The surveillance room—once a storage closet next to Carrington's hydrotherapy pool—now resembled a low-budget spy film set. Cables snaked across the floor, monitors flickered with hallway footage, and the club's new head of internal security, a no-nonsense ex-army analyst named Amanda Kaye, was drawing patterns on a whiteboard like she was mapping a Cold War defection.
Ethan Cross stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed, eyes fixed on a grainy clip of Anthony Gilmore entering the analytics office… at 3:12 AM… on a Sunday.
"Tell me again why a Senior Ops guy needs access to the academy's biometric logs at three in the bloody morning?" Ethan asked.
Amanda circled Gilmore's grainy face on the monitor like she was on Crimewatch.
"No legitimate reason. But it gets better. Look what he accessed."
She clicked a few times. A list of files popped up: "Youth Scouting Projections 2025–2029," "Internal Transfer Strategy Notes," and—most damning of all—"Managerial Candidate Reports."
Ethan groaned. "He's not just leaking—he was shopping us around. Setting up our failure like a bad Netflix docuseries."
Ibrahim, leaning against the far wall sipping lukewarm coffee, deadpanned, "Working title: How to Sink a Superclub."
Ethan cracked a grin, but it was short-lived. His fingers tapped against the desk with growing agitation. "So Gilmore's the leak. But is he working alone?"
Amanda shrugged. "He's connected. Old guard. Never liked the Glazers, but loved their money. He didn't think you'd last three months. I think he was hedging his bets."
"Classic," Ethan muttered. "These people were loyal to failure—as long as it came with a Christmas bonus."
10:02 AM – Carrington Reception
Anthony Gilmore walked through the glass doors with the self-assurance of a man who once wrote a PowerPoint called 'Rebranding The Red Devil'. His designer briefcase matched his tie. His smirk could've sold snake oil.
He nodded to the receptionist, who suddenly found her keyboard fascinating.
He tried to swipe in.
Red light.
Again.
Red light.
He frowned. "We're really still on this badge system? Ridiculous. Incompetent amateurs, the lot of—"
"Mr. Gilmore," said a voice behind him.
Two security guards stepped forward.
"You've been formally dismissed. You'll be escorted off club property. Personal items will be sent to your address."
Gilmore blinked like someone had unplugged his ego.
"On what grounds?"
"Breach of contract. Unauthorized file access. And…" One guard pulled out a list, "…'attempted undermining of football operations through strategic leaks to hostile media partners.' That last part's pretty new. Might name it after you."
Gilmore sputtered something about lawyers and legacy before being guided out—his briefcase swinging pitifully at his side like a defeated prop.
Executive Suite – Old Trafford (Later That Day)
Ethan replayed the footage of Gilmore's walk of shame three times, each loop more satisfying than the last. He almost considered turning it into a GIF for the club Slack channel.
Across from him, Ibrahim scrolled through call logs on a tablet.
"Gilmore was the leak, yes. But he wasn't the brain. Just a middleman."
He slid the tablet over.
"Shell company in Miami. Funded by a sports media group with Glazer ties. And look—cross-referenced with anonymous payments to one of our commercial scouts. We've got tentacles."
Ethan rubbed his face.
"This isn't just a clean-up job. It's a purge."
"Welcome to ownership," Ibrahim said, taking another sip. "Not as glamorous as the highlight reels."
Ethan stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. The pitch below was empty. Rain tapped softly against the glass.
He'd removed one saboteur. But it wasn't enough.
Not yet.
That Night – Ethan's Apartment
The city twinkled below. From his high-rise view, Manchester looked peaceful. But Ethan knew that peace was a lie.
His phone buzzed.
Private Number. One message.
"Impressive. But pawns are easy to sacrifice. The king still moves freely."
He stared at it, heartbeat steady. Somewhere, someone still thought he was playing checkers.
He poured a glass of whisky, sat down at the edge of the couch, and muttered to himself:
"Next move's mine."
Then frowned.
"No milk, again."
He took a sip of whisky, grimaced, and texted Ibrahim:
"Also remind me to fire whoever stocked my fridge."