The floodlights bathed Old Trafford in an ethereal glow, the Champions League anthem echoing through the stands. The fans, draped in red, roared in anticipation. This was the stage where legends were made.
Tiger King stood on the touchline, arms crossed, eyes sharp. He had waited for this moment—his first Champions League game as Manchester United's manager. And he was ready.
From the first whistle, United looked electric. The ball flowed between Giggs, Mahrez, and Nani like clockwork. Rooney and Van Persie pressed high, forcing mistakes out of Leverkusen's backline.
In the 21st minute, Giggs picked out Van Persie with a pinpoint lofted pass. The Dutchman didn't even take a touch. He met the ball mid-air and drove it past Leno with his left foot. A ruthless, vintage Van Persie finish.
"Here come United! Giggs in possession—he sees Van Persie making a run! It's a beautifully lofted pass—Van Persie's through! First-time shot—GOAL! Robin van Persie with a sublime finish!"
The crowd erupted. Tiger King clenched his fist in quiet satisfaction. 1-0.
Leverkusen barely had time to recover before United struck again. This time, it was Mahrez. He picked up the ball on the right, feinted, cut inside, and—seeing no passing options—unleashed a curling left-footed strike from just outside the box.
"Mahrez receives it on the right flank… he's driving forward! Cuts inside—he's looking for options—no passing lanes open… HE GOES FOR IT! OH, WHAT A HIT! RIYAD MAHREZ FROM OUTSIDE THE BOX! 2-0 MANCHESTER UNITED!"
The ball flew past Leno and slammed into the top corner. "What a hit! Mahrez has arrived in the Champions League! What a wonderful way to show his presence! This goal alone is enough to be worthy of the $500,000 transfer fees spent"
2-0 inside 30 minutes. It felt like United would run riot.
But something changed. Then, inexplicably, United took their foot off the gas.
Was it complacency? Overconfidence? Whatever it was, Leverkusen sensed it.
The intensity dropped. The pressing wasn't as sharp. Giggs and Kante found themselves a step slower to challenges. Rafael and Alonso, so solid at the start, began to look vulnerable against Leverkusen's wingers.
In the 37th minute, Leverkusen strung together a crisp passing move. Sidney Sam to Castro. Castro to Kießling. Ferdinand tried to step in, but Kießling was too quick. With one touch, he turned and rifled a shot past De Gea.
2-1.
"Here come Leverkusen now, moving the ball well in midfield. Sidney Sam, to Castro… now to Kießling! He's behind Ferdinand—Kießling SHOOTS! GOAL! Leverkusen have pulled one back!"
Old Trafford fell into a stunned silence.
Tiger King barked orders from the sidelines. He demanded focus. Composure. But the damage wasn't done yet.
Just before halftime, Son dribbled down the left, weaving past United's defenders. Three red shirts collapsed onto him. He simply rolled the ball back to Emre Can, waiting at the edge of the box.
Can took one touch. Then another. And then he struck the ball with venom.
"Son has the ball on the left. He's weaving, dribbling past one, two, three defenders! He pulls them all in—lays it off to Emre Can… HE HITS IT! OH MY WORD! WHAT A STRIKE! IT'S 2-2!"
Emre Can's shot was a missile—curling, dipping, and slamming into the top corner. De Gea dived, stretched, but he had no chance. The away section exploded in cheers, while Old Trafford fell into stunned silence.
2-2.
Tiger King exhaled slowly. His jaw clenched.
The referee blew for the break. What had started as a dream half had quickly turned into a nightmare.
But just as he turned toward the tunnel, he saw Rio Ferdinand clutching his thigh, grimacing in pain.
"Oh no, this doesn't look good for Rio Ferdinand… He's down, holding his thigh, and the physios are on. Tiger King does not look pleased—this could be a major problem for United!"
Tiger King's face was like thunder as he marched off. The first half had left him fuming—and now, it was time to fix this mess.
United's players trudged off the field. The once-raucous Old Trafford crowd murmured, restless.
Tiger King walked briskly ahead, his mind racing. A flawless 30 minutes had unraveled into chaos.
As he stepped into the dressing room, he took one last deep breath.
This wasn't over.
The atmosphere inside the Manchester United dressing room was tense. The players sat scattered across the benches, some gulping down water, others wiping sweat from their faces. The weight of the first half hung heavy in the air—what had started as a dominant display had unraveled into a chaotic 2-2 draw.
The moment Tiger King walked in, all side conversations ceased. The players instinctively straightened up.
"Boss!" they greeted in unison.
Tiger didn't respond immediately. Instead, he slowly paced across the room, his gaze passing over each player. He wasn't angry. But he was disappointed.
Finally, he spoke, "You played like Red Devils for 30 minutes." His voice was calm, measured. "You were ruthless. Relentless. But then… what happened?"
No one answered. The room was silent except for the faint sound of deep breathing.
"I'll tell you what happened." He stopped walking, looking each of them in the eye. "You thought it was over. You thought 2-0 meant victory. You forgot what team you're playing for. This is the Champions League. Nobody gives up. Nobody backs down. You let them believe they had a chance—and now we're tied."
The players shifted uncomfortably in their seats. They knew he was right.
Tiger took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. He wasn't here to scold them—he was here to fix this.
"Leverkusen aren't world-beaters, but they're not weak either. They have a deadly front three, and they know how to punish mistakes. And right now, we're making too many."
He turned to Ferdinand, whose face was lined with frustration. "Rio, how's the leg?"
The veteran defender shook his head grimly. The team doctor spoke up, "Not serious, but he can't continue in the second half."
Tiger nodded. He had seen it coming. Ferdinand was a warrior, but his body was beginning to betray him.
"Alright. Toby, you're in." He turned to Alderweireld, who nodded firmly.
"Hold the line. Be strong. No more free headers for Kießling, no more slow reactions. We play as a unit."
Alderweireld clenched his fists, his jaw tightening with determination.
Next, Tiger's gaze landed on Kanté. The midfielder had been uncharacteristically subdued in the first half, losing battles he usually won with ease.
"Kanté, what's going on? You look off today."
Kanté hesitated before admitting, "Boss, my knee feels a bit tight. Hard to generate power."
Tiger's expression darkened. Kanté was his midfield engine. If there was an issue with his knee, it could spell trouble.
The team doctors checked him over, murmuring their findings. "It seems to be fatigue from the last game, but we won't know for sure until a full check-up after the match."
Tiger crouched down to be at eye level with Kanté. "Listen to me, kid. If you're not 100%, I'll sub you off right now."
But Kanté shook his head with conviction. "No, boss. The team needs me. I can keep going."
Tiger studied him for a moment. Then, he gave a firm nod.
"Fine. But I need you smart. No reckless lunges, no unnecessary risks. Giggs, back him up when needed. Spend your energy, I'll be subbing you out for Kagawa soon!"
Giggs, ever the team player, nodded immediately. "Got it, boss."
Tiger King took a step back and looked at his team. This was their moment.
"You've got 45 minutes to show them who we are." His voice grew stronger. "The world is watching. Old Trafford is watching. Do you want them to see a team that chokes when the pressure rises—or a team that fights until the very last second?"
A flicker of fire ignited in the players' eyes. "We are Manchester United. We don't play for small wins. We don't relax at 2-0. We dominate. We control. We break teams. Now get back out there and finish what you started!"
The room erupted in a chorus of "Yes, Boss!"
As the players surged toward the tunnel, their energy renewed, Tiger King watched them go, his fists clenched.
This wasn't just a game—it was a statement.