The locker room was empty now. Silent. Still.
It wasn't the peace of victory. It was the heavy, suffocating quiet of humiliation.
Under the harsh white lights of the Manchester City locker room, a single man remained seated, hunched over a cluttered desk in the adjoining manager's office. The door was ajar, allowing a sliver of the sterile room's light to spill across the abandoned benches and discarded kits—blue shirts draped over hooks like surrendered flags, shin pads lying forgotten on the floor, and the unmistakable scent of sweat, turf, and something else—defeat.
Inside the office, the man was a blur of chaotic energy.
Pep Guardiola.
