Starting from the first minute, the tone of this game was set by more than just tactics—it was defined by intent.
Arsenal stepped onto Molineux's half-lit pitch under a grey January sky and took position with the calm assurance of a team that knew exactly what it wanted.
The opening minutes passed in a low hum: Arsenal probing with patient passing, Wolves organized in a compact defensive shell.
Ødegaard retreated to collect the ball; Rice carpeted the midfield with measured control.
Wolves offered no reckless pressing, instead showing their teeth only when Arsenal began to probe deep—yet even then, no mistakes came.
The crowd's murmur was soft, tentative; the match smelled of potential, but nothing concrete had yet struck a flame.
Arsenal's players moved across the pitch like a machine returning to its highest calibration.
Arteta stood arms folded by the touchline, face sharp beneath the beanie, while his men settled into formation.
Wolves tried to keep things narrow.
