**9:13 PM – Jim's Flat, Salford Quays**
The rain lashed against the grimy windows of Jim's third-floor walkup, each droplet refracting the neon glow from the nearby betting shops into fractured red and blue patterns across stacks of old matchday programs. Ethan's fingers left damp prints on the yellowed pages of Jim's notebooks as he carefully turned each leaf, the paper brittle with age. The flat smelled of stale tobacco, cheap instant coffee, and the faint chemical tang of photo developing fluid - Jim had insisted on keeping hard copies of everything, never trusting digital files.
Jim sat hunched in his battered armchair, the same one he'd probably owned since the Ferguson era judging by the sunken cushions and duct-taped arms. His calloused hands trembled around a chipped United mug filled with cold tea, the commemorative 1999 treble crest nearly worn away from years of washing. The club-issued jumper he still wore looked faded and threadbare at the elbows.
"I didn't have a choice," Jim muttered, staring at a cigarette burn on the carpet that had probably been there since the Moyes era. "They had me by the short hairs after my lad got in trouble with some bad people. Gambling debts. The kind where they break your knees for missing payments."
Ethan froze on a page from March 2018. Detailed notes on private player conversations, training ground arguments, even medical records - all neatly timestamped in Jim's precise handwriting. One entry made his stomach lurch: "March 14 - Rashford confided in Lingard about back pain. Doctor recommends reduced training. Told JG per protocol."
Danny let out a low whistle through his teeth. "Christ, Jim. You've been spying on the lads longer than half of them have been at the club. This goes back to when Rashy was still a kid."
The old kit man's face crumpled like a discarded team sheet. "Not just me. There's others. All over the place. The laundry staff, two of the groundskeepers, even that new nutritionist from Portugal." His voice dropped to a whisper. "They've got people in the academy too. Reporting which kids might cause trouble."
Then Ethan saw it - a single entry that made his blood turn to ice in his veins:
**"June 12, 2020. Monaco meeting. JG + RA. Haaland deal killed. Payment processed. See envelope #47 (red stripe)."**
His fingers barely shook as he reached for the corresponding manila envelope marked with red electrical tape. Inside: grainy surveillance photos of Joel Glazer shaking hands with the late Mino Raiola outside the Hôtel de Paris, their faces illuminated by the casino's neon glow. Beneath them, a bank transfer slip for €5 million to a shell company called "Nordic Star Holdings," dated the same day United publicly withdrew from the Haaland negotiations citing "sporting reasons."
---
### **FLASHBACK: JUNE 12, 2020, HÔTEL DE PARIS, MONTE CARLO**
The casino's Bohemian crystal chandeliers cast fractured diamond patterns across the private dining room where Raiola held court, his massive frame making the antique Louis XVI chair seem doll-sized. The scent of seared scallops and Cuban cigars mingled with the salt air drifting through open French doors overlooking the Mediterranean.
Raiola's sausage fingers drummed the damask tablecloth. "Erling's not just the future - he's the next damn century of football." He grinned, gold tooth glinting under the candlelight as he speared a piece of foie gras. "But futures can be... redirected." He leaned forward, his Dior Sauvage cologne overwhelming the delicate truffle aroma. "For the right price."
Across the table, Joel Glazer didn't blink as he slid a cream-colored envelope across the linen. The hotel's discreet surveillance cameras - the same ones that had captured these images - wouldn't show the contents, but the context was clear. "Make sure United don't get him. We'll handle the narrative through our media contacts."
Outside, the Mediterranean waves crashed against the harbor walls as the deal was sealed - five million euros to keep Haaland away from Old Trafford, while fans screamed for a new striker and Woodward blamed "the player's wage demands."
---
### **10:45 AM – OLD TRAFFORD PRESS ROOM**
The air crackled with the static of dozens of live broadcast feeds as camera lenses focused on Ethan's exhausted face. He placed the Monaco documents on the battered oak podium with deliberate care, the flashbulbs popping like firecrackers in the dim light. The room smelled of stale coffee, hairspray, and the faint metallic tang of broadcast equipment.
"For eighteen years," Ethan began, voice rough from three sleepless nights, "we've been told the Glazers were merely incompetent stewards. But these documents prove something far worse - they were actively sabotaging this club for profit."
The room erupted as he methodically revealed:
- The Raiola payoff (projected on screens in 4K resolution)
- The network of moles (with organizational charts)
- The systematic financial engineering (highlighted bank statements)
A BBC reporter stood so fast her chair toppled over with a clatter. "Do you realize the magnitude of what you're accusing them of? This goes beyond football into outright fraud!"
Before Ethan could answer, a commotion at the back - Bruno Fernandes, still in mud-splattered training gear from the morning session, pushing through the crowd with surprising force. He grabbed a Sky Sports microphone, his Portuguese accent thick with emotion:
"That letter was fake. The players stand with Ethan." He turned to face the cameras directly, his eyes burning. "And if the Glazers don't sell by Friday, we don't play against Liverpool. No training. Nothing."
The room went nuclear. Jim White actually dropped his microphone.
---
### **1:17 PM – ETHAN'S TEMPORARY OFFICE**
The antique rotary phone - a relic from the Busby era - rang three times before Ethan picked up, the heavy receiver cool in his palm.
"You've made a fatal mistake," Joel Glazer hissed, his voice tinny through the ancient wiring. In the background, Ethan could hear the distinctive hum of a private jet engine.
Across the hall through the glass walls, Ethan watched Premier League investigators setting up their makeshift headquarters, unpacking forensic equipment next to the framed 1968 European Cup photos. Two SEC officials in sharp suits consulted with a nervous-looking Richard Arnold.
"Yeah?" Ethan said, tracing the water stain on his desk from some long-ago spilled drink. "The SEC seems pretty interested in my 'mistake.' They're especially curious about those Singapore loans."
A pause filled only with the faint crackle of the transatlantic connection. Then, barely controlled rage: "Name your price to walk away. Right now."
Ethan smiled for the first time in days, watching through the window as Bruno and Rashford brought tea to the investigators. "You couldn't afford it." The heavy click of the hang-up was sweeter than any derby win.
---