The pandemonium at Anfield was a beautiful, glorious, and utterly uncontrollable force of nature. From 3-0 down, Liverpool were level.
On the Manchester City sideline, Pep Guardiola, the grandmaster, the architect of a million perfect victories, was in a state of quiet, simmering meltdown.
He was pacing, he was muttering to himself, he was arguing with his own shadow. The 'Tactical Frustration' debuff was in full effect.
"THEY ARE RATTLED! THE CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE ARE ON THE ROPES!" the commentator, Barry, screamed, his voice a ragged mess of pure, beautiful chaos. "Arne Slot's halftime gamble has paid off in the most spectacular fashion imaginable! Anfield is a fortress of dreams, and right now, they are dreaming of the most impossible victory in Premier League history!"
The final twenty minutes of the match were not a football game; they were a siege.
Liverpool, fueled by the roar of the crowd and the scent of blood, were a relentless, suffocating red tide.
