Michael stood in the director's box, his heart a cold, heavy stone.

The Oakwell crowd, which had been so full of defiant hope, was silent, stunned by the sheer, brutal quality of the opposition.

The whistle blew.

The Wolves players, their faces hard and focused, kicked off. They were, as Michael had feared, their full-strength, A-list, £500-million-pound squad. And they were angry.

João Veloso, the £60 million Portuguese star, looked like he had a personal vendetta against their interim manager.

The first thirty minutes were not a game. It was, as the commentator would later call it, a "possession carousel of pure torture."

The ball was a little yellow blur, zipping between the gold-shirted Wolves players. Tiki-taka, but played with the speed and power of Premier League athletes.

Michael watched the possession stat on the tiny monitor in his box:

80% - 20%.

His "Barnsley Braves" looked like what they were: a small, terrified, third-tier team.

The "money vs. hunger" speech he'd given felt like a sick, arrogant joke.

The inevitable finally happened in the 28th minute. The goal wasn't a lucky break. It was a "clean" goal. It was a 25-pass move that had started with their goalkeeper. It was a symphony of movement, pulling Barnsley's brave but outclassed defense apart, thread by thread.

The ball was played wide, a simple, cutting pass found their left-back, who crossed it low and hard. Their £70 million striker, who had been a ghost, simply appeared at the near post for a simple, insulting, five-yard tap-in.

1-0.

It was a goal of surgical, devastating, and almost polite superiority.

The Oakwell crowd was silent. Michael just sank into his plush chair, his hands gripping the armrests. This was the chasm.

He looked over at Steve, his temporary, system-buffed genius.

The man was just standing on the touchline, his face a mask of calm, writing in his notebook, as if this were all part of the plan.

Then came the punishment.

Minutes before halftime. The game had been all Wolves, but Barnsley had, at least, kept the score respectable.

The ball was cleared and fell to João Veloso.

He was 30 yards from goal, with no one around him. He looked up. He wasn't looking at the goal. He was looking at the Barnsley dugout. At Steve.

This was a personal, spiteful, "you-talked-too-much" message.

He took one touch to settle the ball, and then he ripped it. It was a 30-yard screamer, a shot of pure, arrogant, world-class quality.

It flew with the dip and curl of a guided missile, leaving Barnsley's keeper, who dived a full second too late, clutching at thin air.

The ball smashed into the top-right corner of the net with a sound of pure, definitive authority.

2-0.

Michael just closed his eyes. He didn't need to see the replay. He felt it.

This was the humiliation his brother had promised. This was the lesson the Wolves captain had warned them about.

The halftime whistle blew, a sound of profound mercy.

Michael watched his team trudge off the pitch. They weren't angry, like they had been at Millwall. They were dejected. They were beaten. They had been taught their place. They had flown too close to the sun, and their wax wings, built of raw potential and system-fueled miracles, were melting away.

He followed them down the tunnel, his own mind a blank. He had no points. He had no skills to gift. He had no magic bullets left. He just had... Steve.

The players were slumped on the benches, their heads down, their chests heaving, the silence broken only by the sound of ripping tape and the quiet, agonizing sniffle of a player trying to hide his tears. It was Jamie Weston.

Michael stood by the door, his heart aching.

Steve walked into the middle of the room.

But this wasn't the terrified, squeaky-voiced Steve of the last match.

He just stood there, his clipboard in his hand, watching his broken team despair. He let the silence hang, let the defeat, the humiliation, sink in.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was not loud. It was not motivational. It was cool, and analytical.

"Good."

Every player in the room looked up, their faces a mask of pure, baffled confusion. Good?

"They got all their anger out," Steve said, a strange, calculating glint in his eye. He looked at his watch.

"They've had their fun. They've scored their two goals. They've proven their point to the press. They think the job is done."

He walked to the tactics board. "And now... now they'll get complacent. They'll come out in the second half lazy, thinking about their European game next week. They'll try to save their legs."

He looked around the room, his gaze landing on his three young superstars. "And that is when we change the plan."

He was about to slam a new magnetic marker onto the board. He was about to reveal his new, brilliant, system-fueled strategy.

But just as he was lifting his hand, his phone, which he'd left on the medical table, began to buzz.

A low, insistent, vibrating sound that cut through the silence.

It was an unknown number.

Steve, annoyed by the interruption, snatched it up. "Hello?" he barked, his voice full of his new, unfamiliar authority. "This is a bad time."

He listened.

Michael watched as every single drop of blood drained from Steve's face.

His arrogant, confident posture collapsed. He began to tremble, his hand shaking so badly he almost dropped the phone. The clipboard clattered to the floor.

"G... Gaffer?" Steve whispered, his voice a choked, terrified squeak. The real Steve was back. "Is... is that you?"

The players were on their feet, their own exhaustion forgotten.

Steve fumbled for the speakerphone button, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe.

He pressed it.

A voice, weak, papery, and as dry as a dead leaf, filled the stunned, silent dressing room. It was a voice that belonged to a man in a hospital bed, a voice that had no right to be on this phone.

It was Arthur Milton.

"Steve..." the voice rasped, and the entire room held its breath.

"...listen to me very carefully..."

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