Chapter 4 - The Live Broadcast
The television screen in Daniel’s office hissed with audio interference as the live broadcast fed real-time chaos from the academy’s lower athletic grounds.
On screen, the reporter—a notoriously aggressive anchor from a major Seoul sports tabloid named Park Min-soo—was practically cornering a group of young academy players who had just stepped off the pitch.
“Tell us!” Park shouted into his microphone, gesturing wildly toward the camera. “Is the Han Global Academy turning into a private playground for billionaire heirs? Where is Ethan Solis? Is the ghost son of Daniel Han hiding in the dorms while the rest of these athletes sweat for their positions?”
In the office, Min-jun’s face drained of color. “Director, the PR department is in a panic. If this narrative gets out of control—if the public thinks we’re running a nepotism ring—the academy’s federal athletic accreditation could be suspended before the winter tournament.”
Daniel didn't panic. His jaw hardened into a line of absolute steel, the CEO mask snapping back into place with lethal efficiency.
“Shut down the perimeter gates, deploy campus security to clear the press corps, and isolate the media feed,” Daniel ordered sharply.
“Too late,” Ethan said quietly.
Daniel turned his head to look at his son.
Ethan hadn't moved from his spot near the door, but his eyes were locked on the television screen with an intensity that bordered on frightening. He watched the reporter mockingly toss a soccer ball back and forth, playing to the cameras, painting Ethan’s entire life’s work as a silver-spoon handout.
For twenty-four years, Ethan had lived in the shadow of a missing father, working twice as hard on every pitch in Atlanta, enduring scouts who overlooked him because he wasn't part of the elite travel-team circuits, bleeding and sweating for every single accolade he earned.
And now, some sleazy tabloid journalist was standing on international television, reducing his entire existence to a tabloid headline about a billionaire’s bastard son.
“Ethan,” Daniel said, his voice dropping into a warning tone. “Don't do anything rash. Security will handle the press.”
“Security will clear the gates in twenty minutes,” Ethan said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He reached up, unzipped his black hoodie, and let it drop to the floor, revealing a plain athletic compression shirt underneath. He unbuckled his travel duffel, pulled out a pair of worn, scuffed Nike cleats from the side pocket, and began rapidly changing his shoes.
“What are you doing?” Daniel asked, stepping forward.
“My mother taught me one thing above all else,” Ethan said, tying his left lace with sharp, precise tugs. “You don't run from the pitch when the lights get bright. You play.”
Before Daniel could stop him, Ethan turned on his heel, wrenched open the office door, and strode down the hallway toward the private elevator bank that led directly down to the training grounds.
“Min-jun!” Daniel barked, following close behind. “Unlock the private tunnel feed to the main stadium cameras. Make sure every single lens in that press mob is pointed at the center circle.”
Down on the turf, the floodlights cut through the humid Seoul night like artificial suns.
The media mob had surged past the security barrier, cameras flashing like lightning bolts as reporters shouted overlapping questions.
“Where is he? Is he afraid to face the press?”
Park Min-soo grinned maliciously into his handheld microphone, playing to the livestream audience of over half a million viewers across South Korea. “There you have it, folks. Han Global Academy—home of elite training, or home of hidden heirs? We are still waiting for Ethan Solis to show his face—”
The heavy metal stadium tunnel door at the far end of the pitch slammed open with a metallic echo that cut through the noise.
The crowd of reporters turned instantly.
Camera lenses zoomed in.
Out of the tunnel walked Ethan Solis.
He wasn't wearing an academy blazer. He wasn't wearing designer streetwear. He was wearing a sweat-stained practice jersey, shorts, and scuffed cleats, bouncing a regulation match ball on his right thigh with casual, rhythmic precision.
The stadium fell completely silent, save for the hum of the broadcast equipment and the soft thump, thump, thump of the leather ball hitting Ethan’s knee.
He walked past the technical area, crossed the white chalk line of the touchline, and stepped directly into the center circle of the pitch.
He didn't look at the cameras. He looked straight at Park Min-soo, his dark eyes burning with the cold, focused fury of a man who had spent his entire life proving he belonged.
Park recovered his composure first, sneering as he thrust his microphone forward. “Ah, the scholarship recipient speaks! Mr. Solis, the public wants to know—did you earn your spot here through athletic skill, or did your billionaire father buy you a jersey?”
Ethan stopped bouncing the ball. He balanced it delicately on the top of his right foot, looked up at the camera lens broadcasting live across the nation, and then looked at Park.
“You want to talk about my spot?” Ethan’s voice rang out clearly, picked up instantly by the reporter’s wireless lapel mic.
“I’m asking the questions here,” Park scoffed.
“Then listen carefully,” Ethan said, his voice steady and cold. “Because I’m only going to answer once.”
Without warning, Ethan flicked the ball up into the air, spun 180 degrees, and unleashed a blistering, thunderous volley with his left foot.
The ball rocketed across sixty yards of green turf with the velocity of a cannonball, whistling through the humid air before smashing directly into the center crossbar of the goal with a deafening CRACK that echoed off the stadium walls, before bouncing harmlessly out of bounds.
The entire press corps flinched collectively.
Park Min-soo froze, his microphone hovering in mid-air.
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Ethan didn't blink. He jogged slowly toward the stunned reporter, stopping three feet away, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion.
“That’s how I earned my spot,” Ethan said softly, his voice carrying clearly into the live microphone. “Now, get off my pitch.”
