"Oooooooooooooo!"
The sound wasn't just a cheer. It was a scream — primal, raw, almost inhuman. It ripped through Germany, cracked open Spain, thundered across India, surged through Korea, and even spilled into that so-called football desert, Arica. A billion voices collided at once, and if you opened a phone, if you dared glance at a screen, there it was: the number one trending topic on the planet.
FCB vs FCB. Barcelona vs Bayern.
And all of it, all of this storm, was because of one thing — because Mateo King, dragging his battered lungs through fire, had just refused to die. Because he had scored his third. Barcelona's third. The fifth of the night. A goal stitched from delirium.
But the night wasn't finished. No, not even close. Four minutes of regulation remained. Five minutes of added ti hung like a blade above both sides. Nine more minutes to survive. Nine more minutes to rewrite or to restore history.
Koeman's intent was instant, cold, and clear. The kid had emptied himself; the prince of the night was withdrawn to thunderous applause, Oscar Mingueza stepping on to tighten the back. Frenkie de Jong dropped into the defensive line, his hair plastered to his forehead, his lungs burning but his will unbroken. The ssage was stamped across the Allianz pitch in thick letters: defend.
But Bayern? Bayern do not yield. Not here. Not in this cathedral of theirs. Flick and his staff made no move for change. No fresh legs. No new faces. Just wave after wave, red shirts pouring forward, eyes glowing, jaws clenched.
The next nine minutes were different for everyone. To the German crowd, they raced by in a blur of possession, shots, and half-chances. To the Spanish visitors, the seconds crawled — slow, agonizing, heavy. Every pass from Bayern was a dagger raised above the heart.
Müller tried first — a snap shot from outside the box, dragging through a crowded line of blue and garnet. It skidded low, ter Stegen flung himself, palms stinging, the rebound scrambled away by Mingueza's desperate clearance.
"Hold!" Busquets barked, his throat tearing, arms out like a general keeping his ranks tight.
Pedri, light but untouchable, refused to shrink. He ducked between Kimmich and Goretzka, stealing precious seconds, skipping through a tackle before releasing a soft ball that found ssi deep. And ssi, even drained, even with the weight of forty years of tornt on his back, still twitched the ground into sparks — a shimmy, a drop of the shoulder, dragging Süle the wrong way. The captain pushed forward, for a mont lifting every Culé heart, before Alaba slid across and stamped the run dead.
Still Bayern ca. Still Barcelona resisted.
Every kick, every second, was thunder. For neutrals watching in pubs, in living rooms, in midnight cafés, it was glorious. For the faithful, it was torture dressed as theatre.
Evidently shown here, in the very heart of Manchester.
A studio — dimly lit yet buzzing with electricity. The walls carried the recognizable logo of The Overlap, glowing faintly against the black backdrop. Caras rolled smoothly on their tracks, catching every twitch and gasp, while rows of fans filled the small terraces inside, Brits from every corner of the country, scarves and shirts of all different Premier League clubs hanging from their shoulders. United reds, City blues, Liverpool reds, Arsenal whites — all jamd into this intimate football theatre, their eyes locked on the giant screen.
At the front sat the titans of English football discourse.At the front sat the legends of English football. Gary Neville, forr Manchester United right-back.Rio Ferdinand, the commanding centre-half who lifted titles with United. Michael Owen, Liverpool's Ballon d'Or–winning striker. And Roy Keane, the no-nonsense United captain, a midfielder carved out of steel.
But in this mont, even their faces betrayed sothing else entirely: shock, disbelief, pure excitent.
Because what they had just witnessed was madness.
On the screen, Jamal Musiala, the 18-year-old, had struck the ball of his life. A missile — arrowed from twenty-seven yards, blistering with venom and precision. The strike had beaten not just ter Stegen, not just the sprawling defenders in front of him, but ti itself. The stadium had risen in one collective gasp, the whole of Germany ready to erupt.
And then—
CLANG!
The post shook violently. The ball ricocheted away, cruelly, rcilessly. The Allianz itself had denied him. What would have been one of the great Champions League equalizers died against the woodwork at 95:37, surely the last play of the ga.
The studio froze. Fans clutched their heads, gasped, shouted. One Arsenal supporter fell back in his chair, hands over his mouth. A United fan bellowed sothing incoherent at the screen. Neville had half-risen, hand over his face. Ferdinand just muttered, "Oh my God." Owen shook his head in disbelief. And Keane, for once, was silent — his mouth open, his eyes wide.
Then ca the sound that sealed it all — not from Munich, but relayed through the speakers overhead in the studio. The referee's whistle.
The match was finished.
Phase two of The Overlap's new experint — live reactions to the Champions League — entered with that whistle, and what a mont it had to dissect. On the screen, Barcelona's players stord the pitch, a blue-and-garnet flood. Mateo King, wrapped in an oversized coat, led the charge from the bench, his face a picture of ecstasy, exhaustion forgotten, his arms stretched wide as he joined his teammates in delirium.
The caras cut to the away end — Barça fans, shaking the very steel of the Allianz, their screams echoing through the television feed. And then, a sweep across the ho crowd — silent, stunned, heads bowed. Many Bayern fans had already begun their slow shuffle out of the stands, their banners drooping, their fortress breached. On the pitch, red shirts walked with heavy shoulders, disbelief etched across their faces.
The scoreboard confird what no one would forget:
Bayern Munich 2 – Barcelona 3.
The first leg of the Champions League quarter-final was over. And what a spectacle it had been.
"What a ga that was…" Gary Neville exhaled, leaning back in his chair as though he himself had played the ninety-five minutes. The studio lights reflected in his glasses, but his eyes were still locked on the replay looping across the massive screen behind them.
Rio Ferdinand chuckled, shaking his head, arms crossed over his chest. "Nah, Gaz, that wasn't just a ga. That was chaos, madness—Champions League football at its absolute peak."
Michael Owen leaned forward, his striker's instinct still twitching, almost as though he wanted to lace up his boots again. "You're talking about a seventeen-year-old, lads. Seventeen. And he's just bagged a hat-trick… against Bayern Munich… at the Allianz Arena. That's unheard of. I don't think people understand how ridiculous that is."
The cara cut briefly to the crowd of fans packed into the studio, a mix of red shirts, blue scarves, and neutral supporters still buzzing from what they had witnessed. A few were already waving their hands, shouting to be heard. Gary pointed towards them.
"You lot—what do you make of him? Mateo King, seventeen years old, and he's doing that?"
A Chelsea supporter in the corner shouted back, "That's generational! That's not normal, that's once-in-a-lifeti stuff!"The studio laughed, but the nods from the panel showed agreent.
Roy Keane, arms folded, face as stern as ever, finally broke his silence. "Look, we can all get carried away—he's still a kid, right? But I'll tell you this: to do what he did tonight, in that atmosphere, against that opposition… that takes guts. That takes more than talent. That's ntality. And not many players at that age have it."
Rio leaned across, grinning. "Co on, Roy, even you've got to admit that was special. Two Champions League gas, two hat-tricks. PSG in Paris. Bayern in Munich. That's not just guts, that's world-class ability."
Keane didn't smile, but he didn't disagree either. He gave a small shrug. "If he keeps this up, he'll be frightening. Absolutely frightening."
Gary ca back in, his voice carrying the tone of the seasoned defender breaking things down. "What impressed wasn't just the goals, it was the way he kept going when his body was gone. You saw it, we all saw it—he was finished. But he still found another gear, he still kept running into the spaces, and then… bang. That last goal."
Michael Owen raised his hand as if to claim the striker's perspective. "And the finish—don't forget the finish. That little chip, under pressure, with Neuer flying at him? That's the kind of composure you can't teach. That's instinct, that's ice in the veins. He knew exactly what he was doing."
The fans in the studio clapped, so even whistled, as the replay once again showed Mateo collapsing to the turf after the winner.
Rio laughed again, shaking his head. "Mate, we're talking about a kid who isn't even old enough to order a pint in the bar. And he's just silenced Bayern Munich. Seventeen years old. It's frightening."
Gary turned again towards the audience. "Tell , be honest—have we just seen the arrival of the next superstar in football?"
A roar ca back from the fans, chants breaking out in different corners of the studio. So shouted, "Yes!" while others started singing bits of terrace songs.
Keane, as ever, cut through the noise with his bluntness. "Superstar? Maybe. But one thing's certain—he's got sothing you can't coach. And if Barcelona can build around that, who knows how far he'll go."
The screen behind them froze on an image of Mateo King on his knees on the Allianz pitch, teammates piling on top of him, the scoreboard above reading Bayern Munich 2–3 Barcelona.
Michael Owen's voice was soft, almost reflective. "Seventeen years old, lads. Seventeen. And we'll be talking about this night for years."
Michael Owen's words were still hanging in the air when a voice cut through from the crowd. A Manchester United fan, draped in a vintage Ronaldo '08 shirt, leaned forward mischievously and shouted, "As a teen then—was he better than you?"
The studio erupted instantly. Gasps, whistles, and a long, drawn-out "Woooooow!" rolled across the room like a wave. So fans slapped the desks in front of them, others threw their hands on their heads as though they'd just witnessed another last-minute winner. The panel themselves couldn't help it—Rio leaned back, grinning ear to ear, while Roy Keane raised his eyebrows with a rare flicker of amusent.
Gary Neville smirked, shaking his head, and turned to Owen. "Go on, answer the question," he said, his voice half serious, half baiting.
Rio leaned forward, rubbing his hands together like a man about to enjoy a feast. "Ooooh, I'm dying to hear this one."
Roy, for once, joined in with the fun, laughing under his breath. "Yeah, go on Michael, don't bottle it now."
The studio audience roared louder, chanting "Answer! Answer!" until Owen himself laughed, putting his hands up in mock surrender.
"This isn't what I ca for," he said, grinning as the caras zood in on his face. "I ca to watch the ga, have a few drinks, do a little talk on the football… I didn't expect this level of interrogation."
The crowd howled, but Owen cracked a smile and leaned into the microphone. "But I guess this is part of it, ain't it?"
A hush fell as he straightened up. His tone sharpened, his delivery carried weight. "Don't get wrong—Mateo's a phenonon. I an, a hat-trick in the Round of 16, and now another one in the quarter-finals of the Champions League? Absolutely incredible."
He paused. The whole studio leaned closer, waiting.
"But…" Owen dragged the word out, and Rio instantly burst into a grin. "That's the Owen I know!" he teased.
"But," Owen repeated, this ti louder, sitting upright with a new authority in his voice. "Let land. As impressive as the kid's been, I'm not gonna sugarcoat it—there has been no teenager that was anywhere near ."
The crowd exploded. So cheered, so booed, most just roared with disbelief and delight. The bass in Owen's voice, the conviction, turned the statent into a bombshell. Fans clapped, shouted his na, and one even jumped to his feet pointing at him, yelling, "Talk your talk, Owen!"
Owen laughed, waving them down. "No, no, no—serious, serious!"
The room quieted. Gary leaned forward, intrigued, while Rio and Keane exchanged curious glances.
Owen's tone steadied, reflective now. "Was it Neymar? Ronaldo? Rooney? ssi? Fantastic players, all of them. Possibly even better careers than , no question about it. But at the teenage level—seventeen, eighteen—I was light years clear of anything else in that age group. Anything. Probably only R9 was maybe in that range. But apart from him? No one. At least none that I've seen yet, at the very least."
The weight of his words hung for a mont before Roy Keane muttered, "Humble much?"
The entire studio burst into laughter, even Owen himself chuckling as he shook his head. "Look, don't get wrong," he said again, trying to calm the room. "This kid is incredible. What's he at now? From what I've heard—what, like almost thirty goals already?"
A voice from the crowd shouted back, "Yeah! Twenty Eight!"
"Imagine that," Owen said, eyes widening a little. "Insane."
He leaned back slightly, his tone softening into admiration. "And you know what, I even see similarities between us. Both of us burst onto the scene at a crazy young age, in massive clubs. at Liverpool, him at Barça—both at seventeen. Both of us were fast, sharp, clinical. Both of us, pure goalscorers. We had that instinct, that eye for goal, that fearlessness."
He took a breath, then shook his head with a small smile. "But that's where the similarities end, ain't it? The differences are why I put myself above."
Owen leaned in, his expression firm now, his voice gathering montum. "I an, co on—seventeen and eighteen, back-to-back Golden Boots in the Premier League. Back-to-back! There will never, ever—never ever ever—be soone else who can do that. And then, just a couple of years after, winning the Ballon d'Or. I an, what are we even talking about here?"
The crowd humd in appreciation, a few heads nodding, so still shaking with disbelief at his boldness. Owen pressed on, jabbing the table for emphasis. "And look at the talents I was up against! Not just defenders—though let's not forget how hard the ga was back then compared to now—but the attackers too, the competition. The strikers I had to asure myself against in that era…"
Rio, grinning wide, jumped in like he couldn't resist. "Alan Shearer."
"Andy Cole," Owen nodded quickly.
"Ian Wright," Rio added, counting them off on his fingers.
The audience started to join in, shouting nas from their seats. "Dennis Bergkamp!" one yelled. "Dwight Yorke!" ca another.
Gary Neville, louder than all of them, leaned into his mic and called out, "Thierry Henry!"
The room burst into cheers and applause, the sheer weight of those nas hanging in the air. Owen threw his hands out, almost pleading. "Exactly! Exactly! Insane ballers, every single one of them. Any era, those lads would still be giants. That's what I was competing against at seventeen, eighteen."
He shook his head, his tone darkening slightly, almost lanting. "Right now? I can't really say the sa. I an, yes—we've got Kane, Lewandowski, fine, world-class without a doubt. But apart from them? Who else? Which striker of this generation can we honestly say is truly world class? No real comparisons. No real challenges for the kid."
Owen's voice swelled again, the fire returning to his delivery. "And again—look who he has as his teammate! I an, yeah, Liverpool were massive then, and we had so fine players. But this boy—Mateo—he literally has Lionel ssi, the highest assister in the history of the ga, feeding him balls. I just don't feel the comparisons make sense."
He slowed suddenly, dragging his last words, his voice trailing as though he knew the weight they carried. "But he is… one of the greatest teenagers the sport has actually seen. Just not…"
Rio cracked a cheeky grin, cutting in quickly. "Here it cos—classic Owen!"
The room burst into laughter, the tension snapped in two. Even Owen laughed along, shaking his head.
Gary Neville leaned across, grinning like a cat who'd just cornered its prey. "That's not ending here, hope you know."
Rio chuckled. "Oh, of course not. After this goes out, mate, The vultures going to absolutely tear into you they are going to have a field day with this one."
Keane, smirking for once, added dryly, "You've made yourself a target."
The panel and the crowd all laughed together, knowing it was true.
Owen shrugged, grinning with a hint of defiance. "Well… I said what I said."
Gary slapped the desk, almost triumphant. "Yes, you did. Yes, you did."
The studio humd with energy after Owen's last words. Gary Neville, sensing the mont, leaned back in his chair, smirking as he addressed the room. "Alright then, Michael's thrown down the gauntlet. Let's bring the fans in—what do you lot make of that?"
The caras panned, catching the faces of n and won in replica kits from every corner of England—red, blue, claret, even the odd black-and-white. Neville pointed toward the second row, singling out a man draped in Liverpool red, scarf tight around his neck. "You there—let's start out easy. What's your take?"
The Liverpool fan chuckled nervously, shifting in his seat as the crowd's eyes landed on him. "Honestly? I've got no issue with that take. As a teenager, Michael Owen was… next level. There's no two ways about it."
A ripple of applause, a few cheers for Owen, who gave the fan a small appreciative nod. Neville grinned, pouncing. "So what did you want to talk about then?"
The man laughed, shaking his head. "Well, it's about his takes on the strikers of today. I feel like it wasn't exactly right. Yes, maybe the traditional No. 9 is less common now, replaced by wingers cutting in, but we still have more than just Kane and Lewandowski. For example, we've got Benzema—he's been class, really good. Lukaku's been incredible in Italy—rumors are even flying about Chelsea bringing him back. And Kylian, I an, he drifts central all the ti, you could count him as a striker. And of course…" He leaned forward, voice rising. "…Erling."
The na barely left his lips when Roy Keane's hand shot up like a stop sign. "Wait. Wait. Sorry. Sorry for interrupting, but—what na did you just say?"
Rio Ferdinand leaned forward, bemused. "What's wrong, Roy?"
The fan frowned slightly. "Erling Haaland. He's a goal machine, everyone knows it."
Roy's head was already shaking violently. He muttered, then said it louder, voice cutting through the studio. "No, no, no. I've got a problem with that lad."
The crowd gasped, then buzzed like bees stirred from a hive. Gary sat up straighter, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Here we go. Go on, Roy."
"Yeah, he scores goals. Fine. But has anyone actually watched him?" Keane jabbed a finger toward the audience. "He's playing tomorrow, isn't he? Just watch him properly. The lad's technical ability—abysmal. His general play? To cry for. It's so terrible, I even question the whole German league because of it. Honestly, he's not even Championship level."
The studio erupted. "You're taking the piss now!" soone shouted from the back row "that's so Keane.". Fans groaned, laughed, booed, and argued all at once. A chorus of "nahhh, no way!" rattled the rafters.
Rio buried his head in his hands, laughing uncontrollably. Owen sat back, wide-eyed, as though even he hadn't seen that one coming. Gary, clutching the desk, could barely get his words out between chuckles. "Oh my God—today is a fiery hot take day!"
The noise of laughter, disbelief, and half-serious argunts swirled through the studio, bouncing off the dim lights and screens replaying Haaland's highlight reels, the atmosphere electric.
...
While the Brits in Manchester were still trading hot takes and banter, thousands of miles away, outside the glowing shell of the Allianz Arena, a different scene had taken shape. The air was cold, but it burned with noise. Songs poured into the night as if Barcelona had carried a piece of Catalonia with them to Germany. The narrow streets around the stadium were painted in the colors of blaugrana scarves, flags whipping in the breeze.
The Barca fans, delirious after what they had just witnessed, had stord into song and celebration. So climbed the tal railings, others pounded drums and clapped in rhythm, their voices echoing into the Munich night:
"Barça! Barça! Barça!"
"ssi! ssi! ssi!"
The dia sward, microphones thrust into the air, caras flashing like lightning. Local German reporters fought shoulder to shoulder with Spanish outlets, with UEFA officials and Bayern's stern-faced board mbers sending waves of security personnel to hold the line. They weren't about to let Munich devolve into the chaotic scenes Paris had endured earlier in the campaign.
Still, the noise was uncontainable.
ssi erged from the tunnel, laughing with Jordi Alba, his arm slung casually over his teammate's shoulder. He looked lighter, freer than he had in months, the kind of smile that broke through even under the strobe of flashing bulbs.
"ssi! ssi! ssi!" reporters shouted, desperate to cut through the wall of sound.
One familiar voice pierced it. From just beyond the barrier, a journalist from Mundo Deportivo—a face ssi recognized—called his na. The captain's eyes locked on him. With a small, almost imperceptible gesture of his hand, ssi signaled: Go on. Ask it.
"Does this prove Barcelona are serious contenders again?" the reporter asked, voice carrying over the crowd.
ssi glanced around at the chaos, then turned to the nearest cara, the smile still lingering. "Barcelona," he began slowly, "are always serious contenders. For every competition, for every trophy we enter, we co to win. Tonight is no different. We've shown what we are capable of."
The crowd of reporters erupted again. Another voice cut in imdiately: "How much of this win was tactical planning versus individual brilliance?"
ssi laughed under his breath, tilting his head. "A little of both," he admitted. "The coaches' tactics, yes—they prepared us well. But also, during the ga, we adjusted, moved on the fly. That's football, no? For more detail…" He smirked slightly. "…you should ask the coach."
Another voice thundered from the back: "After going away to such a tough stadium and winning, what does this say about the character of this team?"
ssi paused, his expression thoughtful now. "It shows ntality," he said at last. "It shows fight. It shows that even when everything feels against us, we can respond. We proved character tonight."
It seed like his answer was finished. The journalists started leaning forward, fighting to get the next question in—but ssi didn't step away. Instead, he leaned closer to the microphones alba shifted slightly as he faced the crowd more, and his tone shifted. The smile faded, replaced by sothing heavier, sharper. His eyes hardened, the flood of flashes bouncing off his face as though the caras themselves sensed what was coming.
"For personally," he said, voice lower now, commanding the chaos into silence, "this ga ant sothing different."
The reporters froze. Fingers tightened around recorders. The air itself seed to still.
"This match, this win," ssi continued, staring straight into the nearest lens, "was personal. It was an apology—from , to the club, and more specifically, to the fans. I'm sorry it ca this late…"
He exhaled, his jaw set, his words slicing through the din like a knife.
"…but we are back."
And then, louder, almost defiant:
"Visca Barça."
The words had barely left ssi's mouth when the air itself seed to freeze. For two heartbeats—no more—there was silence. Pure, stunned silence. A stadium forecourt packed with dia, fans, officials, and players all montarily struck still by the sheer weight of the captain's confession.
And then, in the third second, the world erupted.
The Barcelona fans who had made the pilgrimage to Munich detonated into noise—chants, screams, and tears all at once. "¡Visca Barça! ¡Visca Barça!" roared through the night, echoing off the steel and glass of the Allianz. So were on their knees, others waving flags so violently the fabric cracked in the wind. A small group broke into the club hymn, voices shaking but united, while others shouted with every ounce of love they could muster:
"We love you, Leo!"
"ssi forever!"
It was chaos, but beautiful chaos. The security detail could barely contain them. Even the journalists, normally trained to maintain composure, were grinning wide, their cara shutters snapping in a frenzy. ssi himself couldn't help it; the corners of his mouth tugged into a smile, soft at first, then warr, brighter, until it looked like the weight of years had been lifted off his shoulders.
Amid the roaring, a reporter seized the opening, leaning forward with his microphone while others were still swept in euphoria. His voice sohow cut through:
"What do you believe was the key to beating Bayern at the Allianz tonight, despite never having done it before? What made today so much different?"
The question drew ssi's attention, and the captain chuckled, shaking his head slightly. A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes as he turned slowly to the semicircle of journalists. "We all know the difference today," he said, his voice playful now, almost teasing. His smile widened. "How many people have scored a hat-trick here?"
Laughter broke out among the press corps. So of the Barcelona players nearby—Alba, Busquets, even Lenglet—began chuckling, nudging one another knowingly. The fans caught the hint imdiately and roared even louder:
"KING! KING! KING! KING!"
The chant rolled like thunder, drowning even the clicking of caras. ssi's grin grew broader, enjoying it almost as much as the supporters.
One reporter, emboldened by the mont, shouted over the crowd with a laugh: "Where is he then? Where's the star of the night?"
The question sparked movent behind the scenes. A few of Barcelona's kit n, weaving through players and staff, began whispering hurriedly. "Have you seen Mateo? Where is he?" They tapped shoulders, checked every huddle, moving from Griezmann to De Jong, from Umtiti to Ter Stegen.
Gerard Piqué, ever the joker, smirked as he adjusted his jacket. "I saw him with Pedri earlier," he said casually, waving his hand as if it were obvious.
The kit n lit up. "Good, perfect," one of them muttered, relieved. Then ca the follow-up, almost in chorus: "Okay, but where's Pedri?"
That drew laughter from the surrounding players. Busquets shook his head. "Good luck finding those two together," he quipped, while Alba raised an eyebrow and cracked, "What did they say planning their Internet debut those kids."
Deep inside the belly of the Allianz Arena, away from the madness of reporters and flashing caras, near the quiet staircase that led up to the pitch, two figures lingered. They were easy to mistake for kids, both still in their kits, jerseys damp with sweat, socks half-rolled, their youthful faces betraying the fact that, no matter what they had just done, they were still boys at heart.
Blue and red. The colors of Barcelona wrapped around them like armor.
"Dude, let's go," ca the urgent whisper of one voice—Pedri's, his tone sharp but friendly. He was already half-ready to sprint. "The bus should be getting ready now!"
The other voice was calr, distracted, thumbs moving quickly across his phone screen. "I'm coming," Mateo King said, not looking up. "Just editing it a little."
Pedri rolled his eyes, impatient. "About that… are you sure you even want to post that? That picture is…" His words trailed off as he leaned in for a better look.
Mateo glanced up, then back to his phone, smiling like a man with no doubts. "Perfect. After what we did tonight, this is perfect."
Pedri let out a soft laugh, though his brows furrowed. "What about the dia team? Aren't you La Masia boys under, like, ten different restrictions? Even we can't post without clearance. You cleared it with them?"
Mateo didn't flinch. He just grinned wider. "It's all fine. I spoke with them. It's all good."
Pedri bent closer, peering at the screen again. His jaw dropped slightly, followed by a long, dramatic whistle. "Goodbye, any humble image, I guess."
Mateo chuckled, eyes gleaming. "That humble shit is overrated. Why be humble when all you get is disrespect?"
And then, with a satisfied grin stretching across his face, he pressed his thumb to the screen.
Click.
Send.
A/N
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