That person dashed past Emily Clark wildly, flailing his arms and legs. Even though it was just a glimpse, Emily Clark was certain that boy was number 6 from the court yesterday! Because his running posture was exactly the same...

She had just turned to call out, "Hey..." but was drowned out by two barks.

Hot on the boy’s heels were two bulldogs, drooling and barking furiously as they chased after him.

"They chase me every time! Don’t people leash their dogs at home? Damn it!"

"Woof woof!" The only response was two dog barks.

Amid the shouts of the person and the dogs, the boy and the two dogs quickly disappeared from her sight.

Still not quite sure what had happened, Emily Clark turned around and saw a family’s front yard ahead, with a mailbox standing by the gate. The mailbox door wasn’t closed properly, and a colorful flyer was wedged in it, fluttering in the dusk breeze.

Emily Clark walked up and gently pulled out the flyer, discovering it was an advertisement for a Chinese fast food restaurant. It had the restaurant’s name and phone number, a detailed address, and a simple hand-drawn map showing where the place was located.

※※※

When Brian Carter returned to "McChina" fast food restaurant, panting and carrying an empty backpack, it wasn’t dark yet, and naturally there were no customers in the dining area.

He placed the empty backpack on the counter, greeted the boss, and headed out again—he had to rush to his next part-time job.

He was working two jobs at the same time. One was distributing flyers for this Chinese fast food restaurant, a way to attract business. He stuffed flyers with the restaurant’s menu into people’s homes, and if they needed it, they’d call the number on the flyer to order food.

The other job was as a bartender in a bar.

As he was leaving, a coworker in the restaurant shouted, "Chased by dogs again, Brian Carter?"

Brian Carter flipped the gloating guy the middle finger, and a burst of laughter erupted behind him.

※※※

Dons Bar was located at the intersection of two streets, right at a crossroads. Its main entrance faced east, and if you walked three more blocks in that direction, you’d reach a shabby little football pitch. Although the pitch was rundown and had been abandoned for a long time—some people even kept horses there—it still held a sacred and exalted place in the hearts of Wimbledon football fans.

That pitch was called "Plough Lane," the former home ground of Wimbledon Football Club, which was then competing in League One (later the Championship). Wimbledon fans had many wonderful memories at that stadium.

"Dons" was what Wimbledon fans called themselves, so you could tell from the name what kind of bar this was. That’s right, it was a Wimbledon supporters’ bar.

Brian Carter stood behind the bar counter. He had changed clothes, now wearing a dark blue short-sleeved shirt and a black apron tied around his waist. There was no sign of the disheveled look from being chased by dogs, nor could you tell he’d once argued with teammates over a match’s outcome on the pitch, his face dark with anger. Now, he looked calm and composed, just like an ordinary bartender—in fact, he was a bartender.

He was mixing drinks for the customers gathered at the bar—a skillful job, but he was already proficient and handled it with ease.

A TV hanging from the ceiling was broadcasting the news.

"...Pete Winkelman has once again appealed to the FA regarding the club’s relocation. This time, the FA has agreed to study the issue. They will hold a high-level meeting of three officials in a week to decide whether to approve Wimbledon Football Club’s move to Milton Keynes..."

The news anchor’s voice was quickly drowned out by the angry shouts and curses of the crowd.

"Fuck!! That bastard Winkelman!"

"What is he doing? What does he think he’s doing? Wimbledon belongs to us, not him!"

"The FA can’t approve this request, or everything will be a mess..."

"Damn it, we have to take to the streets and protest! We need to make sure that money-grubbing businessman Winkelman and those FA officials hear the voice of the Wimbledon community!"

"Bastards!"

"Rich sons of bitches!"

...

Countless middle fingers were raised high. Brian Carter held a freshly mixed beer, but didn’t know who to give it to. "Whose drink is this?" he shouted, but no one paid him any attention—his voice was lost in another wave of curses. Not only was the beer in his hand left ownerless, but even the drinks in the customers’ own hands had been forgotten, as they vented their frustration at the TV with the foulest language.

"It’s useless, the FA can’t hear our voices..." Some people were feeling dejected, like the man in front of Brian Carter. He slumped over the bar, mumbling indistinctly. In front of him, a large glass of beer had only a ring of white foam clinging to the sides, pooling at the bottom.