The Carrington lights were low.
Long past midnight, Mason Grant stood in a glass-walled briefing room tucked behind the physio suite—just far enough from the headlines to plan history.
Waiting for him were three men. Older, sharp-eyed, not dressed for the cameras. One wore a battered trench coat over a United polo. Another had a laptop already open, screen full of heat maps. The last leaned casually on a crutch, leg stiff, expression calm.
Ferguson had left them no titles. Just names and one note, handwritten in red ink:
"They're yours now. They know what this club is. Trust them."
Mason closed the door behind him.
"You're the ones he left behind."
The man with the laptop nodded. "We were his assistants. Not the kind that carried cones. The kind that carried answers."
"You're not scouts?"
"We are when we need to be," said the man with the crutch. "But mostly, we're filters. We separate noise from gold."
Mason pulled a folded sheet from his coat.
"This," he said, placing it on the table, "is gold."
GRANT – TRANSFER SHORTLIST 2013
Toni Kroos
Casemiro
Virgil van Dijk
Marquinhos
Álex Grimaldo
João Cancelo
Mohamed Salah
Heung-Min Son
Paulo Dybala
Romelu Lukaku
They gathered around.
The man with the laptop whistled. "Half this list hasn't made headlines yet."
"Exactly," Mason said. "We're not chasing names. We're chasing time."
The trench coat man ran a finger down the list. "Kroos is out of contract next summer. Bayern's delaying. We move now, we steal him from Madrid before Madrid even wakes up."
"Casemiro's cheap," the crutch man added. "Still stuck in Real B. If we get him playing, he'll give us ten years of dominance."
Mason nodded. "I don't want to rebuild what Ferguson built. I want to future-proof it."
"And this is your foundation?" the laptop man asked.
"No," Mason said. "This is the opening act."
They looked at each other—then back at him.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then the trench coat man extended a hand.
"Well," he said. "Let's go make United inevitable again."
Basel, Switzerland – Scouting Salah
Rain danced on the rooftops above St. Jakob-Park. The stadium was mostly empty now, the noise long gone, but in the press-level stands, two United assistants stayed behind.
One had a thermal scope. The other scribbled in a battered notebook marked:"Target 07: M. Salah – FC Basel"
A grainy replay showed him again—ghosting past defenders, cutting in off the right like it was second nature.
"Third time tonight," the older one muttered. "Same touch. Same angle. Same shot."
"But no fear," the other replied. "Even when doubled. Doesn't flinch. He knows he's better."
The younger one nodded. "You think the boss will go for him over Zaha?"
The old man smiled. "Zaha's got tricks. This lad's got purpose. Mason'll take purpose every time."
They recorded the timecode, closed the laptop, and left.
Scene 2: Carrington – Private Training Room
Wayne Rooney was lacing his boots when Mason entered. The air smelled like deep heat and old sweat. A few lads were still outside jogging cooldown laps.
"You've got five minutes," Rooney said without looking up.
Mason smiled. "Good. I only need three."
Rooney glanced up now—suspicious, guarded.
"We've got Romelu Lukaku coming in," Mason said simply.
Rooney's jaw twitched. "So I'm out?"
"No," Mason said. "You're back. Where you belong."
He tapped the whiteboard behind him, where a fresh tactical sketch glowed.
4-3-3 / 4-2-3-1 hybridRooney – CAM / false 9Lukaku ahead. Kroos and Casemiro behind.
"You're not chasing long balls anymore. You're linking. Floating. Controlling rhythm."
Rooney squinted. "You want me off the front line?"
"I want you on the ball," Mason replied. "Ten years ago, that's what you were. A pulse. You can still be that. But if you're chasing centre-backs down all year, you'll be burnt out by March."
Rooney stood. "And if I don't like it?"
Mason didn't blink. "Then Chelsea can have you. But if you stay, I give you the chance to become the most intelligent player in England. Not just the angriest."
A pause. A beat. Something flickered in Rooney's eyes—not surrender. Something harder to earn.
Belief.
"Alright," he said finally. "I'll try it. But if that Belgian kid flops—"
"He won't," Mason said, already turning. "But you might love feeding him more than you loved being fed."