The whistle brought a kind of relief.
Around Anfield, bodies dropped back into plastic seats like puppets whose strings had been cut off.
Hands went to faces while a low, restless murmur replaced the roar that had been filling the stadium a while ago.
It had been too much. Too fast. Too suffocating.
Arsenal, led by Izan, had played the half as if mercy was not part of the plan.
Liverpool had survived moments they should not have.
On another day, with another turn of luck, the scoreline would have already been humiliating.
A man a few rows up shook his head slowly, both hands planted on his knees.
He looked like someone trying to process bad news, but he wasn't faring any better than the other fans.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered, more tired than angry.
He stood, tugged his jacket straight, and stepped into the aisle.
People barely noticed him passing.
He took the stairs toward the concourse two at a time, not in a rush but just unable to sit through the break.
