The heavy team bus cut through the thick sea of red smoke swirling around Sir Matt Busby Way at precisely 1:15 PM on Sunday afternoon.
Outside the tinted, reinforced glass windows, thousands of Manchester United supporters were roaring at the top of their lungs, their hands slamming against the side panels of the coach in a rhythmic, deafening beat. Red flares erupted into the damp grey air, sending clouds of thick, crimson haze floating past the iconic statues of Best, Law, and Charlton standing tall in the distance.
Inside the bus, the atmosphere was pitch-black quiet.
The players sat in their assigned seats, dressed in matching dark club-issue tracksuits with black hoods pulled low over their eyes.
Alejandro Garnacho had his palms pressed flat against the glass, his eyes wide as he absorbed the raw, vibrating energy of the crowd outside.
"Look at this..." Garnacho whispered under his breath, shaking his head.
"Bro, the whole city is on fire today."
"Focus, Ale," Bruno Fernandes said from two rows ahead, turning his head slightly without taking off his noise-canceling headphones.
"The crowd doesn't win the first tackle for you. Keep your head inside the room."
Sitting three rows from the back, Llori sat perfectly still. His back was straight against the leather headrest, his eyes open and staring smoothly ahead at the narrow aisle. While other players adjusted their socks, tapped their feet, or chewed gum with nervous intensity, Llori’s heart rate was currently resting at a remarkably low forty-six beats per minute.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small black digital monitor, and checked his physiological telemetry.
"Llori," Marcus Rashford murmured from across the aisle, leaning over with a faint, tense smile.
"What are you looking at? Still calculating?"
"My cortisol levels are operating at standard baseline parameters, Marcus," Llori answered calmly, his voice easily penetrating the deep bass hum of the engine beneath them.
"However, your leg tremors indicate a twelve percent elevation in adrenaline. I recommend three controlled deep breaths to stabilize your diaphragm before we enter the changing room."
Marcus blinked, looked down at his right knee which was indeed trembling slightly, and burst into a quiet, breathless laugh.
"Twelve percent? You can measure my adrenaline just by looking at my knee?"
"It is a simple mechanical deduction based on muscle twitch frequency," Llori replied softly.
"Execute the breath cycle. We require your sprint efficiency at peak capacity during the opening eight minutes."
Marcus took a deep, deliberate breath, blowing it out slowly through his mouth, and gave Llori a firm nod.
"Got it, Professor. Peak capacity."
The team bus finally ground to a halt in the underground concourse beneath the South Stand.
The moment the pneumatic doors hissed open, the raw, echoing noise of Old Trafford hit the players like a physical wall of sound. Staff members, security guards, and television crews lined the concrete corridor, camera lenses zooming in on every player step by step.
Erik ten Hag led the way out, his trench coat buttoned tight, his face carved out of solid stone as he walked straight past the flashbulbs without a single glance.
Ten minutes later, inside the dressing room, the air smelled intensely of fresh mint rub, leather, and wet turf. The red jerseys were hanging neatly in every player's locker, their golden numbers gleaming under the bright LED spotlights.
Erik stood in the center of the room, leaning his hands flat on the central massage table.
"Listen to me," Erik spoke, his voice quiet but sharp enough to make every player instantly stop what they were doing.
"City will try to control the rhythm in the first five minutes. They will pass sideways. They will try to quiet the stadium. We do not let them breathe! When the ball moves to Rodri, Bruno jumps! Llori locks the passing lane to De Bruyne! Licha, you smash into Haaland the second he touches the ball!"
Lisandro Martínez, sitting on his wooden stool while tightening the laces of his boots, looked up with bloodshot, terrifyingly focused eyes.
"He won't turn, Manager," Lisandro growled in a low, dangerous tone.
"If he tries to turn, I take his legs."
"Clean tackles, Licha!" Steve McClaren shouted from the doorway, holding a tactical board.
"No early bookings! We need eleven men on the pitch!"
"I hit the ball first," Lisandro grinned, a dark, primal expression spreading across his face.
"Always the ball."
Llori pulled his red number 6 jersey over his head, adjusting the collar with meticulous care until the fabric sat perfectly symmetrical across his shoulders. He reached down, pulled on his shin pads, and smoothed down his red socks to ensure there were no wrinkles around his ankles.
Bruno walked over, strapping the yellow captain's armband securely around his left bicep. He clapped Llori firmly on both shoulders.
"You ready, Llori?" Bruno asked, searching Llori's eyes for any sign of hesitation.
"The structural calculations are complete, Bruno," Llori replied serenely.
"The outcome depends entirely on execution accuracy."
"Then let's go execute," Bruno said, his eyes burning with intense energy.
The tunnel at Old Trafford was narrow, cold, and echoing with the deafening roar of seventy-five thousand fans outside.
The two teams lined up in two parallel rows along the tiled walls—United in their iconic red shirts, white shorts, and black socks; City in their sky-blue jerseys.
The atmosphere inside the tunnel was so thick with tension that you could almost taste the ozone in the air.
On the right side of the corridor stood Erling Haaland, towering over the surrounding players, jumping up and down in place to keep his hamstrings warm, his massive boots making loud, rhythmic thuds against the concrete floor. Beside him, Kevin De Bruyne stood with his arms crossed, staring blankly at the wall ahead with cold, veteran indifference.
Llori stood directly in the center of United’s midfield line, flanked by Casemiro on his left and Bruno ahead of him.
Rodri, standing two feet away in the City row, turned his head slightly to glance at Llori. The Spaniard's eyes narrowed, assessing the tall, completely unbothered United midfielder who wasn't even bouncing on his toes or stretching his calves.
Llori turned his head, his dark eyes meeting Rodri’s gaze with total, expressionless neutrality.
"You have a minor tear in the stitching of your left boot sleeve, Rodri," Llori observed smoothly, his voice carrying clearly over the rumble of the crowd.
Rodri blinked in utter confusion, instinctively looking down at his left foot.
"What?" Rodri muttered in his Spanish accent.
"It will reduce your lateral ankle stability by approximately point eight percent during heavy directional changes," Llori added calmly before turning his eyes back toward the pitch ahead.
Rodri stared at Llori, his brow furrowing in complete bewilderment, before looking down at his boot once again to check the seam.
Behind them, Casemiro muffled a sudden, deep snort of laughter into his palm, leaning over to whisper into Llori's ear.
"Brother... you are mind-gaming Rodri before we even step onto the grass!"
"It is not a mind game, Casemiro," Llori replied without shifting his posture.
"It is an accurate physical observation. Structural defects in equipment compromise performance integrity."
The referee, Anthony Taylor, picked up the match ball from its pedestal and blew his whistle twice—a sharp, piercing signal that reverberated down the narrow corridor.
"Alright boys, let's go! Fair play, clear communication! Out we go!"
The two teams stepped out into the blinding daylight of Old Trafford.
The explosion of noise was instantaneous, an overwhelming wave of sound that seemed to physically vibrate the turf beneath their boots.
Seventy-five thousand supporters erupted in unison, a roaring sea of red and white banners whipping through the cool afternoon breeze under the massive steel girders of the Stretford End.
Llori stepped onto the pitch, his studs digging into the damp, pristine grass of Old Trafford.
He took a single deep breath, inhaling the crisp smell of cut lawn and wet earth, his internal tracking systems instantly mapping out every boundary line, every slope in the pitch, and the exact positioning of all twenty-two players across the green expanse.
In Section 112 of the Sir Alex Ferguson Stand, a small figure wrapped in a dark trench coat waved briefly.
Llori’s eyes locked onto Elena for precisely 0.4 seconds before sweeping back to the center circle.
The focus metric was established. The system was live.
Bruno Fernandes stood over the ball at the center spot alongside Marcus Rashford, his eyes fixed on Anthony Taylor’s silver whistle.
Across the line, Haaland bounced on the balls of his feet, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the grass, while Pep Guardiola agitatedly paced the edge of his technical area, clutching a small water bottle like a weapon.
TWEET!
The whistle blew, cutting sharply through the roar of the crowd, and the 191st Manchester Derby was officially underway.
Bruno tapped the ball softly back to Llori.
The stadium held its breath for a microsecond as Llori took his first touch with his right boot, cushioning the rolling sphere with clinical precision before lifting his head.
Immediately, Julian Alvarez came sprinting out of City’s front line, charging down Llori’s angle with full momentum to force an early, panicked backward pass to André Onana.
Llori didn't panic. He didn't even blink.
With an icy, effortless drop of his left shoulder, Llori feinted toward his own center-back, drawing Alvarez’s balance entirely onto his front right foot.
Then, using the inside of his right heel, Llori executed a crisp, millimeter-perfect drag-back that sent Alvarez skidding past him into the empty grass.
"Oh, beautiful!" Gary Neville’s voice echoed through the sky broadcast booth.
"Look at the composure from the young man! Alvarez pressed him at full speed, and Llori just stepped around him like he was avoiding a puddle on the pavement!"
Having completely neutralized City’s first pressing trigger, Llori slid a smooth, thirty-yard line-breaking pass straight into the feet of Bruno Fernandes, who had drifted into the half-space behind Rodri.
The Old Trafford crowd roared in approval as United instantly broke City’s first line of engagement in under six seconds.
Bruno turned smoothly on the ball, looking to spring Rashford down the left flank, but Kyle Walker closed the gap with frightening recovery speed, knocking the ball out for a United throw-in.
Bruno turned back toward Llori, clapping his hands together loudly above his head.
"Yes, Llori! Exactly like that! Keep feeding the pocket!"
Llori adjusted his shin pad slightly, nodding once.
"The pass was executed with a three-millimeter variance from optimal trajectory, Bruno," Llori called back casually as he trotted into defensive position.
"I will correct the spin rate on the next cycle."
Bruno stared at him for a brief moment, letting out a breathy laugh as he shook his head.
"Just keep passing the bloody ball, mate!"
By the tenth minute, the match had devolved into a high-octane, chess-like battle of tactical adjustments.
Pep Guardiola was already screaming from his technical area, his jacket unzipped, wildly motioning with both arms for Bernardo Silva to drop deeper to help Rodri handle United's midfield shape.
Every time City tried to build out from the back through John Stones stepping into midfield, Llori was already there, perfectly positioning his body to shadow-block the passing lane to De Bruyne.
In the thirteenth minute, De Bruyne drifted wide toward the right touchline, attempting to drag Llori out of the central zone.
"Follow him, Llori!" Casemiro shouted, shifting over to cover the central space.
Llori tracked De Bruyne smoothly, matching the Belgian playmaker stride for stride without overcommitting his weight.
De Bruyne received the ball from Akanji, took one touch to set himself, and attempted his trademark, early curling cross toward the back post where Haaland was making his explosive run.
Before the ball could even leave De Bruyne's boot, Llori stuck out his right leg, blocking the delivery with the side of his cleat.
The ball richocheted high into the air and settled safely into the waiting arms of André Onana.
De Bruyne turned to the assistant referee, shouting for a corner kick before looking back at Llori with a look of genuine annoyance.
"You got lucky," De Bruyne muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Llori stood unmoving, his posture impeccably straight.
"It was not luck, Kevin," Llori replied in his calm, measured tone.
"Your body orientation indicated an eighty-nine percent probability of a far-post trajectory. Blocking that angle required moving my right foot precisely fourteen centimeters to the left. It was pure structural positioning."
De Bruyne froze, blinking at Llori in sheer astonishment, entirely unsure of how to respond to a midfielder giving him a mathematical explanation of his own crossing technique.
On the touchline, Pep Guardiola watched the interaction, furiously biting his bottom lip as he turned to his assistant, Juanma Lillo.
"Who is this guy?" Pep gestured wildly at Llori with his water bottle.
"He isn't running around like a crazy person, he isn't making emotional tackles, but he is occupying every single space Rodri wants to use! He is reading the matrix before the ball even moves!"
Down in United's dugout, Erik ten Hag stood with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, a quiet, dangerous smile playing on his lips.
"He's controlling the tempo, Erik," Steve McClaren whispered leaning over.
"City can't get into their rhythm because Llori keeps disrupting their primary passing angles."
"The system is working," Erik replied quietly, his eyes fixed on the pitch.
"Now we hit them on the transition."
In the twenty-second minute, the moment they had spent four days rehearsing finally arrived.
Bernardo Silva received a tight pass from Ederson under heavy pressure from Bruno.
Just as Erik had predicted in the tactical suite at the Lowry Hotel, Bernardo attempted to drop six meters backward into the half-space to escape the press.
Casemiro didn't step out. Lisandro Martínez didn't bite.
Instead, Llori anticipated the sequence three steps ahead.
The second Bernardo opened his hips to execute a lateral pass to Rodri, Llori exploded forward with incredible acceleration, intercepting the rolling ball with a sharp, crisp side-foot touch.
Rodri swung his leg to clear, but Llori was already gone.
With one fluid motion, Llori lifted his head, calculating the wind resistance, the friction of the wet grass, and Marcus Rashford's sprinting velocity against Nathan Aké.
THWACK!
Llori struck a breathtaking, thirty-five-yard diagonal ping that sliced through City’s defensive line like a scalpel, landing with surgical precision right into the stride of Marcus Rashford down the left channel.
"WHAT A PASS BY LLORI!" Jon Champion screamed into the broadcast microphone.
"A ABSOLUTE MASTERCLASS OF VISION AND PRECISION! RASHFORD IS IN!"
The entire seventy-five thousand fans inside Old Trafford stood up as one, a roaring wall of noise rising into the afternoon sky as Rashford took the ball in stride and drove straight toward Ederson's penalty area.
On the touchline, Pep Guardiola threw his water bottle onto the grass in absolute fury, clutching his head in his hands.
Inside the pitch, Llori didn't celebrate the pass. He didn't raise his arms.
He simply trotted back into the central circle, his eyes scanning the pitch, adjusting his position by two meters to ensure United's rest defense was structurally sound.
Casemiro ran past him, giving Llori a thunderous, open-palmed slap on the back that almost knocked the breath out of a normal man.
"WHAT DID I TELL YOU?!" Casemiro bellowed, his face red with excitement.
"SURFACE FRICTION, BABY! SURFACE FRICTION!"
Llori offered a slight, subtle nod as he adjusted his captain's position with a quick hand signal.
"The trajectory was optimal, Casemiro," Llori said softly, his heart rate remaining at a steady, perfectly controlled fifty-two beats per minute.
"Now, we maintain the structure."
The quiet before the storm was officially over. The war for Manchester had begun.
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