Old Trafford – May 12, 2013The sky hung low over Manchester, swollen with the kind of grey that never quite cried. A soft mist clung to the red-brick walls of Old Trafford, where 75,000 voices had just finished singing "Glory, Glory Man United" for the man who had built an empire.
Sir Alex Ferguson walked down the tunnel for the last time. Behind him, a 5–5 draw—absurd, poetic, impossible—was already drifting into legend. It was the end of an era. The club had just won its 20th league title. And yet, for many watching, it felt like a funeral.
In the shadows of the Sir Bobby Charlton Stand, a man watched.
He wasn't staff. Not board. Not media.
He stood alone, dressed sharply but plainly: dark navy overcoat, crisp white shirt, no tie. His hands were in his pockets. He looked like someone who didn't want to be noticed—but always was.
Mason Grant had been to Old Trafford once before, long ago, as a boy in the East Stand. He still remembered the sound when the Stretford End roared—a sound that made the air vibrate in your lungs. That memory had never faded. Not through years. Not through disappointment. Not through everything that followed.
Today, he wasn't here as a fan.
A voice broke the silence behind him.
"You're early," said David Gill, walking in with two cups of tea. "Can't say that about many candidates."
Mason turned, accepting one of the cups. "I don't believe in being late to history."
Gill chuckled. "It's been a hell of a day." He looked out over the pitch, quiet now except for groundskeepers and a few lingering staff. "You sure you want this job? Replacing Ferguson's not a job. It's a crucifixion."
"I'm not here to replace him," Mason said. "I'm here to protect what he built."
Gill sipped his tea. "Your résumé's... different."
"That's one way to put it."
"I've seen your ideas. Your tactical models, your scouting assessments. Your file on players most of us haven't even heard of."
"You'll hear about them soon."
"You've got no top-flight managerial experience. No trophies. No press presence."
"I have what matters. Clarity."
Gill turned fully to face him now. "What do you know about Manchester United, Mason?"
Mason's gaze didn't waver. "It's not just a football club. It's a heartbeat. It's Scholes on a volley from 30 yards. It's kids leading men. It's losing one week and still believing the next. It's the standard. And when the world forgets, someone has to remind them."
For a moment, Gill said nothing.
Then, he handed over a sealed envelope.
"The board meets in 48 hours. That gets you in the room."
Mason took it silently.
As Gill walked away, he paused. "You seem like a man with a plan."
"I've been planning this day for a long time."
When the door closed, Mason turned back to the pitch. Sir Alex was gone. The curtain had fallen. The future, uncertain.
But some men don't wait for the future to arrive.They come back for it.
[End of Chapter One]