The moment the final whistle announced Leicester City's relegation from the Premier League, the air grew heavy and hushed, as if trying desperately to stifle the deafening wail of a city's collective grief. At first, the fans could hardly believe it. Locked in a state of disbelieving despair, they held out hope that somehow, somewhere, a mistake had been made. Perhaps a last-minute miracle in Everton's match against Southampton would yet rescue them, as if from the very gates of hell. But alas, 1-1 at Goodison Park was too meager to offer any solace for the aching hearts of die-hard fans. They were already fans on the edge, mired in the vague fog bordering between cheering with despair and groaning with sorrow. As news of Everton's result spread like a sickeningly sweet fever, the entire city of Leicester shattered into a marvelous spectacle of uniform weeping and heart-wrenching wails. It was as if a mass exorcism had transpired, releasing the most horrific demons of misery all at once. It started with a single parent, overcome with anxiety and fear, crouched in the corner of their child's bedroom. Then the grieving ritual spread like wildfire, with hardened football fans sobbing openly in the streets. Men in pubs clasped hands – drenched in beer and tears – and wailed with gnashing of teeth, as terror and grief fed on each other like gluttonous beasts in the hearts of fans. Mascots wandered aimlessly, still donning their fox suits, their well-manicured paws dabbing at the rivers of tears streaming down their faces. Strangers found solace in each other's arms, embracing with a passion born of sorrow, feeling as if the world had ended in one swift motion. At that moment, as the desperate fans reached out for any semblance of consolation, the very ground trembled beneath them. All in a flash, the entire city of Leicester evaporated into thin air, leaving behind no trace of the pain and suffering wrought by the cruel, cold hand of Premier League relegation. Yet amid the desolate ruins of what once was the beating heart of football spirit, a solitary, prophetic fox stands atop the now-crumbling stone walls of the King Power Stadium. Beneath the light of the silvery moon, the crafty creature utters a mournful howl, echoing the ghosts of triumph and tragedy that still haunt the empty stands.