Emirates Stadium – Saturday Evening

"Ladies and gentlemen, lock onto your screens and settle in," Eddie Gray's voice rang with anticipation, breaking through the low murmur of the crowd and the rustle of team banners. The Leeds United faithful were tuned in, and Eddie's partner, Norman Hunter, was already grinning like he'd heard the punchline before the joke.

"Norman," Eddie said, glancing sideways as he adjusted his headset in the studio, "why are you already laughing? Game hasn't even kicked off yet."

Hunter let out a low chuckle and slid the team sheet across the desk. "Take a look at Arsenal's bench."

Eddie scanned the list and didn't even blink. "Henry's benched. Adebayo starts up top."

"You're not surprised?"

"Not in the slightest. I saw Diego—uh, Arthur—at Elland Road the other day. He hinted at it then."

Back in the tunnel, the players stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shaking off nerves with a few last-second jumps and stretches. The tension was thick, but nothing unusual for a Premier League clash like this—especially with stakes this high. The Emirates Stadium, shiny and proud like a spaceship in North London, was packed to the rafters.

"Alright, folks," Eddie continued, shifting smoothly into commentator mode. "Let's run through the starting lineups before kick-off. First, for the home team, Arsenal—Wenger's sticking with a classic 4-4-2."

On screen, the Arsenal formation lined up:

Goalkeeper: Jens Lehmann, already bouncing on his toes like a caffeinated Jack Russell.

Back Four: From left to right—Gaël Clichy, Kolo Touré, William Gallas, and Emmanuel Eboué. Quick, aggressive, and not afraid to overlap.

Midfield: Gilberto Silva as the shield, with Hleb and Rosický running the wings. Cesc Fàbregas, Arsenal's cherubic genius, sat at the heart of it all.

Forwards: With Thierry Henry injured, it was down to Robin van Persie and Emmanuel Adebayor to lead the line.

Then came the visitors.

"And now for Leeds United," Eddie said with a little more pride in his voice. "Arthur's gone with a 4-2-3-1 again. Neuer between the sticks—solid as ever. The back line? As dependable as your grandmother's Sunday roast."

Goalkeeper: Manuel Neuer, calm as a monk, gloves already clapping in rhythm.

Defenders: Lahm on the left, Dani Alves on the right, and in the center—Cannavaro and Kompany, the brick wall duo.

Midfield: Xabi Alonso and Modrić as the deep-lying playmakers—both of them composed and clever. Franck Ribéry and Gareth Bale occupied the flanks, twitching with energy. And right in the middle of it all, the bulldozing force of Yaya Touré.

Lone Striker: Zlatan Ibrahimović, with a ponytail swaying and ego large enough to need its own locker.

"And there it is," Eddie said. "The Battle of the Brothers—Kolo versus Yaya. And up top, Ibrahimović looking as smug as ever."

Norman grinned again. "Can you blame him? He's been on fire."

The camera panned to the pitch. The players were taking their positions. Up front, Adebayor stood next to Van Persie in the center circle, shifting weight from one foot to the other. Van Persie cracked a grin—nervous or smug, it was hard to tell.

Eddie picked up the analysis. "Norman, how are you feeling about today?"

"Confident," said Norman, sitting straighter. "Arthur and the boys know what this means. Watford gave us no trouble. If we take three points here, we're top in three days—ninety percent chance at least."

He tapped the table for emphasis.

"Arsenal aren't what they used to be this season. Hot and cold. And Henry being out definitely takes a bite out of their front line. Adebayor? He hasn't started in weeks."

"And Henry?" Eddie raised an eyebrow. "He's not even warming up. I reckon Arthur got inside Wenger's head before the match."

Norman snorted. "That wouldn't surprise me one bit."

Back down on the pitch, the captains had already flipped the coin. Arsenal would kick off. The referee checked his watch and raised his whistle to his lips. The hum of the crowd swelled, ready to erupt.

But a few minutes earlier, right before the whistle, a scene had played out on the touchline that cameras barely caught.

Arthur, suited in his sleek Leeds United jacket, had swaggered over to Arsenal's technical area like a man arriving at his own barbecue. He wore that same impish grin he reserved for mind games.

"Good evening, Arsène," he said, eyes scanning the shiny stands of the Emirates. "Your new stadium's massive. Almost makes me jealous."

Wenger, standing primly with arms folded, turned to face him. "Good evening, Arthur."

There was a half-smile on his face, but it was thin, guarded. The Frenchman didn't like surprises—and Arthur always brought a storm in his back pocket.

"You know," Arthur continued, voice light as air, "I think it's a little rude to invite guests here just to send them home in defeat."

Wenger raised an eyebrow.

"Really?" he replied, smooth as silk. "I was just thinking how generous it was of us to host you... before giving you a proper footballing lesson."

Arthur laughed. "Arsène, come on, that was colder than the Emirates catering. Speaking of cold—didn't you say Thierry's injured? Why is he even on the bench?"

Wenger's expression cracked.

"What do you mean?" he said, the smile slipping. "He's fit enough for today. I don't know what rumors you're listening to."

"Oh really?" Arthur said, tilting his head with theatrical concern. "Because if I were you, I'd rest him. I mean, your league title hopes are already six feet under. Maybe keep your energy for the Champions League? Would be tragic to get knocked out in the Round of 16. Again."

That did it.

Wenger's nostrils flared, and for a second, Arthur was pretty sure the man was about to throw a water bottle at him. But instead, the Frenchman just clenched his jaw and stepped forward slightly.

Arthur grinned, holding up his hands.

"Hey, hey! All in good fun," he said, already backing away. "You know me. I poke, but I don't bite. Good luck out there!"

With a final wink, Arthur turned and strutted back to the Leeds bench like a man who had just planted a landmine and couldn't wait to watch it explode.

Behind him, Wenger exhaled hard and muttered something in French.

And now, back on the field, the players were in position. The ref gave one last glance around. Flags waved. Drums pounded. And the whistle blew.

****

As the final pre-match checks were completed and both teams took their positions, the atmosphere inside the Emirates Stadium shifted. The crowd, so loud and animated just moments before, gradually fell into a reverent silence. It was the calm before the storm—the hush that settled over a stadium before the first whistle of battle.

Arthur, standing firmly in the technical area with his arms folded, was no longer smiling. The cheeky grin he wore while teasing Wenger had faded. Now, his eyes were narrowed with intensity, and his entire body was taut with focus. This wasn't a man about to watch a football match. This was a commander preparing for war.

And then—

"Beep~~~~"

The referee raised his arm, glanced at his watch, and blew his whistle.

The game had begun.

From the commentary box, Eddie Gray's voice sprang to life, animated and urgent:

"Okay, fans! The referee blows the whistle to start the game! This match—one that could decide whether Leeds United reach the top of the standings—has officially begun!"

Right on cue, Adebayor took the kick-off and nudged the ball toward Van Persie. Without hesitation, Van Persie tapped it back to Fabregas, initiating Arsenal's first possession of the game.

But Fabregas barely had time to breathe.

In just seconds, Leeds United's front line had already surged forward like a tidal wave. Ibrahimović was the spearhead, charging directly toward Fabregas with long, galloping strides. And right behind him, moving just as fast, came Yaya Touré—his massive frame and even longer legs pumping like pistons, thundering across the turf.

What the hell—?!

Cesc Fabregas didn't waste time wondering. Two hulking silhouettes were bearing down on him at full speed, and he wanted no part of it. Rather than attempt to turn or pass forward, he spun on the spot and poked the ball backwards to Kolo Touré, peeling off to the left flank in the hope of shaking his looming shadow.

But Leeds United weren't relenting.

As soon as Kolo received the ball, Ibrahimović switched targets and bolted toward him. Yaya Touré tracked Fabregas's movement seamlessly, stalking him like a heat-seeking missile.

Eddie Gray's voice rang out with excitement:

"Leeds United playing very aggressively right from the off! Just four or five seconds in, and aside from their back line and Alonso, everyone else has crossed the halfway line! Norman, this isn't a cautious approach—we're seeing full-on pressure!"

Norman Hunter nodded from his seat beside him:

"Exactly. That's one of the things I admire most about Arthur—he never plays it safe, and he gets results. He's going for an early breakthrough. This isn't just a high press—this is a coordinated ambush. Look at how Fabregas is already marked out of the game by Yaya Touré!"

"Yeah! And look over here!" Eddie exclaimed. "It's not just Touré and Ibrahimović—Modrić, Ribéry, Bale, and even Alonso have pushed up. They've each locked onto an Arsenal player, man-to-man!"

It was true.

As Kolo Touré looked up with the ball at his feet, the scene ahead of him was grim. The midfielders he normally relied on were no longer available. Every red shirt he glanced toward was blanketed by a Leeds player in white. Fabregas had Yaya breathing down his neck. Hleb was being smothered by Bale. Gilberto Silva had Alonso pressing up into his back, and Rosický had Modrić following him stride for stride.

Leeds had turned the center of the pitch into a minefield, and Arsenal had wandered straight into it.

Kolo hesitated for only a moment before making the safest choice available—he turned and passed the ball back to Lehmann, just in front of the goal.

But Ibrahimović wasn't giving up the chase.

He darted past Kolo without a second thought, storming into the penalty area with the same relentless intensity. The Swede's eyes were locked onto Lehmann like a hawk, and the veteran German knew it.

Instead of clearing the ball immediately, Lehmann did something… unexpected.

He stopped the ball dead at his feet.

Standing tall, calm, and looking completely unbothered, Lehmann let the ball sit there, unmoving. His eyes flicked up toward the onrushing Ibrahimović—but still, he didn't kick it. Instead, he seemed to pause deliberately… almost as if he wanted to play a trick on Ibrahimović first.