In the away locker room, the door swung open with a dull thud, the air inside heavy, almost waiting for them.
No one needed to look up to know Arteta was already there as his shadow stretched across the tiled floor, arms folded, jaw tight.
The low hum of Anfield outside seemed to bleed faintly through the walls, mocking in its persistence.
One by one, the players filtered in.
No banter, no muttered jokes.
Just the scrape of studs against the floor, the hiss of water bottles being pulled open.
A glance here, a glance there, but all of them brief and unwilling to linger.
Arteta didn't move at first.
He just watched them settle onto the benches, his silence cutting deeper than any shout.
And when he finally spoke, his voice was sharp enough to pierce the quiet.
"Tell me," he said, eyes sweeping across the room, "was that what champions look like?"
No answer came.
Just the sound of someone exhaling too hard and a towel being dragged across a face.
