April 12th. Manchester.
The rain had stopped, but the air around Old Trafford was thick with the kind of tension that makes your lungs feel small.
Tens of thousands of fans swarmed the forecourt, their chants was like a nervous rumble rather than a roar.
United's unconvincing 1-0 scrape past West Bromwich Albion in the league had left the faithful jittery.
They knew the beast coming to dinner tonight wasn't a relegation candidate like Westbrom.... it was the Bavarian giant.
At 10 PM local time, the warm-ups concluded.
The players filtered back into the bowels of the stadium, the noise of the crowd muffled by the heavy concrete walls.
The atmosphere in the home dressing room was tight, coiled like a spring.
They trailed by one goal, but they had that precious away goal in their pocket.
It was a lifeline, but it was also a noose—one slip-up, one conceded goal, and the mountain would become Everest.
Zlatan Ibrahimovic leaned against his locker, staring at his boots.
Today, the Lion was back!
He was starting as the central striker in place of Romelu Lukaku.
He closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him.
Ajax, Juventus, Inter, Barcelona, Milan, Paris.
He had conquered domestic leagues like a warlord, collecting titles like stamps.
But the big one? The Champions League? It had always slipped through his fingers like sand.
I am a God, he often told the press.
But even Gods have regrets.
He rubbed his thighs vigorously, feeling the scar tissue under the skin.
That ACL tear should have ended him. Most 35-year-olds would have taken the check from LA Galaxy and gone to play in the sun.
But Mourinho had grabbed him by the collar, convincing him that the story wasn't over.
'I need this,' Zlatan thought, his jaw setting hard. 'I'm not leaving this pitch without a war.'
"Alright, listen to me!" Jose Mourinho clapped his hands sharply, the sound cutting through the silence.
"Bayern will push hard from the first whistle. They smell blood. We must not fall back into our box like cowards during this phase, we have to hold our ground in midfield!"
Mourinho moved to the tactics board, his eyes manic.
"The key is the right flank. Marcus!" He pointed a marker at Rashford. "You need to drop back. Forget about glory for the first twenty minutes. You work with Antonio to contain Ribery. You track that overlapping run every single time. Do you understand?"
Rashford nodded, his face serious. He was a striker by trade, a winger by preference, but tonight he was a soldier. The old Marcus might have sulked at being asked to play as a glorified wing-back, but watching Ling's meteoric rise had humbled him.
He wanted his spot back... and he would bleed for it if he had to.
"In attack, we stick to the plan," Mourinho drew a fierce line across the board. "Pogba, you drive forward on the right. Zlatan, Marcus, you pull their defense apart. Drag Hummels and Boateng out of position. Once the shape is broken, Paul, you switch it."
Mourinho slammed his hand on the left side of the board. "Ling, that is the trigger. You launch the attack from the left into the space they vacate."
"With Alaba injured, Rafinha is the weak link, but their structure will try to protect him. Marcus, when we switch, you crash the box. Cause chaos."
The coaching staff had spent sleepless nights analyzing Jupp Heynckes' system.
The plan was intricate: Feint right, strike left. Use the physicality of Pogba and Zlatan to draw the Bayern block to one side, then unleash Ling into isolation.
"Today, we have no choice," Mourinho said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Only goals take us through. Don't fear failure. Go out there and kill them."
"Let's go!"
...
Mourinho pushed the door open, and the noise flooded in—a physical wave of sound.
Ling adjusted his shin guards, taking a deep breath that rattled in his chest. He stood up abruptly, the adrenaline spiking in his veins.
The expectations of millions were heavy, but the desire to win was heavier.
He refused to lose to Bayern.
Not again.
But he knew Heynckes wasn't a fool. The German manager had seen the damage Ling caused in Munich. He would have a plan and he would have a trap.
Ling pushed the doubt aside as he walked into the tunnel.
There were no pleasantries this time.
Thomas Müller wasn't joking about horses. Joshua Kimmich wasn't looking at the floor. The Bayern players stared straight ahead, their eyes cold and focused.
The Champions League anthem began—that soaring, operatic strings section that makes the hair on your arms stand up.
The Chaaaaampions!
Old Trafford erupted.
Hundreds of floodlights clicked on simultaneously, bathing the pitch in a blinding, heavenly white light.
For United, this was the Theatre of Dreams.
For Bayern, Mourinho intended to make it the Theatre of Nightmares.
Müller won the toss again and he chose to kick off again.
....
"Good evening, everyone, and welcome to Old Trafford!" Martin Tyler's voice boomed through the global feed, thick with anticipation.
"We are set for a night of destiny. The second leg of the Champions League quarter-finals, Manchester United versus Bayern Munich!"
"United trail 2-1 from the first leg, but that away goal scored by Ling is the diamond in the dust," Gary Neville added, his voice tense. "A 1-0 win sends United through. It's on a knife-edge."
"Let's look at the teams," Tyler continued. "Mourinho sticks with the 4-2-3-1 but makes massive calls. Zlatan Ibrahimovic starts ahead of Romelu Lukaku and Marcus Rashford comes in for Juan Mata on the right."
"It's about mobility and power," Neville analyzed. "Zlatan drops deep, he knits the play together in a way Lukaku doesn't. And Rashford gives you that vertical threat. But look at the shape—it's designed to create space for Ling on the left."
"Now, look at Bayern," Tyler said. "Heynckes has gone for a 4-3-3. But look at the midfield trio. No James Rodriguez."
"That is a statement," Neville said, circling a name on his monitor. "Arturo Vidal starts. The Chilean Pitbull. Heynckes wasn't lying when he said he'd target Ling. Vidal is there for one reason: destruction."
"James is brilliant," Tyler noted, "but he doesn't tackle. Vidal is a warrior. He excels in interceptions, he's aggressive, and he will double up on Ling every time he touches the ball."
"Exactly," Neville agreed. "Heynckes is parking a tank in front of his defense. He knows if he stops Ling, he stops United. James will be the weapon off the bench when legs get tired. It's a masterclass in pragmatism."
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