[2011. Heathrow, London, England.]
London in July was usually dry, but today felt like the weather had something to prove. The sky was dark and heavy, clouds swirling like nebulas, thunder cracking, and wind howling through the city. Sheets of rain poured down, and the pavement echoed with the sharp rhythm of water hitting stone.
At Heathrow Airport, things were tense. The storm had thrown travel plans into chaos, and the mood matched the weather. People rushed through the exits, hands over their heads in place of umbrellas. At the taxi rank, a shouting match had already escalated into a heavyweight bout of words. Airport security dragged and separated the culprits, causing the noisy chaos, but the anger in the air lingered.
Standing near the exit, Le Kai took it all in with a helpless smile. Drenched and windswept in his black tracksuit, suitcase in one hand and sports bag slung over his shoulder, he looked more like a lost traveler than a professional footballer.
"This can't be right," he muttered, eyes scanning the crowd. "Where's the pickup guy?"
This was his first time in London. Transferred from Sporting Lisbon to Arsenal for €800,000 after impressing in a pre-season match, even Le Kai wasn't sure why Arsenal wanted him—but when a club like that calls, you don't ask too many questions.
Everyone agreed to the deal. And now? He'd been standing here for nearly an hour. Not a single familiar face.
"Did they just forget I was coming?" he laughed bitterly. "I don't even know where the training ground is."
He checked his pocket. About a thousand euros in cash. Most of his savings had gone back home. He didn't keep much for himself.
"Do they even take euros here?"
Shaking his head, he turned toward the terminal. He needed to exchange money. But just then, a black van screeched to a halt in front of him. A huge man stepped out, gripping the door against the wind.
"Mr. Kai? From Sporting Lisbon?"
Le Kai spun around, blinking through the rain. "Finally."
The man motioned to him. "Let's go."
Without a word, he grabbed Le Kai's suitcase, tossed it into the trunk, and barked, "Get in!"
Le Kai climbed into the front seat, silently docking Arsenal's welcome points in his mental notebook. The driver slammed his door shut.
Le Kai glanced over, expecting an apology.
The man was bald, tattooed, with muscles stretching his black Arsenal-logo shirt. His face was tight with frustration. Clearly not in a talking mood.
Just as Kai opened his mouth, the guy muttered, "Sh*t weather. F*k this."
"…Okay," Le Kai whispered to himself.
The radio crackled on.
"Former Arsenal captain Cesc Fabregas has completed a €40 million transfer to Barcelona, returning to his boyhood club…"
Le Kai blinked. The man spat again. "F**king traitor."
After a minute of grumbling and swearing, the driver sighed, leaned back, and glanced over.
"Sorry for the delay—and the ranting. It's been a rough week."
Le Kai nodded, giving him a polite smile.
"I'm Martin Hughes. And I really hate a guy named Francesc Fabregas."
He looked at Le Kai, waiting.
Le Kai paused. "I'm Le Kai. I hate disloyalty."
Martin cracked the faintest grin. "Good man."
The car took off through the storm.
The streets were a blur of rain, and Martin kept talking—loud, fast, and full of colorful language. Every third word was a curse. Arsenal's heartbreak clearly ran deep.
Le Kai just listened. He understood. Cesc Fabregas had been the heart of the team, captain at 21, one of the best midfielders in the world—all thanks to Arsenal.
And now? He'd left. Not just left, but paid part of the transfer fee out of his own pocket to make it happen. Arsenal had fought to keep him. Barcelona offered €30 million. Arsenal wanted €40 million. The standoff dragged on.
Then Fabregas did the unthinkable—he pitched in to close the gap himself. To the fans, it was betrayal. To the club, a slap in the face. The city was furious. "Traitor" wasn't just a label—it was a public sentence.
[Arsenal Training Centre]
The drive took 45 minutes through wind and rain. Arsenal's training base was a massive, green expanse—143 acres of countryside in Hertfordshire. But today, it was drenched in gloom. Thunder rolled over the empty fields. The trees bent in the wind.
Le Kai stepped into the office building, suitcase in hand, nerves creeping in.
Martin led him through the building to a tall door.
"This is the Professor's office," Martin said. "Let's knock."
Le Kai took a breath. Arsène Wenger—the Professor. A legend.
Martin slowly opened the door.
Inside, voices exploded.
"Bastard! We should've benched him the whole season! Let him rot!"
"Pat Rice, calm down," came another voice.
"Calm down?! He spat on everything we built!"
Martin gently closed the door again.
"…Maybe we wait a bit," he whispered.
Ten minutes passed. Finally, the door opened. An older man stormed out in full Arsenal gear, fuming.
Martin straightened. "Coach!"
The man grunted and walked away.
"…That's Pat Rice. Assistant coach. Bit of a temper, but he's loyal. You'll see—he yells a lot, but he loves this club."
Martin knocked again. "Let's go."
They stepped inside. Behind the desk stood a tall man in a black suit, silver hair, posture calm despite the storm.
Wenger turned, waved at Martin to leave, then gestured for Kai to sit.
The office was quiet, but tension still hung in the air.
Wenger's face was composed, but there was sadness in his eyes. The departure of Fabregas had taken a toll.
Le Kai sat across from him.
The of his football life was about to begin.