The three-goal cushion did nothing to temper the brutal Russian frost settling over the VEB Arena. Sub-zero mist hovered inches above the green synthetic fibers, making every breath feel like inhaling broken glass. Though CSKA Moscow’s aging backline looked utterly shell-shocked, their manager, Viktor Goncharenko, stood frantically on the touchline, barking orders to shift into a desperate, aggressive press to salvage their self-respect.
As the teams lined up for the restart, Sergei Ignashevich caught Harry’s eye. The thirty-eight-year-old veteran’s face was set in stone, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with silent, wounded pride.
They’re going to try to hit us hard now, Harry analyzed, adjusting his black neck warmer. They can't win the match, so they’ll try to physically impose themselves to stop the humiliation.
From the kick-off, CSKA abandoned all caution. Pontus Wernbloom, the Swedish midfielder known for his ruthless physical style, began flying into tackles, trying to disrupt United’s effortless rhythm.
In the 33rd minute, Harry dropped ten yards into the half-space to offer Nemanja Matić an easy passing outlet.
As Harry controlled Matić’s crisp ground pass on his chest, Wernbloom came charging in from behind like an runaway freight train, crashing his forearm directly into the back of Harry’s neck while raking his long metal studs down Harry’s left Achilles.
Harry went down hard onto the unforgiving artificial turf, the impact jarring his teeth.
The home crowd roared in approval, celebrating the heavy tackle as if it were a goal. Wernbloom stood over Harry, shouting in rapid Swedish, gesturing for him to get up.
Ander Herrera rushed over instantly, shoving Wernbloom in the chest to defend his teammate, sparking a chaotic pushing match near the center circle that drew players from both sides.
The referee blew his whistle furiously, stepping in to brandish a yellow card at Wernbloom while separating the hostile cluster of red and blue shirts.
Mourinho stood on the touchline, his eyes blazing with fury, shouting at the fourth official about the danger of Wernbloom's reckless tackle on the hard surface.
Harry remained on his knees for a moment, taking a deep, icy breath to compose himself. He reached down to check his left ankle; the thick skin of his sock was torn, and a sharp sting radiated from his Achilles where Wernbloom’s studs had clipped him.
Don't give him the satisfaction, Harry thought, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself off the cold ground. He shook off Herrera's concerned hand and took two light hops on his left foot to test the joint. It throbbed, but nothing was broken.
He walked past Wernbloom, who was still muttering threats under his breath. Harry didn't say a word. He simply gave the Swede a cold, unblinking smile that made Wernbloom’s chest contract for a fraction of a second.
In the 41st minute, Harry delivered his ultimate revenge through sheer, unadulterated footballing brilliance.
CSKA tried to construct an attack down their right flank, but Eric Bailly intercepted a loose pass from Mario Fernandes, instantly poking the ball forward to Henrikh Mkhitaryan.
Mkhitaryan turned in a flash, seeing the massive space CSKA had left behind in their frantic urge to press high.
Harry didn't run straight forward into Wernbloom’s tracking path. Instead, he executed a brilliant, sweeping arc—moving laterally from left to right, ghosting into the gap behind Aleksandr Golovin.
Mkhitaryan zipped a weighted, thirty-yard pass across the slick pitch.
Wernbloom scrambled back, attempting a sliding, desperate recovery tackle to wipe Harry out.
Harry saw the slide coming in his peripheral vision. With a touch of supreme, delicate technical mastery, Harry didn't touch the ball with his feet; he simply stepped over the rolling pass, letting it run through his legs while doing a subtle 180-degree spin on his right heel.
Wernbloom slid harmlessly past on his backside, taking a chunk of synthetic grass with him as Harry left him completely stranded in the dust.
The small away end of traveling Manchester United fans let out a collective, awe-struck "OLLÉ!"
Harry collected the ball on the other side of the spin, bursting toward the edge of the eighteen-yard box.
Vasili Berezutski stepped out, his legs shaking with fatigue, totally isolated against Harry’s sheer speed.
Harry didn't shoot. He saw Mkhitaryan making an overlapping run into the right side of the penalty area.
With a razor-thin shift of his hips, Harry rolled a disguised, reverse-flick pass straight through Vasili’s legs, setting Mkhitaryan completely clean through on goal.
Mkhitaryan didn't waste the gift. He took one touch to steady himself and smashed a low, angled drive past Igor Akinfeev into the bottom left corner.
CSKA Moscow 0 - 4 Manchester United (42')
Four goals before the halftime whistle. An absolute, total destruction on Russian soil.
Mkhitaryan sprinted straight toward Harry, jumping into his arms in celebration, followed by Lukaku, who grabbed Harry’s head in pure joy, screaming over the stunned silence of the VEB Arena.
On the touchline, Jose Mourinho folded his arms, a cool, arrogant smirk spreading across his face. He turned back toward his bench, taking a sip from a water bottle, knowing the three Champions League points were sealed, signed, and delivered in under forty-five minutes.
When the halftime whistle blew, the CSKA Moscow players trudged off toward the tunnel with their heads bowed low, their spirits completely shattered.
Inside the quiet, warm away dressing room, the mood was one of professional, supreme confidence.
The physio immediately wrapped an ice pack around Harry’s left Achilles to treat the scrape from Wernbloom's tackle.
Mourinho walked into the room, stepping up to the tactical board. He looked at the 4-0 scoreline written in black marker, then looked around at his exhausted, freezing squad.
"Forty-five minutes of total discipline now," Jose said, his voice quiet, calm, and commanding. "The match is won. We do not give them a single goal to feed their confidence. Marcus, Anthony—I am taking you off at sixty minutes to save your legs for Crystal Palace on Saturday."
Harry nodded, taking a large gulp of warm tea to thaw his throat. He looked at his teammates—at Lukaku, Mkhitaryan, Matić, and Bailly—seeing the same cold, unyielding hunger reflected in their eyes.
They were not just winning games; they were dismantling teams, executing game plans with the precision of a Swiss watch.
The cold Russian night was still howling outside, but inside the dressing room, the red machine of Manchester United was running red-hot, unstoppable, and hungry for more.
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