Making Bean Paste from Beans
This meeting had actually borne fruit—we'd made bean paste from beans.
The association president, Kim Myeonggyu, had agreed to an internal investigation, and we'd even stirred up some buzz about restoring the association's authority. That was like dipping our toes in the pool. Pretty damn impressive, if I do say so myself.
And I was the one who'd made it happen, so a surge of pride welled up inside me, impossible to contain. It was a different kind of catharsis from scoring a goal.
If shaking the opponent's net on the pitch was football, then what I'd just done was piercing through a massive, rotten goalkeeper of entrenched customs and slamming one home on the political field.
So, of course, there had to be a celebration. I didn't have my own signature move, so the GOAT performance sprang to mind—nothing beat it for flair.
I hopped into the elevator and rode down to the first floor.
The lobby buzzed with murmurs, a bit chaotic, and I could even sense the reporters camped outside.
Without hesitation, I bolted straight for the center of the lobby.
Thud, tap!
I kicked off the marble floor, leaped into the air, twisted my body half a turn mid-flight.
And as I landed, I thrust both arms down powerfully.
"Siuuuuuuuuuuuuu―"
The lobby fell silent in an instant.
"Wha...?"
"What the—?!" "What's going on?"
A few security guards from the booth jumped up, grabbing their batons and charging out like some mad terrorist had stormed in.
They froze in place soon enough.
Because the guy standing tall in the middle of the lobby, legs spread wide, was none other than me.
I held the landing pose perfectly still, like a statue, staring straight ahead.
The guards gawked blankly, and some passing visitors' jaws dropped.
Eyes mixed with "Is this guy nuts?" and "Whoa, it's Ryu Rion!" awe.
Didn't matter.
There were definitely eyes and ears of Mo Chanhee's faction planted here.
How would those pricks interpret my antics? Coming straight out of the president's office and pulling that off—wouldn't they take it as me nailing exactly what I wanted in there? Or just write me off as a lunatic?
I slowly relaxed my pose, straightened my clothes, and strolled out leisurely.
The automatic doors slid open, and flashes exploded like they'd been waiting.
"Ryu Rion! What was discussed in the meeting?!" "Just one word on the faction controversy...!"
Reporters swarmed like bees, mics shoved right under my chin.
Instead of answering, I pressed a finger to my lips.
"Shh."
A short, sharp gesture. Shut up and watch.
I left the stunned pack behind and climbed into the waiting van.
Slam. The door shut, and the car pulled away smoothly.
Cha Daehyeok glanced at me in the rearview from the driver's seat.
"Hyung, what was the meeting about?"
"They're doing an internal investigation."
"Huh?"
His hands twitched on the wheel.
"The football association?"
"Yeah. Full probe into the internal factions and national team discipline issues, then action."
Daehyeok's eyes went wide.
"Whoa... that's huge. Those stuck-up assholes actually listened to you?"
"Yeah. But whether they'll follow through? Who knows."
He gave a wry smile and nodded at my cynical reply.
"Fair enough. Even if you said it... if they'd kept promises that easily, they wouldn't be getting flak from the public like this."
Spot on.
The 50 Million Bandwagon Fans' reaction to the association right now was learned distrust.
Years of dodging blame and protecting their own. All that karma piled up into absolute disbelief. I got where the bandwagoners were coming from. Hell, even if they announced making bean paste from beans now, no one would buy it. Instead of judging facts, inertia kicked in—"You did it!"—and they balled their fists, swinging wildly. Madness way beyond payback.
"Right. Even if the association really changes and announces it straight, people won't believe 'em. 'Scam,' 'damage control'—that's the vibe. Collective insanity."
"Yeah... the comments can be scary sometimes."
Bitter reality.
An organization stripped of trust, a public lost to reason.
Caught in the middle, I had to hold steady, deliver results on the pitch, and flip the board.
That night.
Lying in my hotel bed, I turned on my smartphone and let out a hollow chuckle.
I'd expected it, but the reporters' creativity exceeded my wildest dreams.
My ceremony. Yeah, sure, doing it in the lobby out of nowhere—I owned that. Had a deeper meaning, but couldn't spill it. But calling it chaos and instilling fear?
Since when was "Siuuuuu" a deranged howl? Chaos—such a juicy word.
Communities were exploding, no surprise.
Conspiracy theories everywhere.
Trash reporters laid the bait with malicious wording, then bandwagon netizens piled on, fleshing out novels.
Some sane takes popped up too.
But rational comments got buried under sneers calling them "woke trash."
And that's when the grossest bunch slithered in.
Mo Chanhee's fan squad.
I could picture their smug faces through the screen.
Seizing the moment to trash me and prop up their idol—that ugly routine.
I shut off the phone and tossed it on the bedhead.
Not pissed. Calmer, actually.
"Bark all you want. Bark your lungs out."
Reporters would swarm tomorrow before Chelsea anyway—I'd clear it up then.
For now, time to savor the chaos.
Chelsea match day morning.
I woke to nonstop phone vibrations. Messages and calls from Daehyeok, SNS notifications flashing like crazy.
Overnight, public opinion had flipped bizarrely—180 degrees, like they'd never trashed me.
One reason: a 4K direct cam video uploaded to a YouTube channel at dawn.
The thumbnail captured my mid-air leap in dynamic glory.
Propped up in bed, I hit play.
On screen, I dashed to the lobby center, nailed the perfect launch and twist in the air.
"Siuuuuuuuuuuuuu―"
The moment it silenced the lobby.
But the video didn't end there.
As I relaxed from my statue pose, guards approached.
Per the trash articles, I'd grab a collar or yell here.
Nope. Crystal-clear footage showed me bowing politely to the security team lead.
"Sorry for startling you."
Lip-reading perfect in HD.
Guards chuckling helplessly, parting way—the whole 15-second clip nuked every novel.
No chaos, just a footballer overflowing with joy in a fun ceremony, capped with manners. My built-up madman rep even spun it as fan service.
I smirked, scrolling down.