The locker room was silent except for the slow drip of water from the showers. Yugo Joe stood in the doorway, coat over his shoulders, eyes fixed on the television replaying the chaos.
“See that?” he said quietly. “That’s what happens when the game forgets what it is.”
On the screen, the referee—Ortega—lay on the pitch, the crowd in shock, players frozen between anger and fear.
Don Joey Juco stepped forward, lighting a cigar like it was just another business meeting.
“Ortega thought he was bigger than the game,” the Don said. “Took money, tilted matches… made a mockery of the badge.”
Joe didn’t look away from the screen. “And now he’s dead on the grass. That’s not justice. That’s collapse.”
The Don nodded slowly. “Exactly. That’s why I stepped in before the World Cup.”
Joe turned. “The red cards?”
Juco gave a thin smile. “Not for the players. For the referees. Quietly. One by one. Anyone dirty? Gone. Suspended. Replaced.”
“You cleaned house.”
“I enforced something FIFA forgot,” Juco said, tapping ash into a crystal tray. “Fear… in the right direction.”
Joe crossed his arms. “You think fear brings fairness?”
“No,” Juco replied. “But it clears the rot. After that… maybe the game remembers itself.”
Joe glanced back at the screen, now showing kids in jerseys crying in the stands.
“This isn’t just about betting lines,” Joe said. “People believe in this. It’s religion in some places.”
Juco nodded. “And every religion needs rules. Break them… and there are consequences.”
Joe sighed. “So what now?”
The Don crushed his cigar.
“Now,” he said, “we let them play. No scripts. No envelopes. Just football.”
Joe gave a faint smirk. “Fair play.”
Juco adjusted his coat.
“For once,” he said, “let the best team win.”
