They were down 1-0 in the biggest match of their lives, facing a tactical ghost and a rival player who seemed to know their every move. But this was Liverpool. And Liverpool did not do despair.
Arne Slot stood before them, not with anger, but with a cold, analytical fire in his eyes.
"Okay," he began, his voice a calm, sharp blade cutting through the tension.
"Plan A did not work. Their midfield anchor," he said, nodding towards Leon, acknowledging Tchouaméni's dominance without knowing why it was so effective, "is reading the game perfectly. And Chivu," he added, a hint of grudging respect in his voice, "is managing like a man possessed, even from his armchair in Madrid."
He paced the room, a predator circling its prey.
