My Brother used to tell me that take the religion out of the equation and put them on an island and they will come along. Now I truly think he was so wrong, it's in our gens!
Michael Carrick walked straight over to Benjamin Šeško after the final whistle against Manchester City in January 2026.
United had just beaten their neighbours. Carrick, only weeks into the job after taking over from Ruben Amorim, ignored the usual post-match routines for a moment. Šeško had been on the bench that day. Carrick still made him the first player he approached. He put an arm around the tall Slovenian and spoke to him quietly, away from the cameras and the noise.
Later Carrick explained it plainly. He said there was no issue with Šeško losing rhythm. The previous week he had simply picked the team for a specific plan. Benjamin was in a good moment. He had trained excellently. Carrick said he enjoyed working with him. The finishes in training were outstanding. The attitude was right. He wanted to keep developing him so he could reach his highest level. He saw the current spell as a springboard and believed Šeško would be at Manchester United for a very long time.
Šeško had arrived from RB Leipzig the previous summer for a big fee. The first months under the old manager had been difficult — only a couple of goals in more than a dozen appearances. Under Carrick the goals started coming more regularly. The manager’s public comments matched what he had already shown the player in private: trust, belief, and a clear plan to keep building him.
That was the exchange. One former midfielder who knew what it took at the club, speaking directly to a young striker still finding his way, telling him he belonged and that the work was being noticed.
VP Vance holds a roundtable to discuss the ways Congress can work together with the @WHFraudTF to tackle fraud:
"We need to know where your tax dollars are going, and if the state of California or the state of New York isn't going to tell us we need Congress to force them to tell us."
We want traitors to know is that there is no safe haven. We will give you no sanctuary.
In the month of July, the FBI executed almost 30 foreign transfers of custody in over 15 separate countries for drug traffickers, terrorists, murderers, and rapists.
So what I’m here to tell you today, for all these individuals that are on the run right now, you will not be on the run for long.
We will hunt you down in every corner of the planet, and we will return you here to face American justice.
The numbers that we at the FBI and our partners are returning to America to face justice from overseas is a record-breaking number.
It is a direct result of President Trump’s relationships with foreign governments that allow us to work in spaces we were never permitted to work before.
And that is why we are delivering these historic results, returning these individuals to America for justice.
And most importantly, once they are in our justice system, we have seized these funds, and we are going to get them back to the senior citizens that were fleeced of their life savings and their retirements.
That is the mission of law enforcement.
That is the collective mission of the interagency partnerships you see here today.
I’m thankful to be able to stand shoulder to shoulder with these agencies, our prosecutors, the Department of Justice, and this White House, laser focused and of primary importance on protecting our most vulnerable, our kids, and our elderly.
And you’re seeing that done here today.
And this FBI, along with our interagency partners, will not rest.
If anyone in the world has information on these perpetrators, 1-800-CALL-FBI.
Here’s a short story based on your request:
Scoles stood at the edge of the workshop, arms folded, watching the young man work. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the benches littered with tools, half-assembled engines, and the faint smell of oil and metal that had filled this place for decades.
Fernandes moved with quiet certainty. His hands, still young but already calloused, turned a wrench with the kind of care that couldn’t be taught in a classroom. Every adjustment was precise. Every glance at the timing marks was deliberate. He didn’t rush. He didn’t show off. He simply understood.
Scoles had seen hundreds of apprentices come through these doors. Most of them were eager, loud, full of theories. Fernandes had arrived quieter than the rest—polite, observant, almost too respectful. For the first few months Scoles had wondered if the kid had any fire in him at all.
Then one night, long after the others had gone home, Scoles found him still there, elbows deep in a stubborn old twin-cylinder that had defeated three senior mechanics. Fernandes didn’t ask for help. He just kept working, listening to the engine the way a doctor listens to a heartbeat.
When the motor finally caught and settled into a clean, even idle, Fernandes had looked up, surprised to find Scoles watching from the doorway. He wiped his hands on a rag and gave a small, almost shy shrug, as if to say it was nothing.
It wasn’t nothing.
In that moment something shifted in Scoles. Pride is a quiet thing when it lands on a man who has spent a lifetime being hard to impress. It doesn’t announce itself with speeches. It settles in the chest like a warm weight and stays there.
From that night on, Scoles began giving Fernandes the difficult jobs—the ones that required feel more than force, patience more than power. And every time the younger man delivered, the weight in Scoles’ chest grew a little heavier, a little warmer.
Tonight was no different. Fernandes finished the final torque sequence, stepped back, and nodded once to himself. The engine on the stand looked ready. More than ready.
Scoles cleared his throat.
“Good work,” he said. The words came out rougher than he intended.
Fernandes glanced over, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Praise from Scoles was rare currency.
Scoles walked closer, rested a heavy hand on the younger man’s shoulder for just a second, then let it fall.
“You’ve got it,” he said quietly. “The real thing. Don’t waste it.”
Fernandes didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting in the smallest of smiles.
Scoles turned away before the pride in his eyes became too obvious. He had spent a lifetime building things that lasted. Looking at Fernandes, he realized he might have finally built something that would outlast him.
And for the first time in a long while, that thought didn’t feel like an ending.
It felt like a beginning.
Would you like me to expand it, change the tone, make it longer, or adjust any details (setting, relationship between them, etc.)?