Michael walked into his office at 7 AM, and for the first time in a month, the room felt right.

Arthur Milton was already there.

He was sitting behind his old desk—Michael had insisted on moving out of the main chair the second he heard Arthur was cleared for "light duties." Arthur's bad leg was propped up on a padded stool, the heavy-duty medical brace a stark black against his club tracksuit. He looked pale. He looked exhausted.

He looked like a man who had spent the last thirty days fighting his way back from the dead.

But his eyes... his eyes were the same. They were laser-focused, sharp as chips of ice, and currently staring a hole through the video footage playing on the main screen.

"Morning, Gaffer," Michael said, a genuine, uncontrollable, happy grin spreading across his face. The relief was so profound it was almost a physical weight lifting off his shoulders.

"You're supposed to be on 'light duties,' you know. This doesn't look light."

Arthur didn't even look up from the screen. "Light duties are for men who are bored, Michael," he rasped, his voice still a bit rough from his time in the hospital.

"I am not bored. I am furious."

Michael's grin faded. He looked at the screen. It was the "Butcher Riley" highlight reel. They were watching the 6'5" monster out-muscle, out-smart, and frankly, just plain bully another team's entire back line.

"He's a beast," Michael said, his own stomach tightening. He walked closer, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the footage.

He focused his gaze on the roaring, celebrating figure of Marcus Riley on the screen. The familiar, beautiful blue numbers flickered into life, superimposed over the video feed.

[Marcus "The Butcher" Riley: CA 71 / PA 73]

Michael let out a low, impressed whistle.

A Current Ability of 71 was elite for this league. It was a number that belonged in the league above, a high-end Championship player.

But the Potential... 73. He was what he was. He was a finished product, a perfect, brutal machine.

Michael's eyes scanned further, looking for the small, hidden details.

[Finishing: 18/20]

[Strength: 19/20]

[Aggression: 20/20]

The man was a statistical monster. And then, Michael saw it. Glowing in a faint, angry red, a weakness.

[Trait: "Short Fuse"] (Negative): Player is easily frustrated. Prone to lashing out, committing needless fouls, and losing focus when annoyed or provoked.

Michael looked up from his secret screen, a slow, dangerous, knowing smile beginning to spread across his face. He looked at Arthur, who was still staring at the screen with a look of intense, analytical hatred.

"He's a bully, Michael," Arthur said, clicking pause on a particularly brutal, (and uncalled) elbow. "He's all power and rage. And what do bullies hate? They hate being fought back, sure. But more than that?"

He turned, his eyes glittering with a familiar, tactical brilliance. "They hate being made to look stupid. They hate being ignored. They hate being... annoyed."

Michael's smile widened. He was 100% on the same page.

"So," Michael said, "we don't fight him."

"We can't fight him," Arthur corrected. "Look at him. He'd put Dave Bishop in the hospital, and he'd enjoy doing it. No. We're not going to play his game." He pointed to the paused screen. "We're going to frustrate him. We're going to turn off his water. We're going to make him a ghost."

The plan was audacious. It was insane. It was pure, unadulterated Arthur Milton.

"Steve!" Arthur barked into the intercom. The interim-manager-turned-assistant-again scurried in, looking relieved to no longer be the man in charge.

"Get me Tom Harrison. Now."

A minute later, Tom walked in. He was the hero of the "darkest hour," the kid Michael had blessed with [The Interceptor]. He was still just an 18-year-old, rail-thin, his face a picture of nervous awe at being in the same room as the legendary, returned Gaffer.

"Tom, son," Arthur said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

"You're starting on Saturday."

Tom's face went white. "A... against... him?" he squeaked, gesturing at the terrifying, paused image of 'The Butcher' on the screen.

"No," Arthur said, and the entire room leaned in.

"That's the point. You are not playing against him. You are not going to man-mark him. You are not to get within five yards of him. If he comes near you, I want you to run away. I am one hundred percent serious."

Tom looked utterly, profoundly bewildered.

"But... Gaffer," he stammered, "then... then what's my job?"

"Your job," Arthur said, his voice dropping, "is to be his shadow. Not his physical shadow. His passing shadow. I want you to live in the space between him and the ball. I want you to read the game. I don't want you to make a single tackle on him. I want you to cut off every single pass before it gets to him."

He leaned forward, his eyes burning with intensity. "I want him to spend ninety minutes on that pitch, running, screaming for the ball... and never, ever, touching it. I want you to make him feel invisible."

A slow, dawning, terrified understanding spread across Tom's face. He wasn't being asked to fight a giant. He was being asked to be a ghost. He stood up straighter, his thin chest puffing out, a new, steely determination in his eyes.

"I... I can do that, Gaffer. I can be a shadow."

"I know you can, son," Arthur said. "Now, get out of here. Go watch his tapes."

As Tom left the office, his footsteps light with a new, terrifying purpose, Michael's confidence wavered. He looked at Arthur.

"Gaffer, it's a brilliant plan. It's... poetic. But... Tom is... he's still a 55." Michael caught himself.

"He's still a 55-kilo kid. The Butcher is a monster. What if Tom's 'interception' skill isn't fast enough? What if he can't keep up?"

Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping. "It's a risk, Michael. It's the only one we have. We have to hope the plan is enough."

Michael sat back in his chair, his mind racing. He had 450 System Points.

He had scraped them together from the turbulent last month (300 from the 'Darkest Hour' win, plus 150 from the 2W, 1D, 1L that followed).

He had a choice. Save them for another day, for another crisis. Or... he could bet the farm. Again. On this game. On first place.

He looked at Arthur, the man who had turned down the Premier League to build an empire with him, the man who was sitting here, in pain, drawing up battle plans from a crutch.

He couldn't let him down.

He closed his eyes. "System."

The blue light was bright and familiar.

"Open the [System Shop]. [Skill Upgrades]."

A new menu appeared, one he hadn't had the luxury of exploring.

His eyes found the one he needed, the one that had just materialized, as if the System knew.

[Skill Upgrade: Interceptor (Level 2)]

[Description: Upgrades the [Interceptor] trait from 'Rare' to 'Epic.' Massively boosts 'Anticipation' and 'Reaction' stats. Player's interception radius is increased by 50%. Player's [CA] is temporarily boosted by +10 when this skill is active.]

[Cost: 400 System Points.]

It was a massive, almost crippling, cost. It would leave him with almost nothing. But that description... Temporary +10 CA.

It would make Tom a 55... no, a 65. Still weaker than the Butcher, but not by a suicidal margin. It was the edge they needed.

"Do it," he thought, his jaw clenched. "Purchase the upgrade. Apply it to Tom Harrison. Now."

[PURCHASE CONFIRMED. -400 PTS. NEW BALANCE: 50 PTS.]

[Tom Harrison's [Interceptor] trait has been upgraded to LEVEL 2 (EPIC)!]

Michael opened his eyes. He felt a sudden, electric surge of confidence. Arthur was looking at him, a concerned, slightly baffled expression on his face.

"You... you went quiet for a second there, Michael. You okay? You look like you just made a billion pounds."

Michael gave him a slow, confident, and utterly villainous smile.

"Never been better, Gaffer," he said. "I have a very good feeling about this."

Match day. The noise was deafening.

Hillsborough was a fortress, a 30,000-seat cauldron of hostile blue and white, all of them roaring for their first-place, table-topping team. The atmosphere was pure, uncut hostility, a wall of sound that hit Michael in the chest as he stood at the entrance to the tunnel.

This was the biggest league game of his life.

He watched his 'Braves' line up. They looked nervous, but focused.

Then, the Sheffield Wednesday players filed in, and at the front of their line was Marcus 'The Butcher' Riley. He was chewing gum, his neck thick, his eyes scanning the Barnsley lineup for a target.

His gaze landed on Tom Harrison.

Tom was standing there, rail-thin, his face pale, but set in a look of grim, almost zen-like determination.

He looked like a single, brave blade of grass in front of a thundering lawnmower.

'The Butcher' looked him up. He looked him down.

And then, he let out a short, sharp, contemptuous laugh. It was a sound of pure, dismissive mockery. He turned to his own captain, and, just loud enough for Tom and Michael to hear, said:

"Is that my marker? They sendin' a child to do a man's job?"

The referee's whistle blew. The teams began to walk onto the pitch. Michael watched Tom's face. The kid had heard it. He flinched. But he didn't look scared.

He just looked... ready.

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