The stadium seemed to hum with its own pulse, a living, breathing thing under the late afternoon sky.
Flares of white and navy rippled across the stands, the sound rolling in thick, unruly waves — chants, jeers, songs old and new.
There was no mistaking the setting: the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, grand and glinting like a battleship, prepared to play host to another chapter in a war older than most of the players on the pitch.
Inside the tunnel, the players stood shoulder to shoulder, the final rituals of concentration wrapping themselves around each man — last-minute stretches, silent prayers, heads bowed, jaws clenched.
Arsenal in their deep black away strip, like a blade drawn against the white of Tottenham.
The rivalry didn't need words.
It was stitched into the fabric of the shirts.
It was the way they looked straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the opposition a few feet away.
And then, the signal.
The referee stepping forward, the captains nodding.
