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Chapter 127: Shock and Awe
🕑 Added 2025-02-12 01:38:25 +0000 UTCThe final whistle had blown.
The scoreboard at the King Power Stadium still glowed in the late afternoon light:
LEICESTER CITY 7-1 MANCHESTER UNITED
But inside the Manchester United dressing room?
It was a war zone.
BANG!
A boot smashed into a locker.
CRASH!
A water bottle exploded against the wall.
BOOM!
Robin van Persie stood in the center of the room, breathing heavily, fists clenched, his face twisted in rage. His shirt was gone, ripped off and thrown to the floor like it disgusted him.
His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. His jaw was locked, his breath coming in ragged, furious bursts.
And then—
BANG!
He kicked over the treatment table, sending bottles, bandages, and ice packs scattering across the floor.
No one moved.
No one even breathed.
Wayne Rooney sat slumped on the bench, his head buried in his hands.
Marcos Rojo leaned back against the wall, his eyes unfocused, muttering in Spanish. Ángel Di María, sitting beside him, ran his hands through his hair, his lips moving—prayers, curses, maybe both.
Radamel Falcao? Motionless. His gaze fixed on the floor, as if trying to convince himself this wasn’t real.
Louis van Gaal stood near the door, arms crossed, his expression like stone. But even he wasn’t in control anymore.
Van Persie snapped his head up, his eyes blazing.
And then he locked onto David de Gea.
"YOU’RE FUCKING USELESS!"
The dressing room went even quieter.
De Gea, still in full kit, sat on the bench with his gloves off, his body tense.
But he didn’t look up.
Van Persie stormed toward him.
"You didn’t save a single one!" he roared. "Seven fucking goals! SEVEN! What the fuck were you doing?!"
De Gea’s jaw tightened.
But he still didn’t speak.
Van Persie took another step forward, pointing at him. "What, nothing to say?"
He scoffed. "You’re supposed to be a world-class keeper! You didn’t even move for half of them!"
And that’s when De Gea finally snapped.
He shot to his feet, eyes burning.
"Maybe if you and the rest of the team defended for once, I wouldn’t have to save every fucking shot!"
Van Persie lunged.
Only for Rooney and Daley Blind to grab him, holding him back.
"Get off me!" he snarled, his body straining against their grip.
"Enough, Robin," Rooney growled, his voice dangerously low.
But Van Persie didn’t care.
"You’re defending him?" he spat. "This useless—"
"SHUT UP, ROBIN!"
Rooney’s voice thundered through the dressing room.
And suddenly, everything stopped.
Van Persie froze.
The tension was so thick it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.
Di María, who had stayed silent until now, suddenly pushed himself up from the bench.
"¡Basta! ¡Ya fue suficiente!" (Enough! That’s enough!)
Rojo, still shaking his head, muttered under his breath, "Dios mío…" (My God...)
Ander Herrera, standing near his locker, exhaled sharply. "This isn’t going to solve anything."
"We ALL played like shit," Rafael muttered, shaking his head.
De Gea let out a slow, measured breath, his body still tense. "Blame me all you want, Robin. But I’m not the one who lost my head out there."
Van Persie whirled on him again—
But this time, Michael Carrick stepped between them.
"That’s enough."
His voice wasn’t loud.
But it carried authority.
And just like that, the fight was over.
For the first time, Van Gaal moved.
His face was like stone, unreadable.
But when he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.
"This is a disgrace."
Van Persie’s chest heaved. His hands were still shaking.
But even he knew better than to challenge Van Gaal right now.
The manager let the silence drag on, suffocating the room.
Then—
"Every single one of you needs to take a long, hard look in the mirror."
"Because after tonight?"
"You are no longer Manchester United players."
The words hit like a gunshot.
Some players looked away. Others stared at the floor.
But no one—*not a single one of them—*could say he was wrong.
Van Gaal turned sharply, walking to the door.
"Training. Seven A.M. Don’t be late."
And then he was gone.
Van Persie was still fuming.
Rooney exhaled heavily and sat back down, rubbing his temples.
Falcao let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "Este club está jodido." (This club is finished.)
No one argued.
Di María grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.
"Nos vemos en la mañana." (See you in the morning.) His tone was flat, emotionless.
One by one, the players began to file out.
Some stayed behind—silent, still processing.
And in the farthest corner, De Gea sat back down, staring at the wall.
For the first time since arriving at United, he wondered if it was worth it.
Because tonight?
Tonight was a breaking point.
Outside the locker room, it was anything but silent.
This wasn’t just a bad loss.
This was history.
And Manchester United?
They were on the wrong side of it.
Inside the broadcast booth, Martin Tyler broke the stunned silence for the United fans across the world.
"If you’re just joining us… you’ve missed history. Absolute history. Leicester City have demolished Manchester United 7-1 at the King Power Stadium, a result that will be talked about for decades. Alan, I don’t even know where to start."
Beside him, Alan Smith let out a breath, still processing what they had just witnessed.
"Neither do I, Martin. We’ve covered this league for years. We’ve seen crazy games. But this? This might just be the most shocking result in Premier League history."
Tyler shook his head. "Let’s put this into perspective. Manchester United—20-time league champions, one of the biggest clubs in world football—just suffered their worst-ever defeat in the Premier League era. September 21, 2014. A day United fans will never forget… for all the wrong reasons."
Smith leaned forward, his voice more serious now. "And it wasn’t just the scoreline—it was the way they were dismantled. Leicester didn’t park the bus. They didn’t scrape a lucky win. No—they completely and utterly humiliated United. And at the heart of it all… was a 19-year-old kid."
Tyler didn’t hesitate. "Tristan Hale. Nineteen years old. And tonight, he put on the single greatest individual performance I have ever seen in this league."
Smith nodded. "He did it all, Martin. A hat-trick of goals. A hat-trick of assists. And if that wasn’t enough, he was perfect. A flawless 10.0 rating. A match that will be replayed for years."
On the live broadcast, a graphic flashed onto the screen, listing the staggering records Hale had just broken.
Tyler read them off one by one, his tone filled with sheer disbelief.
"Here’s what Tristan just accomplished tonight:"
✅ Youngest player in Premier League history to register a double hat-trick of goals & assists in a single game.
✅ First player in Premier League history to register six goal contributions in a match against Manchester United.
✅ First player in Premier League history to score a hat-trick & assist a hat-trick in a single match against a ‘Big Six’ club.
✅ At 19, Tristan Hale outperformed Cristiano Ronaldo, Lionel Messi, and Neymar’s numbers for this stage of the season.
✅ Now has more goals and assists in five league games (6G, 8A) than Robin van Persie and Radamel Falcao combined.
Smith let out a low whistle. "Martin, that last one is brutal. Hale alone has outproduced United’s two world-class strikers."
Tyler sighed. "And it’s not just his stats—it’s how he did it. He wasn’t just clinical. He was unstoppable. His vision, his movement, his composure… this wasn’t just a talented youngster having a good night. This was a player who looked like the best in the league."
Smith shook his head. "Not just England, Martin. Across Europe. Let’s compare his start to the season against the biggest stars in football."
On the screen, another stat table appeared, ranking the top players across Europe’s top five leagues.
📊 Most Goal Contributions After 5 League Games (2014-15 Season):
🥇 Tristan Hale (Leicester City) – 6 Goals, 8 Assists (14 G/A total)
🥈 Lionel Messi (Barcelona) – 5 Goals, 6 Assists (11 G/A total)
🥉 Cristiano Ronaldo (Real Madrid) – 9 Goals, 1 Assist (10 G/A total)
4️⃣ Neymar (Barcelona) – 4 Goals, 4 Assists (8 G/A total)
5️⃣ Thomas Müller (Bayern Munich) – 4 Goals, 3 Assists (7 G/A total)
Smith let out a stunned chuckle. "Look at that. Tristan is leading all of Europe. He has more goal contributions than Messi, Ronaldo, Neymar, and Müller."
Tyler almost laughed. "This… this isn’t normal, Alan."
"No, it’s not. And if you’re a Premier League defender watching this at home right now? Good luck stopping him."
Tyler shifted focus. "And Alan, let’s not forget about his teammates. Because while Tristan was the star, Leicester City as a whole were sensational tonight."
"Jamie Vardy. A brace tonight, running United’s defense ragged. The man is relentless."
"Mahrez. Scored. Assisted. Nutmegged half of United’s backline. And I tell you what, Martin—Rafael and Rojo will be having nightmares about him for weeks."
"Jesse Lingard. Another young player on loan from United who stepped up, scoring, assisting, linking up brilliantly with Tristan. I wonder how he feels about tonight, I know if I were him, I certainly be avoiding the media at all cost.”
"And let’s talk about the defense. Because that was just as crucial. Wes Morgan? A brick wall. Drinkwater and Cambiasso? Controlled the midfield. And Kasper Schmeichel? Some of those saves were outrageous."
As the coverage began winding down, Tyler posed the biggest question.
"Alan, is this the worst defeat in Manchester United’s modern history?"
"Absolutely. They’ve lost big games before. They’ve had bad days. But never like this. Never where they’ve looked so outclassed. So broken. So hopeless."
"So what next for United? What next for Van Gaal?"
A pause. A sigh.
"He’s in serious trouble. When your team suffers the worst loss in modern Premier League history, the pressure doesn’t go away—it only grows. And if he’s lost the locker room?"
Another shake of the head.
"Then this might just be the beginning of the end."
The game had ended.
But nobody was leaving.
The Leicester City players weren’t heading for the tunnel.
The fans weren’t filing out of the stadium.
The stadium announcer wasn’t playing the usual post-match wrap-up.
Because a game like this?
A 7-1 demolition of Manchester United?
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
Vardy climbed onto the advertising boards, arms spread wide, screaming toward the Leicester faithful.
A wall of noise crashed down in response.
Nearby, Mahrez snatched the microphone from the stadium announcer, his face still alight with adrenaline.
"ONE TEAM IN ENGLAND!"
The crowd roared back without hesitation.
"THERE’S ONLY ONE TEAM IN ENGLAND!"
Tristan stood in the center of the pitch, soaking it all in.
His shirt was still off, slung over his shoulder, his body drenched in sweat. His name echoed through the stands, fans singing, chanting, worshipping.
🎶 "Tristan! Tristan!
From Leicester, he’s our shining star!
With every pass, he takes us far!
His vision’s sharp, his touch is gold,
A story of a Fox untold!" 🎶
🎶 "Tristan! Tristan!
With skill and heart, he leads the way!
The future’s bright, he's here to stay!
Tristan! Tristan!
The Foxes' pride, we sing your name!" 🎶
Tristan turned, heart pounding.
The South Stand was bouncing, thousands of Leicester fans singing his name. Singing for him.
Jesse Lingard sprinted toward him, laughing, shoving him playfully.
"You’re a madman, you know that?"
Tristan grinned.
"Yeah. But it’s fun, isn’t it?"
Vardy ran over, arm still around Mahrez, still buzzing.
"I swear to God, I’m getting a pint for every goal we scored tonight!"
Mahrez smirked. "Seven pints? Mate, you won’t make training on Monday."
"I’ll make it," Vardy grinned. "Barely."
The team gathered in front of the South Stand, where Leicester’s most passionate fans stood every week.
Tristan raised his hands and led the chant.
🎶 "LEICESTER TILL I DIE!
LEICESTER TILL I DIE!
I KNOW I AM, I’M SURE I AM—
LEICESTER TILL I DIE!" 🎶
The entire stadium shook as the fans roared it back.
They had embarrassed Manchester United.
They had written history.
And they were going to enjoy every second of it.
Finally, with one last look at the electric crowd, Tristan and the Leicester players turned toward the tunnel.
Inside, the dressing room was waiting.
And so was the party.
…..
The Leicester City dressing room was pure chaos.
Water bottles were being sprayed like champagne.
Boots were flying across the room.
Shirts were tossed in the air.
Music was blasting at full volume.
Schmeichel sat on a bench, grinning as he watched his teammates lose their minds.
In the middle of it all, Mahrez and Vardy were dancing like absolute idiots—wild, offbeat, arms flailing.
Across the room, Morgan had his arm around Danny, laughing.
And on top of a bench, Lingard stood like a lunatic, waving a towel over his head.
But at the center of it all?
Tristan.
One boot off, one still on.
Arms resting behind his head.
Leaning back in his seat, watching the chaos unfold with laughing enjoying every moment.
He had already done his part.
Now? He just sat back and enjoyed it.
A voice cut through the madness—Lingard, still standing on the bench.
"Oi, Tristan! Where’s your phone? You know you gotta post something!"
Tristan didn’t even move.
Just smirked.
Already ahead of him.
His phone had been buzzing non-stop since the final whistle.
Hundreds of messages.
Thousands of notifications.
Twitter. Instagram. WhatsApp.
His name was everywhere.
He scrolled through Twitter, eyes flicking over the sheer madness of it all.
Ex-players losing their minds.Fans arguing if this was the best performance in league history.Rival supporters crying that it was "just one game."
Then, after a brief pause, he smirked—because he knew exactly what to do.
He tapped the camera, took a photo of the scoreboard.
📸 Leicester City 7-1 Manchester United.
Then, he added another image—his final match stats.
✔️ 3 Goals
✔️ 3 Assists
✔️ 10.0 Match Rating
Now for the caption.
Something simple. Something bold.
"Told you I’m the best. 😉"
SEND.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then?
The notifications exploded.
Retweets. Comments. Likes. Quotes.
The football world was already talking about him.
Now?
He had just shattered the internet.
Lingard saw the tweet first.
And immediately, he lost it.
"OHHH SHIT! HE REALLY SAID THAT!"
Vardy, still mid-dance, turned to look. Then started howling.
"This lad’s got no shame!"
Mahrez peeked over, shook his head, and grinned. "You really don’t give a fuck, do you?"
Tristan just smirked. "Why should I?"
Vardy clapped his hands together. "Nah, nah, we’re finishing the night with a proper chant."
He cupped his hands around his mouth.
"LEICESTER CITY!"
The dressing room erupted in response.
"WE LOVE YOU LEICESTER, WE DO!"
"WE LOVE YOU LEICESTER, WE DO!"
"WE LOVE YOU LEICESTER, WE DO!"
"OHHH LEICESTER, WE LOVE YOU!"
……
Before Tristan even had a chance to open his phone and make his post, Leicester City and the Premier League had already made sure the world knew what had just happened.
🔵 @LCFC (Twitter & Instagram) 📸
🏆 A HISTORIC NIGHT AT THE KING POWER! 🏆
✔️ 7-1 victory over Manchester United
✔️ A Tristan Hale masterclass
✔️ Vardy, Mahrez, Lingard on fire
✔️ A night we will NEVER forget
#LCFC | #HistoryMade
Attached was a slideshow of photos:
Tristan holding up his shirt to the fans.
Mahrez and Vardy celebrating.
The scoreboard.
The entire squad in front of the South Stand, arms raised in victory.
Within minutes, the post had tens of thousands of interactions.
Leicester City had just sent shockwaves through football.
And then—
The Premier League’s official accounts joined in.
@PremierLeague (Twitter & Instagram)
🔥 A NIGHT FOR THE HISTORY BOOKS! 🔥
🔹 Tristan Hale (19 years old) with the first-ever double hat-trick in Premier League history.
🔹 Leicester City with the biggest win over Manchester United in the modern era.
🔹 The biggest humiliation United have suffered in the Premier League.
Attached was a graphic that immediately went viral.
👑 Most Goals + Assists in One Game – Premier League History 👑
🥇 Tristan Hale – 3 Goals, 3 Assists (2014)
🥈 Thierry Henry – 3 Goals, 2 Assists
🥉 Alan Shearer – 2 Goals, 3 Assists
The caption?
"A historic night for the 19-year-old from Leicester. ⭐ #PL"
On Instagram, the Premier League’s post included a carousel of images:
Tristan celebrating his third goal.
The Leicester squad standing together in front of their fans.
The brutal scoreboard – Leicester 7-1 Manchester United.
A close-up of Hale, arms raised, soaking it all in.
The comments section exploded.
💬 "This kid is unreal. Future Ballon d’Or winner?"
💬 "7-1 against United?! We are living in a simulation."
💬 "The Premier League has a new star. Tristan is the best player in the world right now, fight me!"
💬 "Van Gaal’s finished. United are finished."
The post spread like wildfire.
After all the celebrations, it was time to deal with the media for the players.
….
The press room was packed.
Normally, after a Leicester City game, only a handful of reporters showed up—local journalists, a couple of national outlets, maybe one or two from Sky Sports, but they were mostly there for Tristan.
Not tonight.
Tonight, the room was overflowing.
Journalists from England, Spain, France, Italy, and China had squeezed into the media hall. Camera flashes flickered. Microphones were adjusted. Every major sports network had sent someone.
Because this wasn’t just another game.
This was history.
The doors opened, and the noise rose instantly.
Tristan Hale.
Jamie Vardy.
Riyad Mahrez.
Kasper Schmeichel.
Normally, it would be Tristan with either Vardy or Mahrez, depending on their moods, but tonight? The media requested all four, with Schmeichel being a specific request from reporters.
The players walked in together, dressed in fresh Leicester tracksuits, their faces still glowing with adrenaline and exhaustion—both from celebrating too hard and from the game they had just played.
A Sky Sports moderator adjusted his headset.
"Alright, let's begin."
A reporter from Sky Sports was first.
"Tristan, I'll start with you. A hat-trick, a hat-trick of assists, a perfect 10.0 rating. Is this the greatest individual performance in Premier League history?"
Tristan tilted his head slightly, smirking.
"I'll let you lot decide that. But I told you—I’m the best player in this league."
A few gasps rippled through the room. Some journalists scribbled furiously in their notebooks.
A BBC Sport reporter jumped in.
"You don’t think that’s a bit arrogant?"
Tristan just looked at the reporter before answering in a monotone voice.
"Nah. Just the truth."
A few chuckles from Vardy and Mahrez. Schmeichel gave the smallest shake of his head, amused.
A Guardian reporter turned to Vardy, leaning into his mic.
"Jamie, your second goal tonight was set up by Tristan. Is this the best attacking chemistry you’ve ever had with a teammate?"
Vardy grinned instantly.
"Without a doubt. He knows exactly where I’m running before I even move. Makes my job easy."
Tristan chuckled.
"Yeah, but I did see you miss one earlier."
Laughter erupted in the room. Even the journalists smiled.
Vardy pointed at him.
"Don’t start, mate."
A reporter from The Times leaned forward.
"Tristan, after your second goal, you were shouting, ‘Talk now! Talk!’ Who were you talking to? Because it looked like you and Van Persie had issues all night."
The room went silent.
Tristan sat there for a moment, grinning.
Then, he laughed.
"I know who I was talking to. He knows who he is."
He leaned into the mic slightly, still smiling.
"Talk smack now. I dare you."
The tension in the room was electric.
Vardy covered his mouth, trying not to laugh. Mahrez just shook his head, covering his own mouth. All three knew exactly who Tristan was talking about.
The Times reporter tried to press further, but Tristan just sat back and continued for the next question.
A reporter from ESPN turned to the Algerian playmaker.
"Riyad, Tristan’s confidence is making headlines. Do you think his attitude is good for the team?"
Mahrez glanced at Tristan, then shrugged.
"Confidence wins games. Look at him." He gestured at Tristan’s stats on the screen behind them. "That’s not arrogance. That’s levels."
Tristan tried not to smile hearing that and instead tried to be nonchalant as possible, leaning back in his chair.
"Appreciate you, bro."
Another reporter, this time from The Sun, flipped through his notes before speaking.
"After your third goal, it looked like you were shouting something toward one of the cameras. Later, you said in your post-match interview that you 'wanted your reward.' Who were you talking about? Because there are rumors—"
He paused, then smiled slightly.
"Were you referring to Barbara Palvin? Your rumored girlfriend?"
Tristan, for the first time, didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he just said—
"She isn’t my girlfriend, and why can’t I have a good game without any rewards being involved? Next question, please."
Instantly, Vardy and Mahrez snickered.
Schmeichel gave a knowing smirk.
The journalists weren’t stupid.
The reaction in the room was enough.
A reporter from The Guardian turned to Leicester’s goalkeeper.
"Kasper, you made some huge saves tonight, especially in the second half when United tried to fight back. What was going through your mind during that period?"
Schmeichel exhaled, scratching his jaw.
"You know United. Even when they’re drowning, they’ll throw everything at you. I just had to keep my focus. I knew we were going to score more, so I just needed to make sure we didn’t give them a way back. And we wanted to make this game special for Tristan, here you know.”
A journalist from Marca, Spain’s biggest sports newspaper, leaned forward.
"Tristan, algunos dicen que estabas burlándote de los jugadores del United en la segunda mitad. Los caños, las filigranas, lo que le dijiste a Van Persie... ¿Era necesario?"
(Tristan, some say you were mocking United players in the second half. The nutmegs, the tricks, what you said to Van Persie... was it necessary?)
Before the translator could step in, Tristan answered in fluent Spanish.
"Juego para ganar. Si eso duele a algunos, no es mi problema."
(I play to win. If that hurts some people, that’s not my problem.)
The room stirred.
The Marca reporter wasn’t done.
"Pero… ¿te gustaría jugar en La Liga algún día?"
(But… would you like to play in La Liga one day?)
Tristan tilted his head.
"Solo si puedo marcar tres goles contra el Barcelona también."
(Only if I can score three goals against Barcelona too.)
The room erupted in laughter.
Vardy leaned toward the mic.
"Oi, someone tell him he’s supposed to lie when they ask that!"
A reporter from CCTV Sports, China’s biggest sports network, adjusted his mic.
"Tristan, 你的父亲是中国人, 你是否觉得自己的成功能激励更多的中国球员?"
(Tristan, your father is Chinese. Do you feel like your success can inspire more Chinese players?)
Once again, Tristan answered instantly—without needing a translator.
"当然, 我很骄傲有中国血统, 希望能让更多的孩子相信他们也可以成功."
(Of course. I’m proud to have Chinese heritage, and I hope more kids believe they can succeed too.)
Vardy blinked.
"Okay, what the hell—how many languages do you speak?!"
Tristan just laughed.
"Enough to talk my way out of trouble."
A journalist from The Athletic leaned forward.
"Tristan, people are calling this a ‘Premier League moment.’ A game that will be remembered for decades. How do you feel knowing you’ve just created history?"
Tristan exhaled slowly.
"It’s special. Nights like this don’t happen often. I’m just glad I was here for it."
The moderator stepped in.
"Alright, that’s all for now. Thank you, gentlemen."
The players stood, stretched, and walked off.
Next, it was Nigel Pearson’s turn.
The moment he walked into the press room, the atmosphere changed.
The chaotic energy from the players’ session? Gone.
Instead, there was a sense of curiosity—about what he had said or done for this 7-1 demolition to happen.
Pearson walked in, calm and composed, sat down, adjusted his microphone, and gave the journalists a slow, expectant look.
"Let’s begin."
A BBC Sport reporter was first.
"Nigel, congratulations on a historic win. Where does this rank in your career?"
Pearson nodded, his tone measured.
"It’s a great moment for the club. The players earned it. But we won’t get carried away."
A Sky Sports journalist leaned in.
"Your attack is getting most of the attention, but your defense was just as impressive tonight. What do you make of the way your backline and Kasper Schmeichel handled United’s pressure?"
Pearson’s expression remained firm.
"You don’t win games like this without balance. The lads at the back were solid, and Kasper made crucial saves when needed. This was a complete performance, not just about the goals."
Schmeichel’s leadership had been as important as Tristan’s brilliance, and Pearson wasn’t about to let that go unnoticed.
A Sky Sports reporter followed up.
"What do you say to those who think this was just a ‘one-off’ and not proof Leicester can compete at the top?"
His expression hardened.
"If anyone still underestimates us, that’s their mistake."
A journalist from The Telegraph raised a hand.
"Nigel, this victory puts Leicester in the top five. Is it too early to say this team can push for European football?"
Pearson leaned forward slightly.
"We take it one game at a time. The league is unpredictable. But if we keep performing like this, who knows?"
A Guardian journalist spoke next.
"Nigel, Tristan Hale’s confidence is dominating the headlines. How do you handle a player with that much self-belief?"
A slight smirk flickered across Pearson’s face.
"I don’t need to ‘handle’ Tristan. He knows what’s expected. And tonight, he delivered."
A Daily Mail reporter turned attention to another key player.
"Jamie Vardy seemed relentless tonight, pressing United’s backline even at 6-1. How important is his mentality to this team?"
Pearson nodded.
"Jamie plays with hunger every time he steps on the pitch. He sets the tone. That’s who he is."
A French football journalist leaned in.
"Riyad Mahrez had a goal and an assist tonight and was involved in nearly every attack. How would you assess his development this season?"
Pearson’s answer was measured but direct.
"Riyad has always had quality, but now he’s showing it consistently. He was outstanding tonight, and we know there’s even more to come from him."
A journalist from The Athletic asked the last question.
"Nigel, this was a statement win. What do you say to the teams that still see Leicester as underdogs?"
Pearson paused.
Then, he looked up, meeting the reporter’s gaze.
"We’ll see them soon enough."
No arrogance. No over-celebration. Just focus.
By the time he walked out, the message was clear:
Leicester weren’t just happy to be here.
They were here to stay.
And next?
Now it was time for Van Gaal’s disaster class.
The reporters were waiting.
And they were about to tear him apart.
The room was suffocating.
By the time Louis van Gaal entered, the press conference had transformed into a media battlefield.
Rows of journalists sat on the edge of their seats, cameras locked in, microphones raised, pens tapping against notepads.
This wasn’t just about Manchester United’s worst-ever Premier League defeat.
This was about a club falling apart.
A manager drowning.
And the media?
They could smell blood.
Van Gaal walked in, his suit still sharp, but his face told a different story.
His jaw was tight. His lips were pressed into a thin line.
His usual arrogance—the air of superiority—was gone.
He sat down slowly, adjusted his microphone, and exhaled.
No opening statement.
No forced smile.
Just waiting.
Because he knew what was coming.
Sky Sports reporter fired the first shot.
"Louis, this is Manchester United’s worst Premier League defeat in history. Can you explain what happened tonight?"
Van Gaal’s nostrils flared slightly.
"It is a bad result. That is clear. We did not control the game. We made mistakes. And when you make mistakes, you get punished."
His voice was flat, cold. He was holding back.
The journalists weren’t.
"But this wasn’t just a bad result, was it? This was a humiliation. Leicester City—a team that was in the Championship last season—scored seven goals against Manchester United. Does this defeat damage your authority?"
Van Gaal’s fingers curled slightly against the table.
"It is one game. I do not lose control of my team because of one game."
He was lying.
The journalists knew it.
The dressing room was already broken.
And they weren’t letting him escape that easily.
A BBC Sport journalist followed up.
"Your team looked like it gave up in the second half. Did you see the same?"
Van Gaal inhaled sharply.
"I do not believe my players gave up."
"With respect, Louis," the reporter pushed, "There are reports that Robin van Persie was smashing things in the dressing room after the game. Players were arguing. You have a divided squad, don’t you?"
Van Gaal paused.
Then his eyes darkened.
"You do not know what happens in my dressing room."
His voice was low.
A Times journalist leaned forward.
"Seven goals conceded. United’s worst defensive performance in years. Where do you think it went wrong?"
Van Gaal’s lips pressed tighter.
"We made too many errors. Positioning, decision-making, reactions… it was not good enough."
His tone was sharp, clipped. He was frustrated.
But he still wasn’t admitting responsibility.
A BBC Sport journalist didn’t hold back.
"David de Gea was heavily criticized by his own teammates after the game. Do you think he could have done better?"
Van Gaal sighed.
"A goalkeeper cannot save everything. We conceded seven goals because of the team, not just one player."
A non-answer.
He was protecting De Gea.
But blaming the team.
A reporter from The Times cut in.
"You say this is just one game, but United’s performances have been inconsistent all season. Is your system not working?"
Van Gaal’s expression hardened.
"I do not change my philosophy because of one result."
A long pause.
Then—
A Daily Mail reporter went for the kill.
"But it’s not one result, is it? United have struggled since you arrived. Do you still believe you’re the right man for the job?"
A direct hit.
Van Gaal blinked.
For the first time, he looked… uncertain.
Then, after a long silence—
"Next question."
…..
The Leicester City locker room was still electric as the four players walked back in after the press conference.
Laughter.
Shouting.
The energy still buzzed through the air.
It was a game that would never be forgotten.
And the moment the door swung shut, Jamie Vardy struck first.
"Oi, Tristan," he called out, grinning. "I nearly fell off my chair when you said that in the press conference."
Tristan, pulling off his socks, exhaled.
He knew what was coming.
Mahrez stretched his legs, smirking.
"‘I kept my promise. Now I want my reward.’"
He mimicked Tristan’s voice, even adding a dramatic hand gesture.
The whole locker room howled with laughter.
Lingard slapped his knee.
"Mate, you made it sound like a damn Hollywood script!"
Vardy leaned forward, eyes glinting.
"So, go on then—did she message you yet?"
Tristan wiped his face with a towel, ignoring them.
"You lot are actually embarrassing."
Mahrez wasn’t letting it go.
"No, no, you’re embarrassing." He pointed straight at Tristan. "Dropping the best performance in league history and making it about some ‘reward’."
Schmeichel, shaking his head, grinned knowingly.
"Could’ve been anyone, but you just had to let it slip."
Lingard, still grinning, crossed his arms.
"So… Barbara Palvin, huh?"
The entire locker room exploded.
Laughter erupted from every corner.
Boots were kicked over.
Water bottles fell off benches.
Even players who weren’t at the press conference caught on instantly.
Tristan froze.
Vardy, Mahrez, and Schmeichel? Dying with laughter.
"You lot," Tristan muttered, shaking his head.
Schmeichel, still chuckling, leaned back.
"Could’ve kept it quiet," he teased. "But nah, had to show off."
Tristan grabbed his towel and chucked it straight at Mahrez.
Mahrez dodged it easily, grinning.
"Tell Barbara we said hi!"
…..
The locker room had finally emptied.
The celebrations.
The banter.
The flashing cameras.
All of it was behind him now.
By the time Tristan stepped outside, the sun had long since set, and the crisp September air bit at his skin. The car park outside the King Power Stadium was nearly deserted, the occasional sound of gravel crunching under someone’s feet in the distance. The stadium lights still shone bright, illuminating his blue Range Rover like a spotlight on a stage that had just been vacated.
He pulled open the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and let out a slow breath.
His muscles still ached from the game, his heartbeat finally returning to a steady rhythm after hours of adrenaline-fueled chaos.
For the first time all day, he was alone.
Tristan turned the key in the ignition, and the low rumble of the engine filled the otherwise silent car park.
But he didn’t drive off.
Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his iPhone 5s.
The screen lit up instantly, revealing a flood of notifications.
Mentions.
Tags.
Texts.
His name was everywhere.
But a few messages stood out.
His parents.
Mum: "We are SO proud of you!! What a night! We love you so much ❤️"
Dad: "Son, this was unreal. You’re making history. Call us tomorrow. Rest up."
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth reading his parents texts.
Tristan: "Love you both. I get home soon."
His eyes flickered to another message.
Barbara Palvin.
He tapped the chat, curiosity flickering in his green eyes.
There were two photos.
The first?
A screenshot of his match stats—his three goals, three assists, and perfect 10.0 rating all highlighted.
The second?
A photo of Barbara sitting at a restaurant, Sophia beside her, watching a mounted TV.
On the screen behind her?
A freeze-frame of Tristan smirking into the camera, saying, ‘Where’s my reward?’
And below it, her message:
Barbara: "Congrats on your win and double hat-trick! Don’t worry, you’ll have your reward. You didn’t have to shout it out to the whole world. 🙄"
Tristan exhaled a laugh through his nose.
He hit FaceTime.
It rang twice before she picked up.
The moment her face appeared on the screen, his expression shifted, the exhaustion from the long day momentarily forgotten.
Barbara was lying on her side, propped up on her elbow, wearing an oversized gray hoodie. Her long, light brown hair was a little messy from the day’s events, strands falling over her cheek.
Her blue eyes——locked onto his immediately.
‘Huh, their kids would have the prettiest eyes in the world.’ He didn’t even know why he thought of that, he just did, what was wrong with him.
"I knew you’d call," she said, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "You must really want that reward, huh?"
Tristan leaned his head against the seat, a lazy grin settling on his face.
"I mean, I did score a double hat-trick. Doesn’t that deserve something?"
Barbara let out a slow breath, tilting her head slightly, her eyes narrowing in amusement.
"Oh please," she teased. "You’re acting like you won the Champions League."
"Close enough."
"Right. Because humiliating Manchester United is on the same level as winning a European trophy?"
"Absolutely."
Barbara pressed her lips together, pretending to consider. "Hmm. Maybe I should start watching more football. Clearly, I’ve been underestimating how dramatic you all are."
Tristan chuckled, stretching his arm over the steering wheel, the faint glow of his dashboard lights reflecting in his green eyes.
"You’re just realizing that now?"
"Trust me, I’ve known for a while."
Her voice was light, teasing, but the way she looked at him? There was something else there.
An unspoken pull.
One neither of them acknowledged.
Not yet, anyway.
"What did you do after the game?" Tristan asked, shifting slightly in his seat. "Or did you just sit there replaying my goals over and over?"
Barbara rolled onto her back, her hair spilling across the pillow.
"Please. As much as I enjoyed watching you act like a football god, I had work to do."
"Oh yeah? What'd you have?"
"Three shoots, one runway. Full day. I just got back to my hotel."
"They working you too hard?"
Barbara lifted an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.
"That sounds like concern. Are you worried about me, Hale?"
Tristan’s lips twitched, but he didn’t look away.
"A little."
She blinked, her gaze lingering on his for a second longer than necessary.
Then she let out a small sigh.
"It’s been a long day. And I have an early flight to Paris in the morning."
Tristan exhaled, running a hand through his curls.
"Already leaving Milan?"
"Fashion Week schedule is brutal. I have a day in Paris, then I’m off to the US."
His brows knitted together.
"Are you getting enough rest?"
Barbara’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out for a second.
Then, her expression softened.
"You’re actually asking me that?"
"Of course I am."
A ghost of a smile played on her lips.
"Huh."
Tristan’s green eyes narrowed.
"Huh, what?"
Barbara bit her lower lip, then exhaled through her nose.
"Nothing. Just… wasn’t expecting you to care so much."
Tristan shook his head, his gaze unwavering.
"What, you think I’m some heartless football machine?"
Barbara let out a quiet laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"No. But you do like playing the part."
Tristan tilted his head, a slow smirk creeping onto his face.
"And yet, you’re still talking to me."
Barbara laughed softly, her eyes glinting with something unreadable.
"So, you’re saying if I tell you to fly to Paris and bring me breakfast in bed, you’d do it?"
Tristan leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand.
"Depends. What’s my reward?"
Barbara’s lips curled as she dragged a finger along the edge of her pillow, her blue eyes never leaving his.
"That… is a surprise."
Tristan let out a quiet chuckle.
"You’re gonna leave me hanging like that?"
"Yep."
"That’s cruel."
"Sucks, doesn’t it?"
They held each other’s gaze, the teasing slowing down, but the undeniable tension still there.
They had only met a few days ago.
And yet…
There was something there.
Something neither of them fully understood.
"You should get some rest," Tristan murmured, his voice softer than before.
Barbara’s gaze flickered, something unspoken passing through it.
"Look at you, being all responsible."
"I told you, take care of yourself."
She exhaled, then smiled.
"Goodnight, superstar."
Before he could respond, the screen went black.
Tristan sat there for a moment, staring at his reflection in the glass.
Then, a slow grin spread across his face.
Yeah.
She was definitely worth the hat-trick and more.
……
Barbara sighed, tossing her phone onto the bed before rolling onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillows.
For the past hour, her mind had been consumed by Tristan.
The way he teased her.
The way he checked if she was okay.
The way she already wanted to call him again.
It was ridiculous.
She was Barbara Palvin. She had worked with the biggest brands in the world, graced the covers of Vogue, walked Victoria’s Secret runways.
She’d met A-list celebrities, dated two famous musicians known throughout the world.
And yet, here she was, kicking her feet like a schoolgirl over a guy she had met less than a week ago.
Sophia, who had been sitting at the small desk in the hotel room, typing furiously on her laptop, finally closed it with a click.
"Alright," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Are we gonna talk about it, or are you just gonna sit there sighing dramatically all night?"
Barbara groaned into the pillow.
"Go away."
"Nope."
Barbara turned her head slightly, shooting her a half-hearted glare.
"You’re supposed to be my assistant, not my therapist."
Sophia smirked, crossing her legs.
"And yet, here I am, doing both jobs flawlessly."
Barbara huffed before flipping onto her back, staring up at the ceiling.
"What am I even supposed to say?"
Sophia shrugged.
"I don’t know, maybe start with what you’re gonna get Tristan for that ‘reward’ you promised him."
Barbara scoffed.
"You were listening the whole time, weren’t you?"
Sophia raised an eyebrow.
"Babe, I was sitting right here. You were literally flirting in HD quality like I wasn’t in the room."
Barbara grabbed the nearest pillow and whacked her.
"Ow!" Sophia yelped, laughing as she dodged the next swing. "So? What’s the plan?"
Barbara sighed, propping herself up on her elbows.
"I don’t know yet. I have two days in Paris… maybe I figure something out then."
Sophia frowned.
Something in Barbara’s tone was off.
Barbara hesitated for a moment before reaching for her planner.
"I was thinking… maybe I could cancel New York."
Sophia’s eyebrows shot up.
"Wait. Cancel? Or postpone?"
Barbara chewed on her bottom lip.
"I could cram everything into one or two days, but… yeah, I was thinking of skipping it altogether."
Sophia’s mouth parted slightly, stunned.
"Oh my God. You’re actually considering it."
Barbara simply shrugged.
"I just want more time to figure things out."
Sophia sat back against the headboard, crossing her arms.
"We could do it, but you’d be exhausted."
Barbara waved a dismissive hand.
"I’ll be fine."
But Sophia wasn’t convinced.
She studied Barbara’s face. Really studied her.
And then, softly—
"You’re scared this is going too fast, aren’t you?"
Barbara froze.
Then, after a long pause—
"No," she admitted, shaking her head slightly. "I’m not scared of that."
Sophia tilted her head.
"Then what?"
Barbara exhaled, staring up at the ceiling.
"I’m scared of what happens if it doesn’t work out."
Sophia was quiet for a moment.
Barbara sat up fully, hugging her knees to her chest.
"I don’t want this to be just another thing that people talk about for months and then move on from. I don’t want it to be another lesson I have to learn the hard way. Another headline. Another failed ‘thing.’"
Sophia nodded slowly.
"That’s fair."
Barbara let out a tired laugh, rubbing her face with her hands.
"It’s stupid, right? I’ve known him for, what? Five days?"
"Doesn’t feel like five days, though, does it?"
Barbara’s hands dropped to her lap.
She met Sophia’s gaze.
And that was the thing.
It didn’t.
She barely knew Tristan Hale. And yet, she felt like she did.
"No," she whispered. "It doesn’t."
Sophia nudged her lightly.
"Maybe that’s a good thing."
Barbara inhaled deeply, then let out a slow breath.
"Yeah. Maybe."
She actually wanted to know what came next.
And that?
That was new.
…..
The sun had barely risenbut the football world was already on fire.
A 7-1 defeat for Manchester United wasn’t just a bad result.
It was a catastrophe.
A historic humiliation.
A stain in Premier League history.
But beyond the shattered pride of one of England’s greatest clubs, one name dominated every headline.
Tristan Hale.
A double hat-trick.
A perfect 10.0 rating.
The greatest individual display the league had ever seen.
And now?
The entire football world had something to say about it.
The familiar black-and-yellow opening graphics of Match of the Day flickered onto TV screens across the UK.
But tonight’s broadcast felt different.
No banter.
No playful digs.
No lighthearted jokes.
The atmosphere in the studio was tense.
Alan Shearer.
Ian Wright.
And at the center of it all?
Manchester United legend Rio Ferdinand.
As the intro music faded, host Gary Lineker leaned forward, his fingers clasped together.
But unlike the others, he wasn’t tense.
He was buzzing.
His eyes gleamed with excitement, his expression barely containing what was coming.
"We’ve covered some of the greatest nights in Premier League history."
He took a deep breath.
Then, suddenly—his arms shot up in the air.
"AND TONIGHT—LEICESTER CITY HAVE DESTROYED MANCHESTER UNITED SEVEN BLOODY ONE!"
He jumped out of his seat, fist-pumping the air.
"SEVEN! ONE! AGAINST MANCHESTER UNITED! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! THIS IS THE GREATEST NIGHT IN LEICESTER CITY HISTORY!"
Alan Shearer and Ian Wright burst out laughing.
Rio Ferdinand, however?
He sat stone-faced, arms crossed, staring at the desk.
Lineker was still celebrating, pacing back and forth.
"I never thought I’d see this in my lifetime! Leicester City, my club, my team, have just put SEVEN past one of the biggest clubs in world football! I don’t care if this isn’t a cup final—THIS IS OUR CHAMPIONS LEAGUE!"
Shearer, shaking his head, tried to calm him down.
"Gary, mate, sit down—"
"I CAN’T, ALAN! I CAN’T!"
The camera cut to Rio Ferdinand, who still hadn’t moved.
His jaw was clenched, his face like stone.
Shearer cleared his throat.
"Rio, mate, I know this is painful, but we have to talk about it. What went wrong?"
Ferdinand exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"Everything."
That was all he said.
Shearer nodded, turning to Ian Wright.
"Ian, let’s focus on the man of the night. Tristan Hale—where does this rank in terms of individual performances?"
Wright rubbed his face, exhaling slowly.
"I’ll be real with you. I’ve seen some incredible players in this league. But I have never seen a performance like that. Not at nineteen years old. Not against Manchester United."
A highlight package began rolling on the screen.
Tristan's first goal – A devastating first-time finish.
His second – A solo run past three United defenders before a 35-yard rocket into the top corner.
His third – A bicycle kick that stunned the stadium.His assists – Pinpoint passes, dazzling footwork, United’s defense pulled apart like amateurs.
As the clips ended, the camera returned to Rio Ferdinand.
His face was stone cold.
He still hadn’t spoken.
Shearer, sensing the mood, hesitated before asking.
"Rio… mate, what do you even say after something like this?"
Ferdinand let out a long, slow exhale.
He opened his mouth…
Then stopped.
He shook his head.
Then, finally—
"I’ve got nothing."
A silence hung in the air.
For the first time ever, Manchester United’s legends had no words.
…..
The morning analysis show was already trending worldwide.
Sitting in the studio?
Jamie Carragher.
Gary Neville.
Roy Keane.
The topic?
There was only one.
The Leicester vs. Manchester United massacre.
Host David Jones leaned forward, shaking his head.
"Alright, let’s get straight into it. A historic night in the Premier League—Leicester City 7, Manchester United 1. Jamie, I’ll start with you. Where does this rank in terms of individual performances?"
Carragher exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair.
"I’ve been covering this league for years. I’ve played in it, I’ve watched world-class players come and go, and I can say with absolute certainty—I have never seen a performance like that. Ever."
Neville leaned forward, rubbing his temple.
"It’s unbelievable, isn’t it? A nineteen-year-old kid, playing against Manchester United, and he makes it look like a training match."
Keane sat with his arms firmly crossed, his face like stone.
"United were shambolic, but let’s not take anything away from this lad. Six goal contributions. Six. That’s not normal. That’s not human."
A highlight reel played on the studio screen.
Keane’s eyes narrowed as he watched.
Then—the bicycle kick goal.
Carragher suddenly laughed out loud.
"He’s taking the absolute piss."
Neville let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head.
"It’s scary. It’s scary how good he is at just 19.”
Across the pond, in the ESPN FC studios, the American audience was waking up to the news.
Host Dan Thomas sat with his usual panel—Steve Nicol, Shaka Hislop, and Alejandro Moreno.
"Gentlemen, let’s not waste any time. Tristan Hale—where does this rank among the greatest performances in football history?"
Steve Nicol shook his head, still in disbelief.
"Mate, it’s right up there. I’ve played with some of the greatest, but this lad… he’s got it all. The goals, the vision, the composure—it’s frightening."
Shaka Hislop crossed his arms, leaning back.
"You know what’s even crazier? The confidence. You saw that post-match interview. He’s nineteen and already carries himself like he’s been dominating the league for ten years."
Alejandro Moreno laughed, throwing up his hands.
"I mean, can you blame him?! Look at what he just did!"
A stat graphic flashed across the screen.
🛑 RECORDS BROKEN BY TRISTAN HALE 🛑
✔️ First-ever double hat-trick of goals & assists in Premier League history.
✔️ Youngest player to record six goal contributions in a single match.
✔️ First player to score & assist a hat-trick against a ‘Big Six’ club.
✔️ Highest-rated individual performance in modern Premier League history.
Dan Thomas grinned, looking around the table.
"Is this the greatest individual performance in the history of the Premier League?"
Steve Nicol nodded immediately.
"No doubt in my mind. It’s the best I’ve ever seen."
Shaka Hislop agreed.
Alejandro Moreno leaned back, shaking his head.
"If this kid stays fit, we’re looking at the next Ballon d’Or winner."
The studio nodded in unison.
If that world before this match wasn’t maying attention to Tristan before, now it certainly was.
Football’s biggest legends—past and present—couldn’t believe what they had just witnessed.
Frank Lampard: "A performance for the ages. Take a bow, Tristan Hale. 👏"
Steven Gerrard: "The best hat-trick I’ve ever seen. Unreal talent. The kid is special."
Cesc Fàbregas: "Some of those passes… ridiculous. Different level. 🔥"
Didier Drogba: "19 years old, and he’s already breaking records? I love it. The future is bright. ⭐️"
Rio Ferdinand: "I’ve got nothing to say about United. But this kid? Special. Very special."
Even Cristiano Ronaldo, who rarely tweeted about other players, simply posted: “Tristan is a special talent.”
But United’s current squad?
Radio silence.
Not a single player had posted since the match ended.
Because really…
What could they say?
While the world celebrated Tristan Hale, the mood in Manchester was pure crisis.
At Carrington, Manchester United’s training ground, journalists swarmed outside, desperate for answers.
The headlines were brutal.
“Manchester United Embarrassed – Worst Loss in Premier League Era”
“Van Gaal on the Brink – Can He Survive This?”
“Has United Lost Its Identity?”
Inside, the players walked in silence.
Van Persie still hadn’t spoken.
De Gea kept his head down.
Rooney, who had worn the captain’s armband during the match, looked like a man carrying the weight of the world.
The dressing room was fractured.
The press tried to push for comments—Van Gaal ignored every single question.
United, once the dominant force of English football, had just been humiliated beyond repair.
For years, the Premier League had been ruled by its usual giants.
But now?
Now, a new name was forcing its way to the top.
Tristan Hale.
The teenager who had just delivered the greatest individual performance in Premier League history.
The boy who had just shattered records that were meant to stand for decades.
And the scary part?
He wasn’t just being talked about as a rising star.
He wasn’t just being called the future of English football.
People were already calling him the best player in the league.
The debates had already started.
Pundits.
Ex-players.
Fans.
Everyone had an opinion.
Across the football world, journalists and analysts weren’t just praising him.
They were putting his name alongside the very best.
"Messi, Ronaldo… Tristan Hale?" – Sky Sports
"At 19, he’s already playing at a world-class level. The Premier League has a new king." – The Guardian
"If he keeps this up, there’s no doubt—he’s in the Ballon d’Or conversation." – BBC Sport
Just days ago, Tristan Hale was a highly-rated young talent.
Now?
He was being compared to the very best in the world.
And the world was starting to realize—
THE PREMIER LEAGUE HAD A NEW FACE.
And his name was Tristan Hale.
……
8812 exact word not counting this end section. This one is a complete original chapter, nothing from the chinese chapter, not a single word.
I hope I lived up to everyones standards compared to the last few chapters.
In the mean time, power stones on Webnovel would be appreciated very much.
Now starting from chapter 121 to this one, I have written 40,968 words together in eight chapters, don’t believe me, just copy and paste the chapters into a google doc and add up the word count.
Your boy is tired, exhausted, that pressure was insane not gonna not to fuck up these chapters the last five days. And I hope I lived up to your expectations.
Now for some bad news, not sure if you guys read the Patreon chat, you should talk there but I have a few tests and exams coming up, so I gotta prepare for that and I’m just gonna like 3 days off, I didn’t wanna do this but I think some time off from writing will be good for me and college has been kicking my ass.
And again thank you for your support.
Comments
Adam Chettri
Dude love the word length of the new chapters. Keep it up!
Engebu
Thank for the chapter! They get better and better!
Alexis Chamorro
Since you started writing on your own is been better in my opinion keep it up and than you for the chapter
Jerôme
My mate. Absolute peak. Take your time.
Ro
take a bow lad
roysola
pure cinema indeed.
BrandonA
Great work. Greatness.
Mark_M1102
Sinbad I don’t even know what to say frankly. 42k words of ‘pure’ fucking cinema. I knew there was a reason I joined your Patreon and you just fucking proved it. These chapters which are original btw deserve a standing ovation man.
Adam M
Fantastic chapter!
