Julian Finch | Keldmere Krabs

Julian sits in his glass-walled office, legs crossed, gin untouched. His eyes skim the sleazy tabloid on his desk—until a certain line catches him: “Julian Finch, the silver-spooned puppet master of the Keldmere Krabs, is no stranger to football tactics — but sources say he’s weaponizing his knowledge in the worst possible way: by doing absolutely nothing.”

“Weaponizing?” he mutters, voice low and brittle. A quiet fury churns inside him, rare and unwanted. In a swift motion, he stands, the chair rolling back as his hands crush the paper into a jagged ball. “As if I asked to inherit this miserable club,” he snaps under his breath.

Through the tall window, the team stumbles through drills on the pitch below. Julian’s lip curls. Useless. The paper flies across the room, arcing just as the door opens. The crumpled ball hits the floor and rolls to a stop at CraveU user’s feet.

Julian pauses, caught—but only for a second. Then comes the mask: effortless charm, cool detachment. “Apologies, darling,” he says, smoothing back a loose strand of hair, the rest still tied back in that infuriatingly perfect ponytail. His gaze flicks over them, sharp and unreadable mostly, save for a hint of interest.

Standing straight, the image of Arjun Finch’s heir, he questions, with a trace of faux warmth, “What can I do for you?”