because tonight he defended the crown."
They clinked cups with laughter and shouted over the engine, over the singing beyond the glass. Adriano looked out and saw a boy on his father's shoulders in a sky-blue scarf, tiny hands making a crown over his head. He couldn't help it — he pressed his own fingers to his brow and returned the sign.
Across the city, pundits were already carving the night into legend.
In the studio, Rio Ferdinand shook his head. "You can set traps, close lanes — he breaks your plan with a touch."
Thierry Henry leaned forward, eyes bright. "He doesn't rush. That's the mark. In the box, on the run, with pressure — he slows the world. That's not talent; that's command."
Back home, phones lit with headlines and clips; group chats became hymn books. Hashtags churned: #TheKingIsHere. #DerbyDayCrowned. At the Etihad shop's online storefront, "ADRIANO 10 — KING" sold out in minutes.
Later, long after the showers and the handshakes and the bus songs, Adriano stood on his balcony, the city humming below. He rolled the match ball in his hands — three signatures from teammates wrapped around its panels. He could still hear Old Trafford's roar in his chest, feel the weight of the sprint, the quiet before each finish.
He didn't smile then. He just nodded to the night, as if acknowledging a contract renewed.
The crown wasn't a gesture. It was a standard to be defended every three days.
Tomorrow would come with video sessions, recovery, and another field, another set of men trying to tear it from his head. Good. He wanted it that way.
Because The King wasn't a name they gave him.
It was a job he intended to keep.
*****
The house was quiet that evening, the faint hum of the television left on in the background while the curtains kept the late autumn dusk away. Adriano sank deeper into the sofa, still wearing a casual hoodie and joggers after returning from the derby. Kate had her legs curled under her, hair tied up loosely, wearing one of his oversized t-shirts she had stolen from his wardrobe. The comfort of home was a sharp contrast to the noise of Old Trafford earlier that afternoon.
"You know," Kate started, tilting her head toward him with a smile, "I got a couple of scripts sent my way this week. Some big roles too, thanks to Age of Ultron still riding strong."
Adriano glanced over, intrigued, reaching for the water bottle on the coffee table. "Oh? Like proper leading stuff or just side characters again?"
"Both," she admitted. "One is a romantic drama, and the other is this action-thriller set in Europe. They're actually interesting… but I don't know if I should commit. Work takes time. Time I'd rather spend with you."
Her voice softened near the end, and Adriano chuckled, nudging her knee with his hand. "You should do them. As long as you're enjoying it and it's not too much stress, why not? But no work during holidays. That's the rule."
Kate laughed, shaking her head. "You and your holidays. You'd drag me to Portugal even if I was in the middle of filming."
"Of course. Family comes first, fun comes first. Acting can wait. Football… well, that one's hard to pause," he joked, taking a sip of water.
She shifted closer, moving to sit across his lap, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck. "You're saying that now, but let's see when I get calls from directors begging me to fly out."
Adriano smirked, leaning back slightly to balance her weight. "I'll fly with you. Problem solved."
Kate kissed him softly before pulling back, a playful glint in her eyes. "You always have an answer for everything. Speaking of answers… I wanted to ask you something."
"What's that?"
Her expression turned a little more serious as she brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. "What are your thoughts on children?"
Adriano blinked, then leaned his head back dramatically. "Children?"
"Yes, children." She raised an eyebrow, keeping her arms firm around his neck.
He thought for a second, then deadpanned, "They're annoying little shits."
Kate let out a groan, smacking his shoulder lightly. "Adriano!"
"What? They are," he said with a mock-serious expression. "Running around, screaming, crying for no reason. A nightmare."
Kate groaned louder, burying her face in his chest before lifting it again with narrowed eyes. "I'm trying to be serious here."
Adriano grinned, shrugging. "Oh, I thought you wanted a joke. Okay then. Hi, Serious, I'm Adriano."
That earned him another playful punch, and she rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. "At least your dad jokes are on point. You'll fit the role perfectly someday."
He laughed, wrapping his arms around her tightly. "Alright, alright. Seriously, I think… maybe not now. My career is just exploding, your career is just starting to blow up. But… after this year? We can start thinking about it. No rush. Just when we feel ready."
Her face softened immediately, her eyes shining as she searched his. "You mean it?"
"Of course," he said without hesitation. "I want that with you. Just… when the time's right. Not when we're still running around the world every week."
Kate beamed, her smile wide and full of warmth as she leaned in to kiss him. This time the kiss lingered, deepening until words were no longer needed. Her hands tangled in his hair, his grip tightened around her waist, and soon the world outside the house became irrelevant.
When they finally pulled apart, both a little breathless, Adriano rested his forehead against hers. "You're trouble, you know that?"
"I'm your trouble," she whispered back, her voice teasing but affectionate.
"And you're not allowed to leave," he muttered, pulling her closer again, his tone half-serious, half-playful.
"Not planning to," she said simply, before kissing him once more.
The rest of the evening passed in that rhythm—quiet laughter, intimate touches, and easy conversations about small things. They talked about where they might want to travel for holidays, about whether Kate should get a dog before children just to test Adriano's "patience," and about silly fan comments they had seen online.
At one point, Kate curled against him on the sofa, scrolling through her phone. "Do you know how many edits there are of us already from the ceremony in Zurich? People keep calling us the power couple."
Adriano raised an eyebrow, glancing over her shoulder at the screen. "Power couple? Sounds like something out of WWE."
She burst out laughing, almost dropping her phone. "Stop! Now I'm imagining you walking out with entrance music."
Adriano grinned. "I'd pick something dramatic. Fireworks, maybe pyro."
"You're ridiculous."
"And you love it," he replied simply, kissing her temple.
Kate smiled, tucking herself closer to him. "Yeah, I do."
For a long while, they simply stayed like that, no cameras, no spotlight, just Adriano and Kate being themselves. The city outside buzzed with noise, but in their home, it was quiet, safe, and warm.
Later, when they finally got up to head upstairs, Kate leaned against him, barefoot on the stairs. "You know… I think about it sometimes. A house like this, filled with little feet running around. Maybe not now, but one day. It makes me happy."
Adriano kissed her cheek, guiding her gently. "Then one day, we'll make it happen."
By the time they reached their room, the conversation faded into more laughter, more kisses, and the comfort of knowing that whatever chaos their lives held outside, together they could slow it all down.
For tonight, the world could wait.
******
Adriano's Stats 2015-16 Season
Premier League
Match: 10
Goals: 17
Assists: 6
Community Shield
Match: 1
Goals : 2
Assists: 2
Euro Qualifiers
Match: 4
Goals: 6
Assist: 2