Firdaus stood beside his office window as morning light filtered through the blinds. His eyes weren't on the view.
He thought about the consequences—not just for Gareth, but for the integrity of everything he was building. The players were starting to believe in him. The staff were falling into rhythm. One breach like this, if ignored, could unravel months of discipline and structure.
On the desk behind him, the system interface glowed softly, evidence neatly compiled: surveillance footage, biometric scans, time logs—all pointing to one name.
Gareth Mullins.
He took a quiet breath and tapped a message into the internal comms channel.
To: Gareth Mullins
Subject: Follow-Up Required
Message: Come to my office. 11:30 AM. No delays.
Firdaus folded his arms, replaying the last few days in his mind. He had stayed silent, methodical, but underneath the surface was fire. Not because Gareth had disrespected him, but because he'd endangered everything—the system, the club, and the fragile trust Firdaus was building with this squad. One weak link could break it all.
At exactly 11:30, Gareth knocked. Firdaus kept his voice calm.
"Enter."
The door opened slowly. Gareth stepped in, posture a little too stiff, eyes avoiding contact. He had a notepad in hand again—like before. Firdaus said nothing, just gestured to the chair.
"Sit."
Gareth did so. The silence stretched for a beat.
Firdaus turned from the window, voice low but clear. "I'm going to ask you this once. You accessed my office after hours."
Gareth blinked, shifting in his seat. "I… No. I didn't."
Firdaus didn't raise his voice. Instead, he tapped a key. The screen behind him lit up with paused footage.
2:13 AM. Office hallway.
Gareth's silhouette. Clear. Identifiable.
He clicked again. The biometric fingerprint scan loaded.
MATCH: G. Mullins.
Gareth's jaw tensed. He dropped the notepad onto his lap.
"I—I wasn't trying to do anything wrong. I just…"
"You just?" Firdaus asked, his tone sharper now, eyes unmoving.
"I saw something on your screen a week ago. During a match sim. It looked like Football Manager—but… different. I got curious. I thought it might be some kind of internal coaching tool. If I could understand it… maybe use it… or even share it, I thought—"
"You thought you'd get noticed," Firdaus cut in, finishing the sentence.
Gareth nodded slowly, guilt dripping from his features. "I didn't send anything. I swear. I never got that far. I panicked. I was stupid. But I didn't mean to hurt the club."
Firdaus leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Intent doesn't erase action."
Gareth opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked small in the chair.
"You broke into a private office. You lied to my face. You accessed files you had no clearance for," Firdaus continued.
"I'm sorry," Gareth whispered. "Please, boss. I'll resign quietly if you want. Just… don't destroy me."
Firdaus stood. "You've already done that to yourself."
Firdaus walked directly to the executive wing, gripping the folder of evidence. The air in the hallway was still. Administrative staff parted silently as he passed.
He entered Ken Choo's office unannounced. Ken looked up from a contract draft.
"Yes?" he said.
"Gareth Mullins accessed restricted internal data. I have everything—video, fingerprint confirmation, full timeline. He confessed."
Ken's brows shot up. "You're absolutely sure?"
"System-confirmed. He tried to lie, then folded. He was going to leak it to an external source. No names given, but he was preparing it."
Ken stood slowly and picked up his phone.
"Security? Lock out Gareth Mullins. HR will inform him within the hour. Escort him from the premises immediately. Confidential handling."
He hung up and looked back at Firdaus.
"We'll keep this internal. No statement to media. No need for noise."
Firdaus nodded once. "Thank you."
"You did the right thing," Ken said quietly.
Firdaus didn't answer.
That afternoon, the squad gathered in the briefing room for their tactical session. The players buzzed with usual energy, but something about the atmosphere was different—sharpened, alert.
Firdaus entered with his usual measured pace. The noise died quickly.
"I'm not here to talk about anything off the pitch," he began, voice cool but firm. "That's been handled."
The room held still. Even the younger players straightened.
"What I want is simple—focus. Commitment. Nothing else matters. We have a game tomorrow. A statement to make."
Ralls leaned forward slightly. Colwill exchanged a glance with Perry Ng. The energy in the room began to shift.
Grant murmured to Romeo beside him, "He's locked in today. Different energy."
Firdaus caught it but didn't react. Instead, he glanced toward Ralls. "Joe, you lead from the front. Set the tempo in the first five minutes."
Ralls nodded. "Understood."
Firdaus scanned the group. "We play as one. If anyone doubts that, speak now."
No one did.
He gave a small nod. "Good. Then let's get to work."
Firdaus turned to the projector and clicked. Leeds United's formation appeared.
"We're going to meet high pressure with composure. Mid block transition. Press trigger on the second pass to Ampadu. Ramsey shifts wide to counter Daniel James."
As he moved through his slides, he paused when a hand went up.
It was Karlan Grant.
"Boss," he said, "you want me to rotate out wide more this match?"
Firdaus nodded. "We'll need you to overload their full-backs. If you draw one out, it opens space for Robinson or a late run by Ralls."
Perry Ng added, "We pressing off their second pass again?"
"Yes. Timing is everything. Let them bait themselves in."
There were a few more nods. Firdaus clicked to the final slide.
"Discipline. Work rate. No solo runs unless triggered. We move as one."
The projector shut off.
"Be ready. This is where we reset."
Matchday.
Tunnel.
The hum of the crowd vibrated through concrete.
Cardiff players bounced on their toes, boots squeaking lightly, heads bowed in final thoughts.
Firdaus stood at the edge, arms folded, jaw set. He took a long breath and let it out slowly. The weight of the past week evaporated from his shoulders.
Ralls adjusted his armband.
Callum Robinson paced a short loop.
The referee turned. "Ready?"
Firdaus looked at his squad. The doubt, the tension, the chaos of the past week—he saw none of it.
Just steel.
He nodded once.
"No distractions," he said. "No fear. Let's show them who we are."
The players let out a unified breath and clapped hands.
The whistle blew.
Boots hit turf.
The match had begun.
To be continued...
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