FORESIGHT

"Brilliant play! guys."

"Luis, another goal, you're becoming our guarantee up front!"

Vermaelen was standing by the locker room door, his voice echoing with pride as he applauded his teammates. The mood was electric. Smiles, laughter, and a rare lightness filled the Arsenal squad. A Champions League win like this, especially against such a tough opponent, was no small feat.

"Kai!"

Vermaelen quickly raised his hand to block as Kai made his way over, already grinning and threatening to ruffle the Chinese hair.

Instead, Kai clapped his hand into Vermaelen's—smack! —before cheekily grabbing both sides of his captain's head and planting a quick kiss on his forehead.

"Captain, that was class defending tonight!" Kai teased.

Vermaelen groaned and pulled away, his face twisting with mock misery. The rest of the squad burst into laughter at the sight.

Inside the dressing room, Kai yanked off his shirt and shouted, his voice carrying through the whole room:

"We've done it—we've bloody won!"

"Victory!" the team roared back in unison.

Kai pointed towards Suarez and Rosicky, flashing them a wink. "Luis, Rosicky, tomorrow every paper in London is going to be plastered with your faces. Brace yourselves."

"Tell you what," Cazorla chimed in, his eyes twinkling, "how about a little dinner tonight? Three wins on the bounce in the Champions League—come on, that deserves a proper celebration!"

The shouts of approval were instant:

"I'm in!"

"No problem, free tonight!"

"Oi, what about drinks?"

Someone cut in straight away: "Forget it! You want the Professor to bench you for turning up half-cut tomorrow?"

Laughter filled the room. The players, buzzing with adrenaline and relief, formed a circle and began a celebratory train, stomping their boots against the floor and howling with laughter. Kai even played along, mimicking a train whistle as they marched around.

By the time Wenger entered, the whole place was shaking with joy. For once, even the Professor couldn't hide a smile.

Clap clap clap!

"Gentlemen," Wenger said, amused but firm, "showers, now."

Reluctantly, the players began peeling off towards the showers. Kai grabbed his bag, but Wenger's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Kai—ten minutes. Shower quickly, then you're coming with me to the press conference."

Kai froze mid-step, blinking. "Me? The post-match presser?"

Normally, Wenger shielded him from the media like a hawk.

Wenger nodded calmly. "Yes. We can't keep you hidden anymore. If we let the press chase you around the training ground gates every day, it'll never end. Better to face them properly. You're ready."

A look of relief passed across Kai's face. The endless media scrums outside Barnett's place had become unbearable. Every day, reporters camped outside, ambushing him the moment he left the complex. If this meant finally controlling that madness, he was all for it.

Ten minutes later, freshly showered and changed into his Arsenal training kit, Kai walked with Wenger into the post-match press room.

The Champions League backdrop loomed behind the long table; microphones lined neatly in front of each seat. Across the room sat a wall of reporters, their mics tagged with every major media outlet.

Pat Rice had quietly instructed staff beforehand which papers to prioritise and which ones to ignore. Unsurprisingly, The Sun was firmly on the do-not-bother list.

The moment Kai stepped in, the room erupted in murmurs. Reporters leaned forward, eyes gleaming. For weeks, they'd been dying to get him in front of a microphone. Tonight, they finally had their chance.

At the table, Klopp was already seated. The Dortmund manager gave Kai a courteous nod, which Kai returned politely before sitting beside Wenger.

The first few minutes were routine—questions aimed at the two managers about tactics, substitutions, and turning points in the game.

Then the attention shifted.

A sea of hands shot up, and though a reporter from The Sun stood almost on his chair, arm waving desperately, the press officer calmly chose someone else—a London Sports News journalist seated in the front row. Arsenal's friendlier media, as expected.

The reporter cleared his throat and asked:

"Kai, tonight you were credited with one assist, one major attacking buildup, nine tackles, six interceptions, and a host of other stats. How would you personally assess your performance?"

Kai leaned forward into the mic, smiling slightly. "Honestly, I don't really count numbers during a match. When you're in the game, you're just fighting for every ball, doing what the team needs. But hearing those figures… yeah, I'd say I'm pleased. It shows the effort paid off."

The journalist returned with a compliment. "For your reference, most outlets have already given you a rating of 5 out of 5 for tonight. That's an exceptional score."

Kai chuckled. "I appreciate it. Thank you."

Another reporter was given the floor, while the representative from The Sun—still waving his hand desperately—was ignored again.

"Can you tell us," the reporter began, "what you found most difficult about tonight's match?"

Kai leaned back for a moment, considering his words carefully. "Honestly, it was Dortmund's high press. Their intensity really disrupted our rhythm. Every time I received the ball, I had to be alert to the possibility of being swarmed or intercepted. Because of that, I played mostly one-touch passes to keep the tempo moving. It wasn't easy, but it forced us to stay sharp."

The journalist gave a small nod of approval before sitting down, clearly satisfied with the answer.

"Next question," the press officer called.

That was when the Sun reporter suddenly stood up and shouted at the top of his lungs:

"Are you dating?"

Kai froze, blinking in disbelief. "…?"

He turned towards the press officer, silently asking whether he was supposed to entertain such nonsense. The officer didn't flinch, pointing instead to another journalist and moving things along as if nothing had happened.

"Luis Suarez had a huge night," the next reporter asked. "How do you evaluate his performance?"

Kai's tone was immediate and firm: "He's a top-class striker. For me, world-class. You give him half a chance and he'll make something of it. He was brilliant tonight."

But the Sun reporter wasn't done. He barked out again: "What kind of girl do you like, Kai?"

Kai's expression didn't change, though his silence spoke volumes. He simply looked back at the press officer.

Another reporter tried to pull things back on track: "Any thoughts on a potential transfer in the future?"

Kai shrugged. "No, not at all. I'm really happy here at Arsenal. I've no desire to leave."

"Sexy or pure?" the Sun voice interrupted again, shamelessly.

Kai exhaled slowly. "…Right."

Another question came from the front row: "Would you be willing to disclose your annual salary?"

"Not convenient," Kai said bluntly.

And again, the voice from the back: "Hey! If you don't answer me, it means you agree!"

Before Kai could even react, the press officer said. "That's enough. The post-match press conference is hereby concluded."

Wenger and Kai rose instantly, heading for the exit. As Kai turned, he noticed the Sun reporter scribbling furiously into his notebook, head bowed, pen flying across the page.

Kai's stomach dropped. I didn't answer a single one of his questions—what on earth is he writing now?

…

Later that evening, the players regrouped at a villa for dinner. Spirits were high. Three straight wins in the Champions League—it didn't get much sweeter than that. Arsenal's position in Group F looked secure; barring a total collapse, qualification was well within reach.

They were midway through their food when Chamberlain suddenly let out a sharp cry. "Oi, you lot—this is unbelievable!"

Everyone turned. "What now?" someone asked.

Chamberlain stared at his phone with a look of half-amusement, half-disgust. "The Sun's at it again. Listen to this headline."

Kai frowned. "What did they write?"

Chamberlain lifted his phone, the bold headline filling the screen:

The Sun: Arsenal's Young Midfield General Kai Reveals His Type—'Red Heads' Silence Means Consent!

The room erupted with laughter. Kai, on the other hand, nearly choked on his food. "What?! What is that?!"

"You didn't deny it, mate," Chamberlain said between fits of laughter. "They've spun your silence into a confession."

Kai rubbed his temples, exasperated. "Pat Rice told me not to answer their questions. I did what I was told. And now this? Bloody ridiculous."

Vermaelen leaned over, chuckling as he gave Kai a consoling pat on the shoulder. "Don't let it get to you. The Sun only goes after players who matter. They don't waste ink on nobodies. You're a target because you're becoming a name."

Kai gave a tired smile. "So I'm supposed to be happy about this?"

"Of course," Vermaelen grinned. "It's twisted logic, but it's true. You're relevant. That's what counts. Just laugh it off—nobody serious will believe it."

Kai narrowed his eyes. "…Are you sure about that?"

Vermaelen hesitated, then shrugged. "Well… maybe not nobody."

Kai buried his face in his hands. "Brilliant. Just brilliant."

.

Still, the mood of the team was buoyant. The consecutive victories in Europe had given Arsenal fresh confidence. But they knew tougher tests lay ahead. Chelsea, United, and Liverpool all awaited them in the league, and Dortmund again loomed in the return leg.

This was just the beginning of a long road.

Wenger, mindful of last season's injury crisis, ordered a full round of medical and physical checks. To his relief, every player passed with flying colours. The squad was healthy, the energy was high, and the momentum was finally on Arsenal's side.

For now, at least, the storm clouds were held at bay.