Han Ye-jin's Fluster
Alex's study resembled a soccer museum.
The walls were lined with official World Cup match balls from every era, uniforms signed by legendary players, and glass display cases housing prized collections of worn cleats.
He was a man obsessed with the game, and that was precisely why I'd come to him.
"Alright, let's see it."
Alex said, slipping on a pair of white gloves. His eyes gleamed with unusual intensity. He always got like this around soccer artifacts, but today he seemed especially grave.
I carefully opened the box and lifted out the cleats.
"Hmm..."
Alex let out a low murmur. He took them from me as if handling a holy relic.
"How much did you pay?"
"Three hundred euros."
He chuckled and shook his head.
"Tch, looks like you got scammed. If these were really Pele's Debut Shoes... they'd be worth way more than three hundred euros."
Even as he spoke, his touch remained reverent.
"If you think it's fake, why handle it like that?"
"Well, it's unlikely, but just in case—by some miracle slimmer than winning the lottery—these turn out to be authentic, I wouldn't dare disrespect their nobility."
Alex placed the cleats on his desk and fetched a magnifying glass.
"Pele's Debut Shoes are the holy grail for collectors worldwide. Dozens hit the auction block every year, but every single one is a fake."
"No real ones ever?"
"If there had been, I wouldn't be treating these with such care."
"........"
He had a point.
Alex shrugged and continued.
"Forgive my pickiness. This is a matter of honor for a collector like me."
"I get it."
"No, only collectors truly understand. Knowing how to spot the real Pele's Debut Shoes—that's the mark of our expertise."
"That serious, huh?"
"Yes."
He fitted a small loupe over one eye and went on.
"They're the Holy Grail of soccer collecting. Countless fakes have flooded auctions, and we've all been hunting for the real deal. Conservatively, it's worth at least ten billion won—maybe more. No way something like that ends up on a street vendor's stall."
"I wasn't expecting much anyway."
"Good attitude. Still, since you brought them, let's check thoroughly. This is my hobby now—consider it payment for the appraisal, Kang-min."
No escape.
Seeing me lean in, Alex launched into his explanation with confident flair.
"First reason these can't be real: Pele's debut cleats were handmade in a small Brazilian workshop."
"Makes sense—no Nike back then."
"Exactly. Unlike mass-produced ones, the real ones have the maker's initials and year etched tiny inside the leather. Most fakes miss this detail—they just copy photos and mimic the exterior."
Alex pointed to the inside with his finger. Then his expression froze.
"...Huh?"
Instead of his stunned silence, I tilted my head to peer inside.
Faint but unmistakable: 'J.S 1956' etched there.
Alex cleared his throat, masking his fluster.
"Ahem, well... modern fakes are getting sophisticated. They can fake that much. Now, the clincher—the second reason it's impossible. This trips up most counterfeits."
He raised the magnifying glass again.
"The genuine article used special leather that shows a subtle ripple pattern under light at certain angles. Modern tech can't replicate it. See? These are just ordinary leather."
Alex shone the desk lamp confidently onto the cleats.
His eyes widened.
Ripples.
Under the shifting light, faint but distinct waves danced across the weathered black leather—like the skin of a living thing.
"Wha...?"
A bead of sweat trickled from Alex's brow. He adjusted the lamp angle repeatedly, but the pattern persisted.
"This... this can't be..."
He muttered, wiping his sweat.
His usual brash confidence had evaporated.
I just watched him blankly, silently.
So... it's real?
"Final... final check."
Alex's voice trembled. He pleaded almost.
"Pele was right-footed, but he had this quirk—twisting his body on the left ankle during shots. So his cleats always showed extreme wear on the inside left ankle. If—if these have that too..."
With shaking hands, Alex flipped the cleat to inspect the left ankle area.
And he cried out.
"Oh my God! Unbelievable!"
He clutched his head and collapsed onto the sofa. His eyes swirled with shock, ecstasy, and utter disbelief.
"Where on earth did you find these, Kang-min?! This... this is real! The real Pele's Debut Shoes!"
Alex bellowed, near tears.
"Ten billion...! At minimum, ten billion won!"
I stared blankly at the cleats on the desk.
Three hundred euros.
The first money I'd spent on myself.
I'd never imagined it would become the key to reshaping my entire life.
In the general manager's office at Ashbery Town FC, Daniel Henderson rubbed his throbbing temples, glaring at the stack of papers. One name dominated his thoughts.
Leo Silva.
— "Leo Silva says he'll sign. But he wants 100 billion won in salary. Get it ready."
The call from owner Han Ye-jin had been brief, but its impact hit like a storm.
Damn it. Where am I supposed to scrape together two billion a week?
Daniel knew the club's finances better than anyone.
Ashbery was teetering on the brink.
Han Ye-jin's aggressive investments over the years—state-of-the-art training facilities, high-wage signings, youth academy expansions—looked flashy, but rot festered beneath.
Without Premier League promotion, the club was doomed.
In three years.
Or with Leo Silva's massive wages, they'd have to gamble within one.
Damn, damn, damn!
Daniel tore at his hair. Staff cuts, youth budget slashes, even downgrading the training cafeteria menu—he weighed every option.
But plugging a two-billion-weekly hole needed one missing puzzle piece.
Then a name flashed in his mind.
Ah.
Cha Kang-min.
Daniel yanked out the player salary list.
Next to Cha Kang-min's name: still mid-tier wages, even after cuts, thanks to his past glory amid injuries and slumps.
If I ship this guy out...
A cynical smile curled Daniel's lips.
Dumping Cha Kang-min freed up his salary.
Renegotiating would take time anyway—better to cut fast.
Not perfect, but a solid chunk toward Leo Silva's fee.
He's past his prime anyway.
Daniel felt no pity. Pro soccer was ruthless.
Declining value meant discard.
He dialed Cha Kang-min immediately.
"Kang-min? Got something to discuss about your contract."
To him, Cha Kang-min was no longer a team legend.
"That weekly wage I proposed before? Looks like we'll have to halve it."
Just a 'cost' to handle.
Han Ye-jin hummed contentedly in the car heading to her family's London villa, gazing out at the night skyline. London's lights sparkled more beautifully than ever.
I did it.
Leo Silva. The Championship's top scorer. He'd turned down Premier League suitors for a verbal commitment to Ashbery.
Her charm, the club's vision, and a massive salary promise had sealed it—but success nonetheless.
Promotion needed an ace.
A brutal lesson from three grueling years.
Since Cha Kang-min's collapse, no single player could turn matches.
But Leo Silva changed that. Promotion was certain now.
Her upbeat fantasies carried her to her parents' villa for the family dinner, where everyone gathered.
Under glittering chandeliers, the long table hosted parents and siblings.
It looked harmonious at a glance, but beneath simmered invisible tensions. Family, yes—but rivals for group succession.
Her sudden soccer team buyout stemmed from that: to catch her soccer-mad grandfather's eye.
Yet in six years, he'd barely mentioned it. Her investments seemed mere childish spending.
"Ye-jin."
Her father, Chairman Han, spoke up.
"Grandfather expects your team to promote this season."
"What?!"
Han Ye-jin doubted her ears. Grandfather, on my team? She stared at him, stunned.
"Really, Father?"
"Yes. He watches every one of your matches. Hasn't missed a single game."
Thump, thump.
Her heart raced wildly. She felt her siblings' wary glares—jealous eyes that thrilled her.
I did it. Finally, I've won Grandfather's favor.
Suppressing surging emotion, she smiled. Breaking Leo Silva news would cement it.
Father continued.
"He especially likes Cha Kang-min."
"......Pardon?"
Her sky-high joy plummeted to rock bottom.
"He praises the player's grit. Loves how he grinds without giving up, despite his broken body—like Grandfather in his youth."
Father smiled warmly, but Han Ye-jin's face paled rigid.
"Grandfather wants to see Cha Kang-min rise again and lead the team to promotion."
Cha Kang-min. Cha Kang-min. Cha Kang-min.
The name hammered her skull.
The man she'd just decided to discard was her sole key to Grandfather's approval.
"O-of course, Father. Leave it to me."
Han Ye-jin forced a smile, her wine-glass hand trembling faintly.