William thought for a moment before saying, "How about a job as an observer for the team's security at home games?"
Noticing Swagger's curiosity, William smiled and explained, "Your eyes and observation skills are probably the best around. For now, let's start you off as an assistant director. Once you've adapted to the job, we'll discuss further opportunities."
"Thank you, that sounds perfect," Swagger replied, clearly satisfied with the role. As a devoted Chelsea fan and someone looking to settle back in London to spend more time with his parents and girlfriend, the job was ideal.
As for the salary, Swagger didn't care much. His weekly pay from the Kingsman agency alone was £2,000, not to mention the generous bonuses he received for missions assigned by William. Thanks to this, he'd been able to afford a large house near the Chelsea stadium shortly after returning to London.
For William, having Swagger, a top-tier sniper, in a comfortable, stable role was a win. Swagger's particular skills were only needed for high-stakes missions where getting close to a target wasn't feasible. Keeping him satisfied with a respectable job was a prudent move.
After finalizing Swagger's role, William took the time to personally introduce everyone around the table.
Once seated, Kenny couldn't help but notice how highly William regarded Swagger. Recognizing the value of playing it smart, he refrained from immediately trying to ingratiate himself with Swagger and instead struck up a conversation with Old Swagger, focusing on his insights as a long-time Chelsea fan.
The dinner stretched into the evening, lasting until just past 8 PM. Sunday then informed William that Marcel's treatment had been completed and that he had changed back into his clothes in the medical room.
William clapped his hands, interrupting the ongoing conversations. "Ladies and gentlemen, Marcel's treatment is finished. Shall we go see how he's doing?"
Lena, surprised by how quickly the treatment had been completed, asked, "That fast?"
"Mom, it's already been three hours. If you prefer, I can have Sunday guide Marcel here to the dining room. He's probably hungry by now."
Without waiting for a response, William instructed Sunday to open the security doors in the basement for Marcel.
Moments later, Marcel walked into the dining room, led by a servant, looking as though he had never been injured at all.
"Wait, Marcel, weren't you injured yesterday?" Old Swagger asked in shock, standing up. "Mr. Devonshire, did you really invent a new technology for rapidly healing injuries?"
Bob Swagger subtly tugged at his father's sleeve, trying to keep him from saying too much. But William merely waved it off with a smile. "It's fine, Bob."
He motioned for Jessie to help Marcel find a seat before addressing the French defender. "It looks like you're recovering well. Do you feel any discomfort at all?"
After thanking the servant who brought him a plate of food and utensils, Marcel, visibly moved, shook his head vigorously. "No, none at all. In fact, I feel like I've gone back ten years. I feel light and pain-free.
"My ankle, knee, and lower back feel perfectly fine. God, Boss, I can't thank you enough. You've given my career a new lease on life."
"That good?"
Mourinho, who had been both stunned and thrilled to see Marcel walking normally, couldn't contain his excitement. "Apologies, Boss, but can I take Marcel back to the team for some tests?
"If this technology really works, it means we'll never have to fear injuries again."
In English football, where physicality and aggression reign supreme, this would be a monumental advantage. The team could face off against physical sides without hesitation, even trading injury for injury if necessary.
While their players might recover within a day, opposing teams wouldn't be so lucky. Over time, Chelsea could dominate the league. Mourinho was already strategizing—his next defensive signings would be enforcers with tough, hard-tackling styles, while his forwards and midfielders would focus on speed and skill.
His vision? Drag every opponent into a muscle-jungle style of play. Thinking about facing Arsenal, a finesse-oriented team, tomorrow, a sly grin spread across Mourinho's face.
Not wanting to waste time, he hurried Marcel to finish his meal and, after briefly thanking William, left with Kenny and Marcel to conduct immediate tests at the team's facilities.
Most of the paparazzi camped outside the estate followed Mourinho's car, knowing William's aversion to giving interviews. It didn't take much thought to realize they'd have better chances at the Chelsea training grounds.
After waiting a few more minutes to ensure most of the reporters had left, William escorted the Swaggers to the estate's main hall. He turned to Old Swagger and said, "You know as well as I do that while our relationship isn't exactly a secret, if I personally see you off, your photo will be all over England by tomorrow. That wouldn't be good for either of us."
"I understand," Old Swagger replied with a smile. William had already gone above and beyond in showing his friendship and support tonight, and Swagger had no interest in attracting unnecessary attention.
After shaking hands with William, Swagger and his father left the estate, escorted by a servant.
As they walked out of the main gates, they were immediately surrounded by waiting fans and journalists. Old Swagger turned to his companions and some familiar fans. "Let's talk at my pub."
"No, we should head to your house," one of his companions suggested, glancing warily at the reporters. "Don't forget—every Chelsea pub is packed right now."
"Right, I almost forgot about Mr. Devonshire covering the tab at all the pubs for Lena's birthday. Every Chelsea fan is out celebrating."
Slapping his forehead, Old Swagger laughed and said, "Let's go to Bob's house. He just moved in and hasn't had us over for drinks yet."
"We're fine with that," one of the fan leaders agreed. "But Bob, don't be stingy. Make sure there's plenty of beer for everyone."
"Don't worry," Bob promised, pounding his chest. "Unless you're crawling out, there'll be no shortage of beer."
"Alright then, let's go!"
The group piled into cars, and before long, they were on their way. Meanwhile, the remaining fans and their leaders surrounded the remaining reporters, distracting them with conversation and ensuring they didn't follow the Swaggers.
Once the Swaggers were out of sight, the fans scattered, heading back to their pubs to continue the celebration.
Back at the estate, with the guests gone, William was about to take Abigail and Jessie upstairs to rest when Lena pulled him onto the sofa.
After hesitating for a moment, she asked, "William, we're not short on money, are we?"
"Of course not," William replied, looking at her quizzically. "There's no way we'd ever run out of money. I've got so much I don't even know how to spend it all."
"Good," Lena said, her eyes lighting up. "I need to ask you for a favor."
"Anything, Mom," William said without hesitation. "You know I'd do anything for you."
Thrilled by his quick agreement, Lena smiled brightly. "Then figure out how to keep the self-healing pod exclusive to our team until we win the Champions League—without hurting its reputation or its potential for making money."
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