The rain had finally cleared by morning. Cardiff's sky stretched wide and blue, washed clean from yesterday's gloom. The air was fresh, but there was a weight in it—something unspoken hanging between clouds and quiet footfalls.
Firdaus stood at the entrance of the training facility earlier than usual, coffee in hand, watching as players began to trickle in. The facility felt different this morning—not tense, but watchful. Like the players were waiting for something unexpected to happen.
Robinson arrived first, earbuds in, hoodie over his head. He pulled one earbud out when he spotted Firdaus.
"Morning," Firdaus said, his voice flat but intentional.
Robinson blinked. "Uh... morning, boss."
A few seconds of awkward silence.
"Your crossing's been better," Firdaus added flatly, eyes not even fully on him.
Robinson smiled slowly, surprised. "Thanks. Been trying to hit the back post more."
Firdaus nodded once and said no more. That was enough.
Soon after, the others followed—Colwill, Ng, McGuinness, Wintle. Firdaus acknowledged each with a nod or a quiet comment. Nothing elaborate. Just enough to be felt. Enough to suggest he noticed them.
When Rinomhota entered, Firdaus stepped slightly into his path.
"You've got five extra yards in you," Firdaus said without preamble.
Rinomhota raised an eyebrow, half-expecting another cold instruction.
"That pass you made yesterday," Firdaus continued. "First time you didn't second-guess yourself."
There was a pause. Rinomhota studied him.
"Noted," he muttered, walking past.
But Firdaus saw it—the smallest lift in his shoulders, the barest hint of engagement. The first visible crack in the wall between them.
The training pitch was dry, firm, and fast. The groundskeepers had done their part. Now it was Firdaus' turn.
Today's focus was transitions—turnovers, fast breaks, reshaping under pressure. Firdaus outlined the drills crisply in front of the squad, projecting confidence without over-explaining. He made eye contact—not with everyone, but enough.
He didn't pace nervously. He didn't shout. He observed, adjusted, and made corrections only when necessary.
Intensity rose quickly.
Firdaus gave commands more openly than usual.
"Good line, Perry."
"McGuinness, two seconds faster next phase."
"Wintle, trust your touch. Don't reset—drive."
At one point, Colwill spun away from pressure and released a quick through ball. It cut clean through a tight midfield.
Firdaus clapped once. "Excellent. Keep that angle."
Several players turned at the sound. He rarely applauded. The ripple effect was instant. Shoulders lifted. Engagement increased.
Ralls jogged by and murmured under his breath, "See? Not so hard."
Firdaus didn't reply—but a ghost of a smirk appeared.
Rinomhota's shift came during a half-pitch scrimmage.
He picked up the ball deep, received on the turn, and burst past two midfielders. Instead of hesitating or cycling it back, he clipped a perfect ball behind the defensive line. Robinson latched onto it and slotted the finish low into the corner.
The team celebrated casually, but Firdaus took a step forward.
"Great vision. You're dictating the pace. Keep doing it."
Rinomhota paused, almost startled. He nodded slowly. Not a word, but his eyes met Firdaus'—briefly, but clearly.
Around him, teammates murmured quietly. Something was changing. The silence between the coach and squad wasn't gone, but it had cracked. Enough for words to pass through.
Not fixed.
But moving.
At the end of the drill, Ralls pulled Firdaus aside again.
"You keep surprising them," he said. "That's good. But careful—they still don't know where they stand. They like you. They're just not sure how to follow you yet."
Firdaus nodded once, storing the thought away.
After training, Firdaus returned to his office. He moved briskly, tossed his wet training jacket onto the rack, and sat down. He hadn't even opened his laptop when his phone buzzed.
Incoming Call: David Newton
He answered immediately.
"Firdaus," the Director of Football said, tone clipped. "We've got a situation."
Firdaus didn't speak, simply waited.
"There's footage circulating. Training video. You explaining drills, but it's clipped together with commentary from some tactical blog. They're calling you a 'robot manager.' Says you coach like a machine. No emotion, just data."
Still, Firdaus said nothing.
Newton continued. "WalesOnline has picked it up. They've requested an interview. So far, we've declined. But it's gaining traction on social media. A few fan accounts are running with it too."
Firdaus kept his tone steady. "Who leaked the video?"
"Could be internal. Could be a drone from media. We're checking. But it's already gone viral in a couple of analytics circles. A few journalists are cross-referencing your drills with FM databases."
There was a long silence.
"Understood," Firdaus said.
He ended the call without another word.
He sat in the dim light of the office. The sounds of boots on tile echoed faintly down the hall.
"System."
The interface flashed into view with a crisp tone.
A new notification blinked in red.
[SYSTEM ALERT]
[EXPOSURE RISK: HIGH]
[External Pattern Recognition Detected – Tactical Structure Linked to Digital Source]
[Recommendation: Initiate Defensive Protocol | Limit Observable Patterns | Mask Digital Behavior]
Firdaus leaned forward.
A new chart appeared. It showed overlaps between his tactics and digital Football Manager simulations. The percentages were alarming—far too specific. Positional data. Sub patterns. Pressing triggers. Identical to saved FM tactics.
He stared at it.
Then the final line flashed:
[System Visibility Threshold Nearing Critical – Countermeasures Required]
Firdaus clenched his jaw.
Someone was too close.
And if they kept digging—
They might uncover everything.
He leaned back slowly in his chair, eyes locked on the pulsing alert.
The system flickered slightly. A secondary tab opened automatically.
[Auto-Shield Protocol Available: Delay Analysis Access / Defer Tactical Recognition AI]
Firdaus hovered his finger over the option.
But didn't click.
Not yet.
Not until he knew exactly who was watching.
To be continued...
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