The Stamford Bridge pitch had emptied, but the away end was still bouncing.
The stadium grew lively once more, but it had nothing to do with the blue-clad Chelsea fans—this was a celebration for the Manchester United faithful.
They bounced and jumped in the Shed End, singing "Glory, Glory Man United" while occasionally taunting the hosts.
"You're going bankrupt soon, all your players will leave!"
"Who did you draw in the Champions League? Can you even qualify this year?"
"Face reality! You're finished!"
The Chelsea fans no longer had the energy to retort.
They simply found the opponents unbearably noisy, their hearts aching with suffocating frustration.
Thus, so fans redirected their anger inward, turning on their own.
"Terrible tactical adjustnts! We shouldn't have lost this match!"
"It's ti for a new head coach! Conte Out!"
"Incompetent! Get him out!"
On the sidelines, Antonio Conte looked utterly bewildered.
He stood alone in the technical area, the rain soaking his suit.
He had just stated before the match that he would try to avoid repeating the mistakes of Ranieri and Mourinho, yet here he was.
After the final whistle, his own fans were already chanting for his dismissal.
It was a stinging slap in his face.
With this defeat, Chelsea dropped to 8th place in the league table, trailing the leaders by a staggering 12 points.
It was worth noting that the current Premier League front-runners were Manchester City and Manchester United, both known for their consistent form and rarely suffering from the traditional post-Christmas slump. (before tenhag and mourinho collapse)
This essentially ruled Chelsea out of the title race before the Christmas decorations were even up.
Moreover, given the club's limited available funds due to the stadium plans, it seed unlikely they could sign any significant players during the winter transfer window.
Even securing a Champions League spot this season looked doubtful.
And as the Manchester United fans had taunted, Chelsea's two group stage matches against Roma—one draw and one 3-0 loss—made European qualification uncertain.
Conte felt an overwhelming wave of despair wash over him.
He ran a hand through his hair.
The top of his head felt slightly cold, as if his hair loss had begun again under the stress.
....
On the other side, José Mourinho did not shake hands with the Chelsea coaching staff after the match.
He ignored Marco Ianni completely.
Instead, he strode toward the Matthew Harding Stand—the stand that had called him "Judas" for 90 minutes.
He stopped. He stared up at them.
Arrogantly, deliberately, he raised three fingers on his right hand.
He shook them repeatedly.
One. Two. Three.
Everyone knew what it ant.
'I won three Premier League titles for Chelsea. Even though I'm now the Manchester United manager, you can't treat like this! I am your history.'
Of course, there was another layer to the gesture.
Respect. Respect. And Respect!!!
The Chelsea fans fell into an unusual, stunned silence.
The abuse died in their throats.
....
anwhile, high above in the VIP box, Roman Abramovich's face was as dark as storm clouds.
His gaze was fixed intently on his old friend down on the pitch.
The Chelsea executives nearby stood frozen, afraid to make even the slightest sound that might anger the owner.
After a long pause, Abramovich regained his composure.
He didn't look at anyone.
"Marina," he said in a low voice.
Marina Granovskaia, the club director, stepped forward.
"Yes, Roman?"
"Inquire about Manchester United's No. 7 during the winter window. If the price is right... bring him to Stamford Bridge. I quite like that young man."
Granovskaia knew Abramovich was captivated by what he saw—the flair, the arrogance, the marketability.
But she could only reply with a bitter, professional smile.
"Yes, boss. I will make the call."
In reality, she understood it was nearly impossible.
Regardless of whether the player would agree, Manchester United had given the No. 7 jersey to Ling precisely because they intended to groom him as the club's face for the next decade.
They likely wouldn't even entertain an offer from Chelsea unless it was a world-record fee.
Moreover, how much would a young player with such potential cost in today's market? £150 million? Chelsea simply couldn't afford it without breaking FFP rules.
But she wouldn't tell Roman that today.
...
Half an hour later, The room was packed at the post-match press conference.
"Mr. Mourinho," a reporter from The Mirror asked, "we noticed many fans provoking you during the match. Chanting 'Judas.' What are your thoughts on that?"
It was a sharp question—forr friends turned foes.
No one could remain unaffected under such circumstances.
Mourinho did not evade the question.
He leaned into the microphone, his eyes flashing. "I brought three Premier League titles to Chelsea," he said, his voice steady. "Call Judas if you want. But I hope Chelsea fans rember—no one has won more Premier League trophies for you than Judas!"
He held up three fingers again.
"So until soone wins four Premier League titles for Chelsea, I'm still the number one here. That's beyond dispute!"
The journalists below imdiately perked up, pens scratching furiously across notepads.
'Headline sorted.'
"How would you evaluate the performance of players from both teams?" another asked.
"Honestly, this was an evenly matched ga. Tactical. We were both looking for weaknesses in our opponent during those dull monts."
"So whoever could persist until the end would win the match."
"And the result has proven everything! My players were warriors."
In another conference room, the atmosphere was much more oppressive.
Antonio Conte sat hunched over the microphone. "I deeply regret giving away two goals to our opponents," he said, his voice tired. "In my view, this was completely avoidable. Individual errors."
"Moreover," he continued, throwing his players under the bus, "our players seed to lack fighting spirit. Their performance on the pitch wasn't good—they didn't compete for many 50-50 balls and seed to be shying away from physical challenges."
"However, in my opinion, the main reason we lost this match was due to insufficient squad depth."
"I can't use the sa starting lineup for every match, otherwise the risk of player injuries becos too high. David Luiz is a perfect example of this."
"This is a dangerous signal, but I'll make adjustnts as much as possible to get Chelsea back on track!"
Conte's emotional intelligence was truly low in monts of stress.
With just a few sentences, he had offended his board (complaining about depth) and his players (questioning their spirit).
When Mourinho left previously, Eden Hazard and Diego Costa had played significant roles in pushing him out.
Conte was walking the sa path.
But Conte had taken preventive asures—or so he thought.
After the press conference, still fuming, he pulled out his phone.
He sent a simple text ssage to Diego Costa, who was currently in exile in Brazil, refusing to train.
[Hello Diego, I hope you're well. Thank you for the season we spent together. I wish you good luck for the next year, but you are not in my plans.]
Diego Costa, who had just finished a personal training session on a beach, read the ssage.
He was completely bewildered.
Although he had conflicts with Conte before, he never expected to be dismissed via text ssage.
A text! Where could he go next?
Probably only return to Atletico Madrid, but they had a transfer ban.
This incident would significantly impact his career.
In his anger, Costa took a screenshot of Conte's text ssage.
He forwarded it to all Chelsea staff and players in the WhatsApp group.
A storm was gradually brewing. The locker room was lost.
....
anwhile, the Manchester United players were already on their way back north.
The atmosphere was light, with laughter and cheerful music filling the club bus.
"Boss," Rui Faria suddenly leaned forward from the back row, tentatively asking. "If Abramovich approaches you again in the future... would you consider going back? For the third ti?"
Mourinho remained silent for a long mont.
He looked out the window at the London rain.
He gently shook his head. "No. That book is closed."
"Boss, what if Real Madrid cos for you? Would you go back there?"
"Oh, and what about Inter?"
Listening to his old friend's endless questions, Mourinho felt an unprecedented sense of relaxation.
A scene suddenly flashed through his mind—Ling and himself, standing side by side on the touchline, facing the taunts of tens of thousands of fans without retreating a single step.
The "Shhh" gesture.
His gradually aging and weakening heart seed to beat strongly once again.
He had found his new project. His new ho.
anwhile, Ling was chatting casually with Zlatan Ibrahimovic.
"Zlatan," Ling asked, scrolling through his phone to find a photo of the celebration.
"Was my celebration today powerful enough? The finger to the lips?"
Ibrahimović scrutinized the photo on the small screen.
"To be honest," the Swede critiqued him. "it's still far from perfect. You look... polite."
"You should raise your other arm," Zlatan demonstrated, lifting his chin arrogantly. "While squinting your eyes. Give off a sense of contempt. Like you are looking at ants. These people are nothing to . That is the energy."
Ling nodded with partial understanding, practicing the face in the reflection of the window.
"Okay. Contempt. Got it."
He thought to himself that he would improve the gesture next ti he had the chance.
(Bros learning how to be arrogant from both mourinho and zlatan lol)
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