The rain hadn't stopped all morning. It fell in soft, ceaseless sheets, wrapping Old Trafford in a damp, grey silence. From the chairman's box—his chairman's box now—Ethan watched the groundsmen go about their ritual. Even the rain couldn't stop them. The pitch had to breathe.
His breath fogged the window. He didn't move to wipe it. This was the first time he'd seen the stadium like this—empty, still, his.
No more leases. No more shadow owners. No more pretending.
Ethan Croos owned Manchester United Football Club.
He sat alone, fingers wrapped around a cooling cup of coffee, and let the weight settle in. He had no illusions about what came next. Taking control had been hard. Keeping it would be war.
His thoughts drifted to last night—the final meeting.
The boardroom had been silent, sterile. Legal documents in thick leather folders lay stacked in the center of the table like holy texts. Ethan had read every clause. Twice.
Joel Glazer had worn his usual smile—a hybrid of disdain and detachment. The kind of smile born from years of impunity.
"You think owning this club makes you a hero?" he'd said, signing his name with a flourish that felt more like a curse. "You're not a savior. You're an inheritor. This place eats men like you."
Ethan hadn't blinked.
He signed the final page.
The Glazers were gone.
Now, the echoes of that moment were washed away by the sound of rain against glass.
His phone buzzed. A message from Zoe, his new Chief of Staff:
"Carrington cleared. Firing papers ready. Media prepped. Your move."
He downed the last of the bitter coffee and stood.
No more waiting. It begins today.
Carrington felt different already. Eyes followed him through the corridors—not with curiosity, but caution. The man who had inherited the club was no longer a novelty. He was the law.
Ethan walked straight to the administrative offices. No security. No pageantry. Just authority.
Three senior executives were called in one by one.
Roger Menzies. Martin Dowe. Elaine Rusk.
He didn't shout. Didn't posture.
"This isn't personal," Ethan told each of them. "It's structural. You've protected a system that failed this club. That ends today."
Menzies tried to protest. "I've been here for—"
"You protected the Glazers," Ethan said, voice quiet. "And I have evidence you sabotaged internal reports to make your department look better. Get your things. Leave the badge."
No one applauded. But word spread like wildfire.
The rot was being cut out.
By midday, the dressing room buzzed with whispers.
Some players smiled quietly. Others scowled. The ones with bloated wages and no minutes—names clinging to legacy contracts—felt the ground shift under their boots.
Ethan entered the room alone. The energy froze.
Rashford sat near the lockers, legs stretched, watching. Bruno stood, arms crossed. The young players looked nervous. A few veterans avoided eye contact.
"No speech today," Ethan said, standing in the middle. "Just facts."
He let the silence draw out.
"This badge means something again. If you're not here to fight for it, I'll help you find a club that suits your ambition."
He locked eyes with a few key players. Not threats—promises.
"Play for United. Or don't play at all."
He turned and walked out.
No cheers. Just silence. Heavy, electric silence.
In the late afternoon, Ethan met the Manchester United Supporters' Trust in a modest conference room tucked beneath the South Stand. No PR handlers. No branding. Just folding chairs and honest faces.
Most of them were older. Season ticket holders for decades. Scarves that had seen Ferguson's rise and Moyes's fall. Scars carved deep.
One woman, in her sixties, leaned forward with quiet intensity.
"Do you love this club?" she asked.
"Yes," Ethan replied. "Enough to tear it down and build it back the right way."
"You think we haven't heard that before?" an older man muttered.
"I don't want your blind faith," Ethan said. "I want time. I want your truth. I want this to be a football club again."
The room was quiet. Not convinced. Not yet. But listening.
And that was enough for now.
That night, inside the old executive wing, the last embers of the past smoldered.
An executive who hadn't been named in the day's purge slipped into a locked office. On a private laptop, he began deleting folders. Internal documents. Financial dealings. Communications with former Glazer associates.
He made a single call.
"He's in," he said quietly. "But he's green. We can still control what he sees."
The Glazers were gone.
But their ghosts lingered.
It was almost midnight when Ethan walked the pitch at Old Trafford.
The floodlights burned overhead, bathing the grass in silver light. The rain had stopped. The air was cold and still.
He stood at the center circle, surrounded by empty seats that had seen everything: titles, collapses, legends, betrayal.
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"This club doesn't need a king," he said. "It needs a guardian."
He looked up into the shadowed Stretford End.
"And I'll burn it all down before I let them take it again."
He smiled—tired, certain, ready.
The revolution had begun.