The office felt colder now. The weight of the Glazers' departure still lingered in the air, but there was no time for celebration. The real battle was just beginning.
Ethan had been on edge all morning. His phone buzzed non-stop with messages from all directions: the press, the board members he had just purged, and those who thought they had an inside track on how to run Manchester United. But none of those were his main concern.
His eyes scanned the reports on his desk—player injuries, transfer rumors, and financial projections—but it was the quiet hum in the background of the club that gnawed at him. Something wasn't right.
A few days ago, he'd received his first piece of real intel: someone on the inside was leaking information to the press, deliberately stoking unrest and undermining his decisions. The transfer speculations were one thing; every club had to deal with rumors. But these were calculated, strategic. They were trying to make him fail.
He wasn't just dealing with a sabotaged reputation—he was dealing with sabotage inside the walls of his own club.
He needed answers.
Ethan leaned back in his chair, his fingers pressing against his temples. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights above felt oppressive. His mind raced as he tried to connect the dots. The mole had to be someone close. Someone who knew the system, someone who had access to the sensitive information he needed to protect. This wasn't some random disgruntled employee—it was an insider with a personal vendetta.
The implications were staggering. If he couldn't root this out, everything he was trying to build would crumble. His takeover, his dream, all of it would be at the mercy of someone within his own ranks.
He reached for the phone and dialed Ibrahim Al-Fahim's number.
"Have you found anything yet?" Ethan asked when the line connected. His voice was low, steady, though his pulse raced. The truth was, the longer the mole operated, the more dangerous it became for the entire operation.
"We're narrowing it down, Mr. Cross," Ibrahim's voice came back, calm and collected. "But it's a complex network. This isn't just one person; it's a group of individuals. People embedded in key positions."
Ethan's grip on the phone tightened. "I want names. I want faces. Now."
"I understand," Ibrahim responded. "We're tracing communications, monitoring behavior. It'll take time, but we're close."
Ethan hung up, frustration bubbling in his chest. He couldn't afford to let this drag on. The club was already at a crossroads. The last thing he needed was enemies from within tearing it apart before he could even get a foothold.
The training ground was quieter than usual. The hum of machines in the fitness area and the rhythmic pounding of footballs against nets filled the space, but the energy was off. The air felt dense, as if everyone was walking on eggshells.
Carrington wasn't just a place of training—it was a battleground, a place where egos collided and reputations were forged. Ethan had barely been in charge for a week, but already, the weight of leadership pressed down on him. He had inherited a squad of talented, but fractured, players. The veterans were jaded, and the younger players were uncertain. He could feel the tension in the room like an electric charge before a thunderstorm.
He walked past a few of the staff, who offered him forced smiles, their eyes betraying the uncertainty they felt. But there was no time for small talk. He had a meeting that couldn't be delayed any longer.
The senior players were gathered in the team meeting room when Ethan arrived. He wasn't sure what he was expecting—disdain, skepticism, maybe even outright hostility—but the room was eerily quiet. Bruno Fernandes, the club's talisman, was the first to look up. His eyes were sharp, studying Ethan like he was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. Rashford leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his posture relaxed but his eyes wary. The others remained silent, either focused on their phones or staring blankly ahead.
Ethan stood at the front, his posture deliberate, his voice clear as he addressed them.
"No speeches today," he began. "No grand declarations. Just the facts."
The room fell silent, the players looking up at him, waiting for something they could either latch onto or dismiss.
"I've heard the rumors," he continued, his voice carrying through the room. "I know the whispers. You think I'm here because of money, that I'm just another businessman who doesn't understand what it means to be part of this club. And maybe some of that is true. Maybe I don't have the same history as you, or the same pedigree as some of the other owners you've known."
He paused, letting the words sink in. This was it—this was his chance to earn their respect or lose it entirely.
"But what I do know, more than anything, is that I'm not here to just collect a paycheck," he said, his voice gaining strength. "I'm here because I love this club, just like you. I've been in your shoes—sitting in the stands, dreaming about a day when we could get back to the top. And I'm not going to stop until we get there."
Bruno's gaze was unreadable. He was still skeptical, still holding back. But Rashford raised an eyebrow, the first sign of interest. Ethan could feel the shift, however small it was.
"This club belongs to the fans," Ethan continued. "Not to the board. Not to the press. Not to me. To you. I need you to trust me. You want success? We need to fight for it, together. If you're not on board, then I'll help you find another club."
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Ethan wasn't here to placate egos. He was here to win.
Rashford finally spoke, his voice dry. "Another club? Mate, you're already getting hate mail from all over Manchester for not being able to sign Haaland."
Ethan allowed himself a small grin. "Look, I tried. They didn't take my calls. Something about 'not selling their best player to a rival.' But we'll work with what we've got, alright?"
The room let out a small chuckle, and for the first time, the tension eased just a bit. It wasn't much, but it was a start. Ethan wasn't here to be everyone's friend. But a little humor went a long way in making the players see him as more than just a figurehead.
Later, in his office, Ethan sat with Eric Ten Hag. The Dutchman was quiet, his face betraying none of the uncertainty that had been lingering in Ethan's mind for days. Ethan needed Ten Hag to buy into his vision, to embrace the partnership. He needed the manager to see that this wasn't just about tactics—it was about a revolution.
"I trust you as a coach," Ethan began, his tone serious. "But this is a partnership, Eric. I'll handle the business side. You handle the tactics. But we'll both need to be on the same page."
Ten Hag's gaze met his, searching, as if weighing the sincerity in Ethan's words. Finally, after a long pause, he spoke.
"We can work together, Ethan," he said, his voice calm but firm. "But you need to give me control over the football side of things. The tactics, the selection. I'm not here to manage a circus."
Ethan nodded. He understood. Ten Hag wanted control. And he would have it—so long as he delivered results.
"Fine," Ethan said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "But if we don't get into the Champions League this season, I'll have to make a personal request for more than one 'crazy' signing. You know, the kind that gets the fans all excited. The one with the press conference and everything."
Ten Hag's lips twitched, a smile fighting its way through his normally stoic expression. "We'll keep the circus to a minimum, Mr. Cross."
Ethan chuckled, feeling the weight of the situation lighten, if only for a moment. They were starting to understand each other. And that was a good place to start.
Later that evening, as Ethan walked through the empty corridors of Old Trafford, his phone buzzed. Ibrahim had sent him a message.
"We have a lead."
Ethan's heart skipped a beat. The mole was closer than he thought.
He responded immediately: "Is it confirmed?"
"Not yet. But we're close."
Ethan looked out over the pitch, the floodlights casting long shadows across the empty seats. The sound of distant traffic filtered in through the walls. For a moment, he let himself remember what it felt like when this place was full of energy, full of life. But tonight, it wasn't nostalgia he felt—it was determination.
The cleanse had begun. And there would be no turning back