Raiola sat in the dimly lit booth of the private café, his eyes studying the young man opposite him.
He took a sip of his espresso, the cup looking tiny in his hands.
"Jeremy" he began slowly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "My purpose here is simple. I want to build an empire with you. Your recent performances... they have not just impressed ; they have strengthened my resolve."
"You should know my style. I am not a 'yes man.' I am a shield. I will do anything to protect my players' interests. Anything. You can ask Zlatan about that."
Zlatan, sitting next to Ling, nodded silently, stirring his own drink.
Seeing that Ling remained unmoved, Raiola leaned forward, deciding to play a trump card.
"You are young, so maybe you do not know the story of Pavel Nedvěd." Raiola chuckled, a sound like gravel in a blender. "When he was at Lazio, I got him a contract with a blank salary field. Blank! And I still managed to secure the compensation he wanted."
That maneuver was truly a masterclass in agent warfare.
Raiola had played Juventus against Real Madrid, driving the price up, then gone back on his word to squeeze even more out of the Italians.
Though Juventus was furious, they swallowed their bitterness because Raiola held the keys to the kingdom.
"I fight," Raiola said, his eyes gleaming. "When Guardiola disrespected Zlatan, I went to war. When Ferguson disrespected Pogba, I took him away. I do not care about clubs. I care about us."
"As for what I can bring you?" Raiola spread his hands. "First, money. Real money. With your abilities, you are underpaid. Second, honors. I will market you until you are undeniable. The Golden Boy Award? That is just the start. And third... no matter what happens, even if the whole world turns against you, I will be the one standing next to you."
....
Half an hour later.
Raiola didn't demand Ling make an imdiate decision—that wouldn't be the conduct of a qualified businessman.
He gracefully left a business card on the table.
"My phone is on 24/7. Call when you are ready to take over the world."
With that, the fat super-agent rose and left.
Noticing Ling's thoughtful gaze, Ibrahimović smiled.
"This is your own matter, nino. Don't consider my opinion too much. But... Mino is a shark. sotis, you need a shark in your tank."
"Alright, I'll seriously consider this matter," Ling replied, pocketing the card.
But deep down, he was hesitant.
Raiola was effective, yes.
But he was also chaos.
Balotelli, Pogba... their careers were filled with noise.
Ling wanted a legacy, not a circus.
He didn't want to burn bridges with Manchester United or Mourinho just for a quick pay rise.
....
The next day.
The setting was completely different.
Three people were conversing in the manager's office at the Carrington Training Ground: José Mourinho, Jeremy Ling, and Jorge ndes.
If Raiola was a street brawler in a hoodie, ndes was a diplomat in a tailored suit.
His approach was completely different.
"Jeremy," ndes said, his voice smooth and professional. "I am not the type of agent who abandons players after transfers. What concerns most isn't commission fees, but maintaining balance. A happy player, a happy club, a successful career."
"That's why I maintain good relationships with the elite," he continued, listing them off casually.
"Real Madrid, Chelsea, Inter Milan, and, of course, Manchester United. They trust . They trust the players I recomnd. Believe , if you ever consider transferring in the future, I can provide the best assistance."
Before ndes finished speaking, he caught Mourinho's sharp gaze.
He realized he was discussing transfers right in front of the manager who wanted to keep Ling forever.
ndes smiled charmingly, recovering seamlessly.
"Of course, I also have excellent relationships with many managers. Like José here. We have been close friends for twenty years. We are family."
Ling thought to himself that "good relationship" was an understatent.
ndes practically built Mourinho's career.
And the client list... Ronaldo, Di María, Pepe, De Gea, Jas Rodríguez.
Even Marcelo had fired his original agent to join him.
This was the establishnt.
"Moreover," ndes added his final push, leaning in. "I believe my professional capabilities surpass others, especially in packaging, public relations, and branding. You are Chinese, Jeremy. The market behind you is... infinite. But it needs to be managed correctly. Like CR7."
Ling nodded involuntarily.
There was no denying this claim.
The "CR7" brand was a money-printing machine, largely engineered by ndes.
It wasn't that Ronaldo lacked ability, but in football's comrcialized landscape, marketing was essential.
ndes didn't just manage contracts; he managed empires.
For a player like Ling, who was disciplined and ambitious but didn't want the drama Raiola brought, ndes was undoubtedly the logical choice.
....
An hour later, under the witness of Manchester United's legal affairs specialist, Ling and ndes signed an exclusive representation contract.
Mourinho looked pleased. ndes was "his" man.
This ant Ling was staying in the family.
Perhaps due to the vast potential of the Chinese market, ndes not only voluntarily reduced his standard commission percentage but also imdiately started working on his first major project.
He wanted to help Ling secure Manchester United's No. 7 jersey.
In fact, the flood of comnts from Manchester United fans on the official website had already stirred the club's managent.
The fans were clamoring for it.
Because for Manchester United, 7 is not just a number—it is a symbol of legend.
It is holy fabric.
It has witnessed the glorious monts of the club's greatest icons: George Best, Bryan Robson, Eric Cantona, David Beckham, and Cristiano Ronaldo.
It is the symbol of the Red Devils' core. The maverick. The winner.
But ever since Ronaldo left Manchester United for Madrid, the No. 7 jersey seed to have transford from a symbol of honor into an unsolvable, heavy curse.
Michael Owen had it (mostly injured). Antonio Valencia had it (and gave it back because it was too heavy). Angel Di Maria had it (and fled to PSG after one season). mphis Depay had it (and flopped spectacularly).
The shirt ate players alive.
Thus, the No. 7 jersey, representing Manchester United's glorious tradition, had been vacant, gathering dust, a reminder of past glories and present failures.
The Manchester United managent, led by Ed Woodward, was anxious.
They were eager to find a suitable owner for it, to break the damned curse and continue writing the glory.
From a comrcial perspective, having the No. 7 vacant was like leaving money on the table.
However, they were worried.
Ling was only 18. Would the pressure break him like it broke mphis?
So, they called a eting.
Mourinho, Woodward, ndes, and Ling.
"Jeremy," Woodward asked, his voice serious. "This shirt... it cos with a lot of noise. A lot of history. Are you sure you want this burden?"
ndes looked at Ling, giving a subtle nod.
Ling didn't hesitate. "I don't see it as a burden, Mr. Woodward. I see it as a target. I want the pressure. Staying in the comfort zone leads to no progress."
He looked at the frad shirt on the wall.
"Give it to . I will make it mine."
Mourinho grinned. That was the answer he wanted.
After discussions, the matter was quickly settled.
The Manchester United No. 7 jersey had found its owner once again.
However, Manchester United under the Glazers was a comrcial beast.
They were a "well-known internet-famous team."
You couldn't just hand over the shirt in the locker room.
The necessary ceremony couldn't be skipped—and it had to be done on a grand scale.
If not for ndes' strong opposition (saving Ling's dignity), the managent might have even considered a live sales broadcast on TikTok.
Instead, they settled for a massive social dia reveal.
.....
Two days later.
A video dropped on Manchester United's official channels. It started with black and white footage of George Best dribbling. Then Cantona popping his collar. Beckham scoring from the halfway line. Ronaldo's stepovers.
Then, silence.
The screen went black.
A silhouette erged from the shadows.
A young man, back to the cara.
He turned.
It was Jeremy Ling. He pulled on the new Adidas ho shirt.
On the back, the na LING and the number 7.
The caption: THE NEXT CHAPTER.
The internet lted down.
Sky Sports News: "Breaking news from Old Trafford. Manchester United have confird that teenage sensation Jeremy Ling has been handed the iconic Number 7 shirt. It's a massive statent of faith from José Mourinho."
Gary Neville: "It's bold. It's very bold. We've seen big players crumble under that shirt. But this kid... he's got sothing different. He's got the arrogance of Cantona and the work rate of Beckham. If anyone can break the curse, it might be him."
Chinese Social dia (Weibo):
[OH MY GOD! NUMBER 7! He's actually the heir!]
[The first Asian player to wear the United 7! This is history!]
[Buying it imdiately. Take my money!]
[The Curse Breaker! Go get them, Ling!]
[Ronaldo's successor confird!]
....
Ling stood in the gastore, flashbulbs popping.
He held the shirt up. It felt heavy in his hands.
But as he put it on, he didn't feel weighed down. He felt lighter.
He was ready.
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