The scoreboard read 3–1.
The Etihad read something else entirely.
Grief. Resignation. And disbelief.
The sound was strange now, not silence, but something quieter than silence: the sound of people standing still in a stadium built for thunder.
Izan's scissor-kick celebration was still echoing in minds, not mouths.
It had knocked the oxygen out of one half of Manchester.
And then they began.
Home fans, trailing out of the stadium.
Rows of sky blue, peeling away in lines—parents dragging kids by the wrist, grandads muttering under their breath, and teenagers too embarrassed to meet anyone's eyes.
Some left with curses.
Others without a word.
One old man shook his head as he trudged up the steps.
"Seen it all. But not like this," he mumbled to no one.
Near the halfway line, a steward radioed into his headset.
"They're pouring out the South Stand," he said.
"Could be thousands already."
The game had resumed, but the fans hadn't. Not fully.
