Firdaus woke before the alarm. The sky outside was still pale grey, with only hints of light on the horizon. Cardiff's cityscape remained quiet, shrouded in the soft calm of early morning. As usual, he said nothing, moved quietly, and brewed his coffee without a sound. His movements were mechanical, the routine of someone whose mind was already far ahead in the day.
"System," he murmured.
The interface loaded immediately.
[SQUAD STATUS – DAILY SUMMARY]
[Morale: Stable]
[Trust Level Fluctuations Detected: 4 Players]
He tapped into the trust graph. A color-coded web of interconnected players lit up.
Ralls: +3%
Colwill: +2%
Rinomhota: -5%
Tanner: -2%
Firdaus narrowed his eyes. It wasn't drastic. Not yet. But these things started small—minor hesitations, subtle misunderstandings, whispered conversations in the locker room.
He filtered the list and marked key players: Ralls, Ramsey, Rinomhota.
Ralls was his anchor. Ramsey was the creative hub. Rinomhota? A potential fracture.
The system pulsed faintly.
[Multiple minor trust links weakening across midfield unit. Recommend observation.]
He closed the interface.
Today needed to be different.
At training, the players expected routine.
They got intensity.
The cones were tighter. The drills more reactive. Three-zone possession games with one-touch restrictions. Mistakes were punished with added sprints or resets.
Firdaus said little. He stood at the edge of the pitch, arms folded, his expression unreadable.
Robinson slipped a pass to Ramsey, who volleyed it through the central zone. Ralls surged into space. Wintle intercepted and cut back. The tempo was fast. Fluid.
But Firdaus watched something else.
Rinomhota.
He was good. Very good. Technically clean. He broke lines. Played forward. Pressed without being asked. Yet when he spoke, teammates didn't look at him. When he gestured, some ignored it.
Isolation without conflict.
It was worse than open arguments.
Firdaus made a note on his tablet.
Omer Riza walked up beside him, squinting through the drizzle. "Good intensity today. Lads are sweating buckets."
Firdaus said nothing.
Riza followed his gaze. "You're watching him, aren't you?"
Firdaus gave the slightest nod.
"Noticed it too," Riza muttered. "He's doing everything right. But something's off. Energy's off."
Firdaus didn't respond, but his jaw set slightly tighter. He could see the way Rinomhota lingered a half-step behind in transitions, or how his celebration after a sharp assist was muted, with no one rushing to high-five him.
After the session, most players filtered toward the showers, chatting and joking.
Joe Ralls stayed behind.
He jogged slowly over, wiping his face with a towel.
"You got a second?" he asked.
Firdaus nodded and turned to face him fully.
They stood near the sideline, where the grass faded into gravel. The wind tugged at Ralls' damp shirt.
Ralls shifted his weight slightly. "Look, boss. I'm not here to criticise. I respect what you're doing. But I think you should know... the lads are talking."
Firdaus raised an eyebrow. "Talking?"
"About you. Not badly. Just... trying to figure you out. Some of them think you're cold. Others think you're playing mind games. You don't show much."
"I'm managing."
"I get that," Ralls said, smiling slightly. "But you don't say much. No one knows what you're thinking half the time. And when you do say something, it's like... solving a riddle."
Firdaus was silent.
"I'm not asking you to change," Ralls added. "Just... give 'em something. Doesn't have to be big. Could be a story. A joke. Just a sign you're not a robot."
Firdaus looked out at the empty pitch. The lines were still marked from the session. Cones stood forgotten at the edge.
"You think that matters?"
Ralls shrugged. "More than you think. People connect to the voice before they connect to the plan. Doesn't mean you have to talk more. Just let them know you see them."
The midfielder tapped Firdaus's arm gently. "That's all."
He walked away.
Firdaus stood there for a few more seconds, eyes on the grass.
Then turned toward the building.
He didn't look back.
Back in his office, Firdaus sat down and reopened the system.
[TRUST MATRIX – UPDATED]
A web of player names bloomed across the screen. Connections pulsed with green or red indicators.
Ralls: Strong positive link with 8 players
Ramsey: Stable link across core group
Colwill: Growing influence
Rinomhota: Trust lines weakening
Tanner: Disconnected from midfield unit
Then a new alert:
[Trust Network Shift – 6 Nodes Affected]
He hovered over Rinomhota's name.
[Internal Voice Confidence: Low]
[Perceived Isolation: High]
[Network Trust: -6%]
Firdaus leaned back, eyes scanning the web.
It was starting to slip. The edges fraying. Not enough to cause chaos—but enough to create silence. Silence between players. Silence toward their manager.
He whispered to himself, "Tactics aren't enough."
The system pulsed again.
[Recommendation: Initiate Player Trust Recovery Protocol – Optional Dialogue Event Suggested]
A side tab opened: Suggested interaction paths. Options for how to speak to a player. Sample tones. Predicted emotional response ranges.
Firdaus stared at it.
Dialogue events.
Conversations, not commands.
That wasn't his strength.
But maybe it needed to be.
He clicked the tab.
Started reading.
For the first time, he didn't look at statistics.
He read the words.
He thought about what Ralls had said. What Rinomhota hadn't.
He considered what it meant to lead—not just with logic, but with presence.
He turned off the interface.
Then picked up a pen.
And started writing.
To be continued...
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