London mornings always carry a hint of damp chill.
In the car park at Cobham Training Centre, a black Land Rover Defender rumbled into its reserved bay. The angular, uncompromising off-roader matched its owner—unapologetically aggressive.
Lin Yuan stepped out, kit bag in hand.
The derby against Arsenal still lingered in the air. Overnight, England's media had kept the story alive; open any phone and the headlines flooded the screen.
The Times sneered: 'Stamford Bridge's New Tyrant: He Murdered Art Football the "Legal" Way.'
The Sun went further, running a photo of Havertz red-faced and roaring while Lin Yuan sneered beside him, adjusting his cuff. The caption: 'The Devil's Smile: Chelsea's No. 44 Gave Havertz Nightmares!'
Lin Yuan couldn't care less.
He changed, finished a core-strength warm-up, then his private phone buzzed inside the locker.
He glanced at the screen.
An international call: country code +86.
Lin Yuan's brow lifted. The old 'Team Leader Wang' would already be firing off furious texts, but this number was unknown—and persistent.
He walked into the corridor and answered.
'Who's this?' Lin Yuan's voice was cold, breath still ragged from exercise.
A pause, then a measured, amiable—almost official—chuckle. 'Lin Yuan? Hello, hello. I'm Li Jianguo from the Football Association. You may not have heard of me; I've just taken over foreign liaison.'
Li Jianguo?
Nothing rang a bell, yet he recognised the condescending warmth.
'What do you want?' Lin Yuan cut in.
'I saw your match yesterday—Chelsea versus Arsenal. Impressive.' Director Li's tone was neighbourly. 'Great physique. Rare for a Chinese player to make it in the Premier League, rarer still to start for a giant. You're a gem.'
Leaning against the wall, Lin Yuan stared at the grey sky. 'If you're here to praise me, spare it. I'm busy.'
'Young man, don't be so hasty.' Li chuckled, then shifted to the familiar 'for-your-own-good' cadence. 'We've held meetings about the issue with Team Leader Wang. His methods were crude; we've reprimanded him.'
Lin Yuan's lips curled. Reprimanded? More like seeing me flourish and deciding the blacklist was bad business.
'So?'
'So, leaders believe youth deserves forgiveness. A simple bow will do—post an apology on Weibo: "hot-headed, communication mix-up." We'll give you a way down; the matter ends there.'
'And then?' His voice stayed level.
'Then?' Director Li sensed victory. 'Then the national-team door is wide open! Next month we've World-Cup qualifiers and the Asian Games. Return, and you're first-choice. Remember, without FA backing, even the brightest overseas career is rootless. For the nation's sake, what's a little pride?'
Lin Yuan burst out laughing.
A cold, genuine laugh.
Months ago, while stuck in Portugal's reserve mud, he might have seen this as charity.
Now?
This 'for-your-own-good' hypocrisy sickened him more than Wang's blunt blackmail. They weren't apologising—they were waiting for the fruit to ripen, demanding the grower kneel while handing it over.
'Director Li, right?' Lin Yuan interrupted the torrent.
'Yes, go ahead.'
'You've misunderstood one thing.' Watching Mourinho and the coaches approach, Lin Yuan nodded at the boss, then said icily into the phone, 'I don't forgive.'
A stunned silence. 'What?'
'I said: I don't forgive you, and I don't need your step down. Your old ban and today's "pardon" are jokes to me. That circle's too filthy—I won't dirty my boots.'
'Lin! Do you realise what you're saying? You're rejecting the nation! You're exiling yourself from Chinese football! Without the FA's backing abroad—'
'What I do abroad rests on my ability.' Lin Yuan cut in. 'As for Chinese football? The day you kicked me out, I was already gone.'
'Don't call again. Threats or alms—I find them both nauseating.'
Beep—
He hung up, blacklisted the number in one fluid motion, as if swatting a fly.
A deep breath of London's damp air left him clearer than ever.
Cut off.
The last fetter severed by his own hand.
No loss—only a weight gone.
'Lin! Who was that? You look murderous.'
Enzo Fernández strolled over, water bottle in hand, eyeing him curiously.
'Nothing.' Lin Yuan tossed the phone back, coldness replaced by predatory focus. 'Just some salesmen pushing expired goods.'
'Huh? Scam callers on your private line?'
'Less chatter. Today's training match—watch yourself.' He rolled his neck with a crack. 'Still hungry from yesterday; I'm sliding in hard.'
Enzo leapt back. 'Hell! José, muzzle your mad dog!'
On the touchline Mourinho watched Lin Yuan walk onto the pitch, a faint smile playing on his lips.
He sensed it: today the invisible chain had vanished. The beast was finally free.
Afternoon came.
After physio, Lin Yuan checked his phone.
Not from China.
Sender: Jorge Mendes.
Short, yet heavier than the earlier call: 'Lin, I'm in London. We need to talk about your future. Also, someone asked me to pass you a message.'
He stared at the screen, finger tapping the edge.
What had to come, had come.
This time it wasn't a condescending step—but a crimson carpet to the throne.