The city of London had fallen into a heavy silence, especially in North London.
Along the streets near the Emirates, Arsenal fans stood in cold stillness, eyes fixed on the Manchester United team bus as it rolled past.
They all knew exactly who was sitting on that bus. A man they once cheered for. A man they had adored. A man who had worn the captain's armband with pride.
And yet, he betrayed them.
To many Arsenal fans, the Dutch were starting to feel no different from the Spaniards—talented, beloved, but always the first to leave when things got hard.
You could see the fury in their eyes. If they had their way, they might've stopped that bus themselves. Not to riot—but to ask one question, face to face:
Why?
Why did you walk away from everything we gave you?
Weren't you the one who said you'd never play against us?
Didn't you say you'd go anywhere but here?
Why couldn't you keep your promise?
Why?
WHHHYY?
The more they had loved him, the more they hated him now.
...
In the BBC's live broadcast studio, the pre-match warm-up show was in full swing.
Back in homes and pubs across North London, Arsenal fans sat quietly, eyes fixed on the screen.
And there he was.
Robin van Persie, once the pride of the Emirates, now wearing Manchester United red, sitting in front of the camera, speaking with an air of practiced sorrow.
"It's been painful. Honestly, there are moments I don't even know how to handle it. But I have to face it.
I'm wearing a different jersey now, and when I walk back into the Emirates, I'll be seen as the enemy. That's something I never imagined… but it's reality now.
I had to leave Arsenal. I wanted to play in the Champions League, to fight for bigger honors. That was my choice.
But I still love Arsenal—deeply. No one loves her more than I do."
He paused, as if for dramatic effect.
"Celebrate if I score? No. Never. That's the team I love. Even if I score, I'll apologize."
A beat passed.
Then the jeers began—not in the stadium, but in homes, bars, and online threads.
"Look at him. Almost crying for the cameras."
"Left for glory, huh? What a load of horseshit."
"He's a traitor. I hope someone shuts him up out there."
"Can't believe we once gave him the captain's armband. What a joke."
Another fan spat in disgust. "Him and Cesc—they're cut from the same cloth."
..
[Arsenal Training Centre, North London]
Meanwhile, the final preparations were wrapping up for Arsenal.
Wenger stepped back from the tactical board, his voice cutting through the tension.
"All right, lads. Pack your gear and gather by the bus."
The players moved without a word, each of them silently processing the weight of the day ahead.
Kai was among them. No surprise—he'd made the matchday squad again.
This season, he'd become a regular on the team sheet. He'd earned his place, made the most of his minutes, and turned heads with more than one solid performance.
But as he tossed his kit into his bag, even Kai could feel the tight knot of anticipation in his chest.
This wasn't just any match.
This was the match.
Kai packed his things, slung his bag over his shoulder, and noticed several teammates gathered in front of their lockers, heads bowed in silent prayer.
He didn't disturb them.
Without a word, Kai quietly walked out of the locker room.
The team bus was already parked across the street. Kai boarded and made his way to his usual seat at the back, where he could observe everyone.
One by one, the Arsenal players climbed aboard, each carrying a heavy expression. The tension was palpable—this match weighed heavily on everyone.
Kai sat silently in the back, his gaze scanning his teammates' faces, memorizing each frown, every flicker of anxiety.
Eventually, Arsène Wenger stepped onto the bus. He tapped the driver's seat lightly, signaling the start of the journey, but didn't take his seat right away.
Instead, he stood between the rows, hands resting on the backs of the chairs.
"We're announcing the starting lineup now," he said.
That caught everyone off guard.
The lineup was usually announced after warm-ups at the stadium—never on the bus.
Before anyone could say anything, Wenger began reading aloud:
"Szczęsny, Jenkinson, Vermaelen, Mertesacker, Sagna, Arteta, Cazorla, Suárez, Podolski, Walcott…"
He paused slightly and then finished, "Kai."
The bus remained quiet.
No one was surprised—Kai's inclusion had become a given. He was Arsenal's defensive anchor now. Against a team like Manchester United, no one wanted any slip-ups at the back.
Wenger took his seat, and the bus began rolling through the city streets.
...
Outside, the road to the Emirates Stadium was packed. Seas of red and white stretched endlessly into the distance.
In the middle of the crowd, Zheng Xin stood beside Kevin.
"Hurry up! Come on!" Kevin tugged on Zheng Xin's arm, trying to drag him forward.
"There's still time," Zheng Xin replied, exasperated but amused. "What's the rush?"
"It's never early enough!" Kevin insisted.
Zheng Xin sighed but let himself be pulled along. The two had become close friends—unlikely ones, maybe—but good friends nonetheless.
Their bond had formed through their shared admiration for Kai. As fans of the same player, their friendship grew naturally. Zheng Xin had never expected to become so close to an eleven-year-old, let alone spend weekends discussing matches and chanting in the stands with him.
But he didn't mind. Not at all.
Because in that stadium, they were just two Arsenal fans. Age didn't matter.
Before, they used to attend matches with Billy too. But since the Black Jersey Fans group had returned a couple of matches ago, it was usually just Kevin and Zheng Xin now. Billy had joined the main group, helping with crowd coordination and chants.
He still picked Kevin up after matches, though. And Zheng Xin, thanks to their shared bond over Kai, had earned Billy's trust.
The pair kept walking and soon emerged onto a wider street.
Just then, a cheer erupted ahead of them.
"The Black Jerseys are here!"
"Boss Meadows!"
"East Stand's leader!"
The crowd began to part, and from the distance, a group of roughly two thousand fans advanced.
They came in all shapes and sizes, wearing mismatched clothes, but they moved with purpose. At the front was a large, broad-shouldered man carrying a massive flag, five meters long when unfurled.
Suddenly, the man raised his arms and roared, "Forward! Arsenal!"
The street exploded with noise.
Thousands of arms shot into the air, waving, pumping, cheering in unison.
"Let's go!—Arsenal!!—"
Kevin looked up at Meadows with awe in his eyes.
Beside him, Zheng Xin felt a chill run down his spine.
The roar of the crowd shook the pavement. It felt like the earth itself was trembling.
The black jerseys at the front marched on with unwavering eyes, pushing toward the Emirates Stadium.
...
Los Angeles, USA.
Matt Damon's Villa.
"Don't call me again, I'm not going anywhere. Today's match is important! I told you, I'm staying in. Don't bother me."
Matt Damon hung up the phone, immediately switched it off, then ran over to unplug the landline just to be safe. He turned on the TV, ready for the broadcast.
Knock knock knock!
There was a knock at the door.
Matt threw on a cap and sunglasses, opened it.
"Your pizza, fried chicken, and beer."
"Thanks." He paid, grabbed the bags and shut the door.
Back inside, he laid everything out neatly—snacks, drinks, the works. He popped open a beer, took a long sip, and disappeared into the bedroom.
When he returned, he was wearing an Arsenal No. 4 shirt.
On the back: KAI.
It was a custom job. Arsenal hadn't released official kits with Kai's name yet, so Matt had bought a blank jersey and taken it to a shop to get it printed just the way he wanted.
He settled in front of the TV just as the broadcast began, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
"Perfect timing."
...
Hong Kong, China.
In a quiet mansion.
Chen Yixun, his hair tousled and sat watching the live game.
Arsenal vs. Manchester United.
As a die-hard United fan, this was unmissable. He followed them religiously—live matches, replays, even the occasional trip to Old Trafford.
Now, with his latest album 3mm finally wrapped up and promotion still a few days off, he had time to relax—and this match was his chosen escape.
He tuned in to Sina Sports.
He preferred Zhan Jun and Zhang Lu's lively commentary over the slower-paced local Hong Kong broadcast.
The two commentators were already breaking down the pre-match analysis.
Zhan Jun: "Welcome to the Premier League live broadcast on Sina Sports. Up next, it's Round 10 of the 2012/2013 season—Arsenal vs. Manchester United. I'm Zhan Jun."
Zhang Lu: "And I'm Zhang Lu!"
Zhan Jun: "We've got a spicy one today! United completed the double over Arsenal last season, including that 8–2 thrashing. And this summer, Arsenal's former captain Van Persie made the move to United. Wenger's under pressure to restore some pride at home."
Zhang Lu: "These two clubs are classic rivals. Wenger and Ferguson have been at it for decades—Fergie had the Class of '92, Wenger answered with the Henry-led golden generation. Time flies, the squads have changed, but the managers keep carrying the torch."
Zhan Jun: "So, who do you think has the edge today?"
Zhang Lu: "On paper, United. But Arsenal are no pushovers. They looked sharp against QPR in the last round. If they can keep up that momentum, anything's possible."
Zhan Jun: "What's the key factor?"
Zhang Lu: "Defense. Kai's role is absolutely crucial today. Whether he can anchor the back line against United's attacking waves will decide the match."
Chen Yixun nodded as he listened. It was going to be a good one.
Just then, a little girl padded over in her pajamas.
"Daddy, I can't sleep…"
It was his daughter, Constance Chan.
...
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