Trent Alexander-Arnold crouched by the corner flag, his palm pressing the ball flat against the turf.
The white paint of the quadrant glistened under the floodlights, a stark boundary between calm ritual and the chaos waiting to erupt inside the box.
He took his time, straightening the ball, twisting it a fraction, then standing back.
The noise in the stadium swelled into a living roar that curled around the stadium like a storm cloud, charging every breath with electricity.
Trent exhaled, wiped his brow, and then took three slow steps backwards as his eyes darted into the penalty area, scanning the mess of red and black shirts.
Arms were already tugging, jerseys already stretched.
Konaté and Saliba locked together like wrestlers, grappling for space in a battle that had barely begun, while Gabriel shoved Van Dijk in the chest, but Van Dijk barely moved, a tower rooted in red.
Raya shouted, arms flailing, but his voice was swallowed whole by the Kop's thunder.
