The morning after training, Firdaus walked through the corridors of Cardiff's main building with his usual quiet steps. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, but something else filled the space today—recognition.
A nod from the receptionist. A raised coffee cup from the logistics officer. Even a polite salute from a security guard. None said anything, but the shift was clear. Firdaus wasn't just the new manager anymore. He was becoming the story.
His name carried weight now.
Staff who once passed him with polite silence now turned to watch him go by, whispering quietly. "That's him." "Three wins already." "Did you hear what he said to Ramsey during training?"
Firdaus ignored it all. His expression was as it had always been: unreadable. Not because he didn't feel pressure—but because he refused to show it.
He reached the conference room on the second floor. The glass doors reflected his calm, unreadable expression.
Ken Choo stood just outside, checking his phone. "They're all in," he said. "Keep it short. They want to talk football, but they're also thinking brand."
Firdaus raised a brow. "Brand?"
Ken gave a thin smile. "You're trending, boss."
Firdaus said nothing and pushed the doors open.
Inside, the atmosphere was formal but not tense. Chairman Mehmet Dalman sat at the head of the long oak table, flanked by club directors and a pair of suited sponsors from a local tech firm. Bottled water, printed portfolios, and iPads lined the table. The Cardiff City crest was projected on the wall behind them.
A few polite smiles greeted Firdaus as he took his seat.
Ken joined beside him, placing a tablet in front of him but not opening it.
"Firdaus," Dalman began, steepling his fingers. "Impressive start. Your presence has lifted the squad. The press is responding. And the fans... well, they're chanting your name."
Firdaus nodded slightly, expression unchanged.
One of the sponsors leaned forward. He had slicked-back hair, a designer watch, and the tone of someone used to boardroom victories. "How are you doing it? Turnaround like this usually takes months. Weeks at best."
Firdaus gave a neutral shrug. "I observe."
A light chuckle went around the table. Ken smiled, but it was tight, as if to say please don't say more than necessary... but also please say more.
Dalman cleared his throat. "Of course, we don't need your trade secrets. Just want to ensure we're aligned. You'll have more media duties soon. And there's talk of promotional work. Player interactions. Branding opportunities."
Firdaus kept his face blank. "I'm here to win matches."
The sponsor laughed. "Exactly. And winning matches sells shirts. We're just excited, is all. You've got something... magnetic."
Another sponsor leaned forward, curious. "Do you run analytics personally? The players seem more... synchronized than usual."
Firdaus paused, then answered, "I watch. Then I make adjustments."
Ken interjected smoothly. "We'll handle the balance. Let Firdaus focus on the pitch."
Dalman nodded. "There is one other thing..."
Firdaus looked up. His body didn't move much, but his eyes sharpened.
"The FA reached out. They're curious about your methodology. Not officially—yet. They sent someone to observe training anonymously. A favor from an academy contact."
Firdaus said nothing. Not a flicker.
Ken added, "And there's a journalist from WalesOnline asking questions. Digging into your background. Quietly, but it's begun. Social media's already speculating. Threads about your coaching badges. Your 'mystery rise.'"
Still no change in Firdaus' face.
The chairman leaned back. "Look, we don't mind mystery. It builds narrative. But if you have any skeletons—this is the time to say it."
"I don't," Firdaus replied flatly.
The room paused.
Dalman exchanged a glance with Ken, then nodded slowly. "Good," he said. "Then keep doing what you're doing. Just know... eyes are on you now."
Firdaus stood. "They can watch."
And with that, he left.
Later that evening, Firdaus returned to his office. The blinds were half-drawn, casting stripes of fading sunlight across his desk. The hum of the city outside filtered through the window, muffled but constant. He didn't turn on the lights.
Instead, he sat in silence, eyes on the wall ahead. His mind replayed the meeting. Not the praise. The warning. People digging. Watching.
He whispered:
"System."
The interface appeared instantly, colors sharp against the gloom.
[DAILY REPORT – PLAYER BEHAVIORAL TRACKING ACTIVE]
A scroll of data flickered. Performance metrics. Mood scores. Training stamina levels. Firdaus barely blinked as he processed them.
Then a red notification.
[PLAYER EMOTIONAL STABILITY WARNING: J. RINOMHOTA][Mood Drift Detected – Confidence Drop – Internal Frustration Growing]
Firdaus leaned forward.
The tracker showed fluctuations—micro-spikes of doubt, reactions during drills, dips in concentration. One chart showed a pattern of emotional fatigue. Another displayed Rinomhota's mental sharpness under pressure, declining across three consecutive sessions.
He scrolled back. It began just after their last conversation.
"Walk with me," Firdaus had said.
Now the system was saying Rinomhota hadn't walked away the same.
Firdaus exhaled slowly, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
The system flashed another note:
[Recommendation: Address player concern directly OR adjust tactical load]
He didn't open the match schedule.
Didn't check the media reports.
He stared at Rinomhota's chart. The instability wasn't just statistical.
It was personal.
And it was spreading.
"...Something's off."
He leaned back in the chair, the office silent around him.
Outside, the lights of the stadium flickered off one by one. But for Firdaus, the night was far from over.
To be continued...
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