Rain spat lightly against the training ground windows as Firdaus stood beneath the overhang, arms folded.
The squad moved through drills on the sodden pitch. Ramsey led a pressing pattern exercise while Ralls directed distribution rotations. Everything looked fine on the surface—players followed instructions, intensity levels were decent, and no one looked visibly fatigued.
But Firdaus wasn't watching them.
He was watching J. Rinomhota.
The midfielder was going through the motions—technically sound, physically alert—but there was a slight hesitation in his movements. When a ball came his way, he took a second longer to release it. When teammates tried to joke, he offered only tight nods or forced half-smiles. He was present but disconnected.
"Still declining," Firdaus muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.
He tapped his temple softly.
"System."
The familiar interface blinked into view.
[PLAYER: Rinomhota | Mental Stability: 66% (-4) | Trust Factor: 47% | Hidden Trait Surfacing: Doubtful Loyalty]
Firdaus stared at the data for a moment longer than usual. The phrase "Doubtful Loyalty" stayed burned into his vision. That was the danger—the line between a loyal soldier and a quiet rebel could disappear without warning.
He shut the system down immediately. He didn't want to look at numbers right now. He needed to see the man.
After training, Firdaus returned to his office and sent a message through staff channels.
[Player meeting: Rinomhota – Office – 3:30 PM sharp]
At 3:29, there was a knock at the door.
"Come in," Firdaus said, not looking up.
Rinomhota stepped in. He was still in his training gear, boots muddy, towel slung over one shoulder. He stood by the door until Firdaus gestured toward the seat.
"You've been off," Firdaus said bluntly, eyes still on his screen.
"Off?" Rinomhota repeated, sitting down slowly.
"You hesitate. You second-guess. Your instincts are slower than they were last week."
"I'm just tired," Rinomhota replied after a pause. "It's been a push lately."
Firdaus leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. "You're tired because your mind's not clear. You're doubting yourself, or doubting me. Which is it?"
Rinomhota's eyes flicked up, jaw tightening. "Why does it matter?"
"Because doubt spreads."
A tense silence filled the room. Outside, the rain picked up, tapping the window like static.
"I'm not a kid," Rinomhota said finally. "I don't need to be watched or analysed every second."
Firdaus studied him. The words weren't hostile. But they weren't neutral either. Somewhere between a plea and a warning.
Then: "Good. Then prove it."
He opened a drawer and slid a folded note across the desk.
"New role. Next match. Play more vertical. Break lines. Ignore the safe option."
Rinomhota unfolded the paper, eyes scanning it. His brows rose. "This isn't my usual setup."
"I know," Firdaus replied. "It's a test."
Their eyes met.
"You're better than the version you're pretending to be," Firdaus continued. "Stop playing safe. Or I'll find someone who won't."
Rinomhota stood, folding the paper again. "Understood."
He left without another word.
Firdaus watched the door long after it closed.
He murmured to himself, "That could go either way."
The next morning, the squad returned to the pitch. The grass was still damp, the skies still grey. The session began with high-intensity warm-ups before moving into tactical shape.
Firdaus adjusted the groups and placed Rinomhota into a hybrid role between pressing lanes and distribution. It forced him into decisions—real-time vertical transitions. No crutches. No fallback to recycling sideways passes.
The first drill was shaky. A mistimed pass here. A misread run there.
The second, better. Firdaus noticed him checking his shoulders more, calling for sharper movement.
By the fourth, he drove a pass straight through two cones and into Colwill's path. It split the defensive shadow drills perfectly. Firdaus saw it. So did Ramsey, who gave a subtle nod of approval.
The system chimed faintly in his mind.
[Rinomhota Confidence Spike: +3 | Trait Fluctuation: Neutralizing Doubt]
Small win.
But fragile.
That night, Firdaus sat in his office again, reviewing footage. He played back a sequence where Rinomhota intercepted, turned under pressure, and released quickly into the final third.
"That's the player I want," he muttered.
The system flickered to life without prompt.
[Observation: Player confidence can be reinforced through trust, not tactics alone.]
Firdaus scoffed. "I don't do therapy."
He shut it off.
But the words lingered.
He opened his notebook. A hand-drawn chart tracked mental rhythm across positions. He wrote one word beside Rinomhota's name: "Monitor."
Then he underlined it twice.
The next day, training ended under brooding skies. The wind had picked up, sending discarded cones tumbling across the grass. Players wandered back toward the changing rooms, chattering lightly. A few laughed. Ramsey flicked a ball at Colwill's head. Usual banter.
Firdaus walked the length of the touchline, quiet, reflecting on upcoming matches, adjusting scenarios in his head. He passed by the dugout and toward the locker entrance.
Just as he neared the open door, a voice slipped through.
Low. Casual. But unmistakable.
"—like he already knows what we're thinking. Kinda creepy, yeah?"
It was Rinomhota.
Firdaus stopped mid-step.
Inside, a laugh followed. Someone responded: "He's weird, man. But I guess it's working."
Another voice chimed in, "Still, imagine if he's reading minds or something. Makes you wonder."
Firdaus didn't move. He stood still, processing it—not just the words, but the tone.
Not anger.
Not defiance.
Just... unease.
He turned back toward the pitch, footsteps quiet.
His expression was unreadable.
But inside, a new chart was forming.
One that tracked more than performance.
One that followed trust.
To be continued...
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