September 24th, Carrington Training Ground – Afternoon
Training resumed under a steely gray sky, but something was different. Phil Jones, once defined by his reckless lunges and desperate scrambles, had calmed. His movements were no longer frantic. He was deliberate, measured—still intense, but now balanced. His decision-making was sharper, his positioning improved, and his energy better distributed. Teammates noticed the change immediately.
Scholes leaned toward King, watching Jones intercept a ball with precision. "Captain," he asked with mock suspicion, "where exactly did you have lunch today?"
King raised an eyebrow. "A place near Ferdinand's house. Why?"
Scholes nodded sagely. "We should have the next team dinner there. I swear, Jones had a full upgrade after that meal."
King couldn't help but smirk. "Paul, you're getting funnier by the day. If a steakhouse can turn players into tacticians, I'll ask the club to buy the whole damn place."
Ferran, sitting nearby, looked frustrated. "We're still short-handed. Vidic, Ferdinand, Carrick, Kante—all injured. Jones suspended. We've only played five league matches and already five key men are out. It's a nightmare."
King corrected him with a half-smile. "Six."
Ferran frowned. "Six?"
"You," King said, pointing at him. "You're suspended too, remember?"
"Shit!" Ferran groaned. "Against Liverpool at home? That's brutal!"
Scholes chuckled. "You did a great job leading the fans from the stands last time. Captain of the supporters' club, that's your next calling."
King joined in. "Just get the crowd roaring again. If we beat Liverpool, I'll credit your chanting."
Ferran folded his arms, grumbling. "Well… if it means smashing Liverpool, I'll sit in the Kop myself."
Though the team had just been beaten in the derby, there was no time to dwell. The so-called "Devil's Schedule" pressed on. In the next eleven days, United would play four matches across three competitions: Liverpool at home in the League Cup on the 25th, West Brom in the league on the 28th, Shakhtar Donetsk away in the Champions League on October 2nd, and Sunderland away on October 5th.
Fatigue loomed, injuries mounted, and form had dipped. After the City loss, confidence wavered—especially among the younger players. Veterans like Giggs stood tall, but the squad's mood was clearly affected by media backlash.
Tabloids had been merciless. Even Giggs wasn't spared. "The 39-year-old Giggs is a tumor in the side, clogging the growth of young talent," sneered a columnist. King had seen enough.
That afternoon, he watched his team go through the motions—sluggish, distracted, unsure. He knew something had to change.
Across town, Liverpool had already arrived in Manchester and were brimming with confidence. Brendan Rodgers gave a defiant press conference, saying, "They beat us at Anfield. Now we'll return the favor. Tomorrow, Liverpool is coming to Old Trafford to get revenge."
The United press conference was scheduled for the matchday itself. But reporters weren't willing to wait. As King walked out of Carrington, headed for home, he was swarmed.
A striking female journalist in a sleek black dress pushed to the front. "Mr. Tiger King, this afternoon Brendan Rodgers said Liverpool is in Manchester to seek revenge. What's your response?"
Another reporter jumped in. "Rodgers even revealed his starting eleven. He's going with an aggressive, attacking formation. Will United sit deep again?"
King looked at them, unfazed, his voice cold and steady. "You'll get your answers at tomorrow's press conference. But for today…" He paused. The crowd leaned in.
"…I only want to remind you of one thing," he said, eyes locked on the camera lenses. "I made a bet with Mr. Rodgers. I said United would double Liverpool this season. If not, I'd jump off the Tower Bridge."
Whispers passed through the gathered reporters. They hadn't forgotten.
King's face suddenly shifted. "That was an impulsive promise. Absurd, even. On reflection… I want to sincerely apologize to Mr. Rodgers."
Gasps. Flashes popped. But Tiger didn't wait, he walked off into the Manchester dusk, leaving behind only stunned silence—and the echo of a promise no one doubted he still fully intended to keep.