It was past 10:00 p.m., and the media floor was abuzz with chatter, camera crews shifting positions, and journalists whispering about Anderson's double, Rooney's chaos, and the late Liverpool siege. Everyone was ready for fireworks. But then…
"Brendan Rodgers will not be attending tonight's press conference."
The announcement fell like a thud across the room.
A few groans, several rolled eyes. Rodgers had sent his assistant coach Colin Pascoe instead — a well-meaning figure, but far from the commanding voice the press had hoped to confront.
Pascoe stepped up meekly to the podium. His face was weary; he'd aged ten years in ten minutes of second-half madness.
"Look, first of all, credit to Manchester United. They took their chances when they came. But let's not forget we scored three good goals away from home, which speaks to our attacking quality."
He paused, tugging at the collar of his tracksuit. "It's disappointing to lose a game where we were leading twice. We controlled large parts, but... small margins make the difference in matches like this."
A Sky reporter cut in, not satisfied. "But doesn't Rodgers' absence suggest this was more than just disappointment?"
Pascoe forced a smile. "Brendan... needed time to collect his thoughts. It's been a highly emotional match."
And with that, he wrapped up quickly, dodging further scrutiny. The silence of Rodgers was deafening — and the reporters smelled blood in the water.
The atmosphere shifted entirely when Tiger King entered the room. He didn't just walk in — he strode, lion-like, sleeves rolled up, adrenaline still humming in his veins.
He offered a smirk as he looked around, off to where Pascoe was scurrying away from the press conference room.
"He didn't show up?"
A few nods.
"Pity."
The journalists leaned in — they knew something was coming.
Tiger King took a long sip of water, then set the bottle down slowly.
"Let me start by repeating what I said this noon. Some of you were in that room. I said: No matter how many times Manchester United meet Liverpool this season — we will kill them. Win. Every. Game."
He looked directly into the cameras. "At the time, many of you didn't believe it. Some laughed. Some tweeted. Some called it 'reckless bravado'."
He leaned forward. "Now do you believe me?"
Silence.
"We won. Again. The second kill — was successful."
The room erupted with furious typing and camera flashes. King wasn't done.
"Oh — and speaking of people who vanished... where's Wolfe?"
Laughter flickered nervously. "I flipped through The Sun this morning and saw all those glorious headlines. All those predictions. All that arrogance. Where is Wolfe now?"
He paused for effect. "I want the record to show that from now on — any time we face Liverpool, The Sun must send Wolfe to the press conference. Otherwise... what's the fun in this? I should be allowed my fun, too."
A ripple of laughter broke through the media benches. Tiger's grin widened — but it was sharp.
"And don't worry, I'll help him rewrite that bridge-jumping clause. If we win again, Wolfe has to hand me the rope personally."
He stood up to leave but stopped at the edge of the podium. "Tell Liverpool this — we're not done. We'll see them again. And when we do… bring their coach, bring their press, bring their courage."
"This is Manchester United. And this season, we're not taking prisoners."
Just as Tiger King turned to leave the podium, a voice from the back called out. "King — a quick one! The next round draw is coming up tonight. Are you hoping to avoid Manchester City after the last defeat to them?"
Tiger stopped in his tracks. The reporters leaned in again.
He slowly turned, hands in his pockets, the storm behind his eyes calm but charged.
"Hope? No. We don't hope in this club. We prepare."
A few journalists looked at each other. King went on: "City? Arsenal? Whoever it is — we'll respect our opponents. But we won't bow to them. We'll topple them."
"This team has shown heart, grit, and the will to bleed for the badge. That's not something you draw in a lottery — that's something you build in fire."
Another journalist followed up. "You've already beaten Liverpool twice this season. Some are saying this United side is starting to resemble the classic Ferguson teams — relentless, impossible to kill. Do you agree?"
Tiger gave a small smile. "You don't earn that comparison in September. You earn it with silverware in May. But one thing is clear—this team has the soul of the Red Devils again. When the lights are brightest, when the knives are out, we stand tall."
He glanced down at the front row of cameras, now all fixed on him. "So City, Arsenal… it doesn't matter."
"Old Trafford is a fortress again. And in this tournament, we're not guests. We're here to take the crown."
And with that, he stepped down from the podium to rapturous camera flashes and a buzz of conversation across the media floor. United had marched on — and Tiger had just sent a message to the rest of England:
Beware the Red King's Cup Crusade.
Tiger King exited the press conference room with the fire of victory still in his eyes. The reporters had gotten their headlines, the fans their celebration. But just outside, leaning against the corridor wall, stood Paul Scholes with arms folded.
Scholes asked dryly, "Will the FA gift us another 'kind' opponent in the next round?"
King let out a short laugh, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "If I could choose," he said, voice suddenly steely, "I'd rather face Manchester City. That 2–4 loss still stings. I've written that into my bones. The earlier we get to pay that debt, the better."