Six goals down, Manchester United had completely fallen apart.
The players on the pitch had vacant eyes, running back and forth mechanically like puppets stripped of their souls.
Mourinho was still standing on the touchline, but his voice had given out.
All he could do was stare blankly at everything unfolding on the pitch.
In the stands, the Manchester United fans who had yet to leave looked utterly deflated.
They had once believed that Manchester United ruled the Northwest Derby.
They had expected their team to topple the seemingly invincible Liverpool from their throne at Old Trafford.
Instead, they had watched Liverpool batter their team into the ground.
Manchester United's formation had completely disintegrated.
The forwards no longer looked like forwards, the defenders no longer looked like defenders, and the entire team was a disjointed mess.
Sanchez had no energy left to run, and even Cristiano Ronaldo's dribbling had lost its sharpness.
Even the sky above Old Trafford had turned gray.
But Liverpool seemed unwilling to let Manchester United off the hook. They kept attacking, determined to finish their opponents while they were down.
In the 82nd minute, Liverpool won a corner.
Before the corner was taken, all of Liverpool's aerial threats pushed into the penalty area.
The ball sailed into the box, and Van Dijk leaped high!
But a Manchester United defender got there first and headed it away in front of the goal line.
The clearance, however, was a poor one.
The ball did not travel far, drifting slowly toward the edge of the penalty arc.
Before Manchester United's defenders could breathe a sigh of relief,
Rodri moved as though he had already calculated exactly where the ball would land.
He set himself, his eyes fixed on the approaching ball.
As it came toward him, he met it