After the match, the home team's dressing room at Old Trafford was deathly silent.
Once all the players returned, they sat in their places without daring to breathe too loudly. Every so often, they raised their heads and glanced toward the dressing room entrance.
After suffering a humiliating defeat at home last season, Ferguson had already flown into a rage. Now they had suffered a five-nil defeat at home again. No one dared imagine how Old Fergie would treat them in a moment.
Would he turn on the hair dryer and spray them with a furious torrent of abuse?
That would already count as getting off lightly.
No one dared speak. Even Phil Jones, who normally looked as though he feared neither Heaven nor Earth, seemed to sense the atmosphere in the dressing room. Everyone sat bolt upright, not even daring to look around.
At last, the dressing room door was pushed open from outside.
The players inside immediately raised their heads and looked toward the entrance. They saw Ferguson walk in with an ashen face.
The old Scotsman looked as though he was only missing a Dragonslayer sword in his hand. His face was covered in two words: fury.
Although everyone had been mentally prepared when they saw Ferguson storm in, their hearts still skipped a beat for no reason.
Many of them even felt their hearts begin to race.
Damn, is he here to kill someone?
After pushing the door open, Ferguson walked straight toward the players. As he came closer and closer, everyone could clearly see his face, flushed red with anger. Mike Phelan, following behind him, was so worried that he wanted to remind him to watch his blood pressure, but even the assistant manager was too frightened to make a sound.
Ferguson had been holding