Firdaus sat motionless in his chair, the blinds now shut tightly behind him. The envelope lay open on the desk. The photos, the message, the system's red alert—all still fresh in his mind. He stared at the wall for several long seconds before breaking the silence with a single word.
"System."
The glow returned instantly, and he spoke again, calmly.
"Enable low-profile shielding."
[Confirmed: Auto-Shield Protocol Activated]
[Tactical Output Cloaked | On-Screen Display Reduced to Minimal Data]
[Session Logs Encrypted | Access restricted to primary user only]
Firdaus reviewed the lockdown interface. All external devices were disconnected. All stored logs backed up to an isolated, encrypted section. The system would now appear like a basic stat tracker to any accidental viewer. He enabled two-factor biometric checks for every interface change. But he knew it wasn't enough.
"Run internal security scan. Check for any access via visual tracking."
[Scan In Progress...]
The progress bar began to load. Firdaus didn't wait. He stood, slipped on his jacket, and stepped into the corridor, eyes already scanning ahead.
On the pitch, the morning drills began like usual—warmups, ball movement patterns, chemistry circuits. Firdaus stood near the halfway line beside Riza, arms folded, eyes shielded under the brim of his cap.
But today, he didn't just watch player movement.
He watched everything.
Who entered the facility. Who lingered near the admin wing. Who looked over their shoulder before walking off. He noticed when the assistant physio spent longer than usual near the analytics room. He noticed when a junior staffer paused outside his office pretending to check their phone.
Every step. Every pause. Every side-glance.
"Colwill, faster on the second touch," he barked, never breaking his scan.
The drills shifted. Players began to notice Firdaus speaking less, but pacing more. Riza gave him a look—part question, part concern.
Only Joe Ralls seemed to understand. The captain's eyes followed Firdaus throughout the session. He said nothing but tightened his posture and kept the team moving.
Even the players sensed it. A tension in the air. Firdaus's normally still presence had a storm beneath it.
During a break, Firdaus made an excuse and walked toward the facility's east wing. The hall was long and quiet. Shadows hung from high windows. He moved slowly, silently.
Just before turning the corner, he saw a shadow slip past the window of the admin room—quick, smooth, deliberate.
Firdaus accelerated, but by the time he rounded the bend, the corridor was empty.
He paused. Listened.
Faintly, a door clicked shut somewhere deeper in the building.
He didn't chase.
He filed it away. A piece of a puzzle still missing its edges.
Later that day, Firdaus met Ken Choo in the executive suite. The room was cool, the walls lined with framed jerseys and sponsor banners. But today, the screens displayed nothing but camera feeds and log timestamps.
Ken looked up as Firdaus entered.
"You were right," Ken said, wasting no time. "IT found something."
Firdaus remained standing. "Go on."
"Someone accessed the internal camera archive. Not through standard logins. They used a spoofed credential, likely cloned from an old staff account. Accessed footage from your hallway and the office corridor. Three nights ago."
"Did they take anything?"
"We can't confirm if anything was downloaded. But the logs were wiped. Someone tried to cover their tracks."
"Do you have the IP?"
Ken nodded. "Routed through a local proxy inside the club. Could've been done from any terminal. We're narrowing it down."
"I want access to the footage," Firdaus said.
Ken hesitated. "You know the board will want a report."
"They'll get it. After I see the footage."
Ken sighed, reached into a drawer, and handed over a drive.
"Be careful, Firdaus. Whoever this is—they know what they're doing."
Firdaus said nothing. He left the room with the drive in hand.
Back in his office that night, long after the building had emptied, Firdaus locked the door and dimmed the lights. The blinds were drawn tight. He sat alone, only the soft hum of the system and the whir of his cooling unit keeping him company.
He inserted the drive into a private terminal connected to his system overlay. The footage loaded—standard hallway feeds, all time-stamped and synced.
He scrubbed quickly through the days.
Fast-forwarded through hours of nothing.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Until—
02:13 AM. Corridor.
A figure appeared.
Hooded. Gloved. Deliberate.
They approached his door. Looked both ways. Didn't fumble.
They entered.
Firdaus's hand tightened on the mouse. He zoomed in.
The camera angle didn't show the inside of the office.
But five minutes later, the figure exited.
They turned slightly toward the hallway light.
Firdaus paused the footage.
He enhanced the frame.
The person's face was partially visible. Not fully lit. But just enough.
Not a stranger.
Not media.
Not a saboteur from outside.
It was someone who worked inside the club.
Someone Firdaus had passed in the halls.
Someone who had a key.
And the worst part?
The face looked familiar.
To be continued...
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