Witness Summoned to National Audit, Pep's Fury, British Press Slams Korea
A brief silence fell before I let out a hollow laugh and opened my mouth.
"Interfere? Me? What, am I the president of the football association? I'm just a ball-kicking machine. As long as there's a player to receive my passes no matter who the coach is, and they set up tactics that can win, that's all I need. I don't have that kind of authority."
The reporter didn't back down and shoved the mic in my face again.
"There's no proof it's not true, is there? Would you agree to be summoned as a witness to the National Assembly audit?"
I stared straight into the microphone. Anger flashed through my mind, but my voice stayed calm.
"Let me say it again: I didn't interfere. And if you're pissed about procedures or connections, then summon me to that National Assembly audit. I'm going."
The reporter pulled back the mic with a satisfied look, like he'd gotten the headline he wanted. I'd said my piece, so I nodded curtly and pushed past the reporters out of the mixed zone.
I was dumbfounded. This country's assemblymen calculated votes faster than a Premier League counterattack tempo. Screaming in the National Assembly, interrupting, framing it like you're the ones who messed up, you're dodging my questions, your attitude is disloyal—all to paint you as the bad guy in front of the public. And in that process, they delude themselves into thinking they're the good guys while using me as a sacrificial lamb for their vote-grubbing bullshit, both ruling and opposition parties.
The communities were already a warzone.
Public opinion was split to shreds. Fans worried about me, those wanting to use this chance to shake out the football association's corruption, and just the thrill-seekers hyped for the spectacle.
Then my agent Cha Daehyeok's name popped up on the screen.
"Yeah?"
Bro, just got word from a contact—they're not calling you as a reference, but straight-up as a witness?
Cha Daehyeok's voice was a tone higher than usual, laced with panic. No wonder—an active footballer, especially a Premier Leaguer, getting dragged to a National Assembly audit mid-season? Unheard of.
I hung up and leaned against the wall, lost in thought for a moment.
Reference versus witness. The legal weight between those words is worlds apart.
A reference is just that—someone to consult. Even if summoned, you submit an excuse letter and skip. No force, no punishment. Celebrities and busy execs dodge it all the time with flimsy excuses.
But a witness? Different story.
Calling me a witness instead of a reference meant they weren't just after my opinion—they wanted me on the stand, on trial. The assembly's intent was clear.
From the assemblymen's view, hauling in a big shot like me was pure profit. Whether I say "I didn't interfere" or spill some dirt like "this is how it went down," they win. My face alone guarantees ratings and views, perfect for vote-pandering.
Inside the manager's office at Etihad Stadium. The air in the room swelled like a pressure cooker about to blow. Pep Guardiola's crown, visible over the desk, was already turning red.
He spoke in a trembling voice.
"Ryan. What the hell... why is the Korean National Assembly summoning you?"
Pep pointed at the English article on his tablet PC. His tone mixed equal parts fury and disbelief.
"Are you quitting football for politics? Or is the Korean presidential election around the corner or something?"
"No, Coach. Absolutely not."
Even I, who had to explain, couldn't help a hollow laugh. How do you break down Korea's convoluted football swamp to the world's top tactician? I gathered my thoughts as calmly as possible.
"Here's the deal. The football association picked a new coach, but the public hates him. They claim the process lacked legitimacy, blew up over it. Ruling and opposition politicians saw their chance, announced hearings, and threw my name on the witness list. Accusing me of being involved in the selection."
Pep touched his forehead in disbelief.
"What the hell is wrong with Korea that the National Assembly has authority over a football association picking a coach? This is blatant political interference!"
"I'm just as baffled, but that's the public mood right now."
Pep pierced me with a sharp gaze.
"You didn't actually interfere in the selection or give them any reason to summon you, right? Be honest."
"I swear, nothing like that. I did meet with the association once, but it was at their request for an investigation into chronic national team issues—not pushing for any specific coach."
Pep huffed, still seething.
"No way out of it? You're just settling into Man City! Flying to Korea for this nonsense is a massive roster loss!"
"September national team camp is coming up anyway, right? Gotta go home for the Palestine match either way. I'll just head early, stop by the assembly, explain cleanly, and bounce. Dragging it out only amps the noise."
Pep pondered long, then finally shook his head in resignation.
"Fine, got it. But remember: you're a Manchester City player. Your job is the Etihad pitch, not Korean politics."
No sooner had my meeting with Pep ended than British media unleashed a barrage of breaking news. Even the usually staid outlets branded Korea's move an incomprehensible comedy.
Especially when Manchester City's official response hit the airwaves, public outrage boiled over.
Back in the locker room packing my bag, seeing my name on the monitor's news felt alien.
Victim of hasty administration.
Even to me, the Korean football scene right now was a comedy. More obsessed with procedural demagoguery than picking a competent coach, dragging a Premier League player to the assembly.
I zipped my bag shut tight.
Go ahead, summon me. I'll show up just like you want.
My football boots gleamed at my feet. Whether they'd crush a ball or some smug ass in a fancy Yeouido chair remained to be seen. I felt good.
In my past life, I'd played enough football. In this one, I was thriving at a big club, but it wasn't about personal career highs or new challenges. The reason for this regression I'd set: stop Korean football's collapse. That's it.
Flying back to Korea, I'd broadcast this clusterfuck comedy to England, FIFA, the world. Let the bandwagon fans' precious foreign perception paint us as a backward nation of moronic pots.