The calm of the morning was deceptive.
Firdaus sat at his desk before training, lights dimmed, only the system's glow lighting his face. Outside the window, Cardiff's streets were still, with only the occasional passing car disturbing the silence. The only sound in the room was the faint hum of the system's interface and the slow, rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the desk.
He typed a short command.
"Scan exposure channels."
The interface blinked.
[Visual Leak Suspected]
[Possible Origin: External Recording Device | Optical Capture – 48 hrs prior]
[Tactical Camouflage Protocol Available – Reduce Recognizability of Formations by 38%]
Firdaus rubbed his temple, processing the information. So it wasn't digital—it was visual. Someone had eyes on them. Drone? Hidden camera? High-powered lens? That meant someone had been watching. Close enough to record training, but subtle enough not to be noticed.
He clenched his jaw, then gave a command:
"Activate camouflage protocol for today's drills."
[Confirmed. Auto-adjusting observable tactical flow]
The interface faded. Firdaus shut the laptop, grabbed his jacket, and headed out, footsteps firm but silent against the tiled floor.
The players warmed up under a thin veil of morning haze. Dew clung to the grass, boots left trails of dark green in their wake. Firdaus stood near the halfway line with Riza, quietly watching as cones were arranged. His hands were behind his back, posture straight but slightly tense.
Then a car rolled up near the fence. Another followed. Within minutes, two media crews stood just beyond the designated boundary. One had a long-range lens. A man wearing a beanie and dark coat was clearly zooming in through the lens. His stance was too still, too deliberate.
Firdaus tensed.
"They weren't invited," Riza muttered. His eyes narrowed.
Firdaus didn't respond. He turned slightly toward the sideline and gestured for the administrative officer.
"Tell the front office—no cameras," he said quietly. "Not today."
The system interface flicked on in the corner of his smart glasses.
[Live Monitoring Active – Tactical Patterns Masked | Formations Altered]
As training progressed, players ran drills slightly modified by the system. Firdaus called instructions that seemed normal—standard movement cues, defensive triggers—but behind them, the actual structure was veiled. It looked chaotic from a distance, but inside the matrix, it was a carefully orchestrated layer of decoys.
To an outside lens, the team looked disjointed. Uncertain. Even a little off-form. And that was the point.
But inside the system, progress was still tracked efficiently. Positional fluidity. Recovery sprints. Decision tree efficiency.
By the end of the session, the players looked confused, even frustrated. A few approached Riza for clarification, but Firdaus offered nothing.
They wouldn't understand.
He didn't need them to. Not yet.
Back inside, Firdaus was called to a quick meeting with Ken Choo. They met in a glass-paneled corner office overlooking the car park. Ken sat on the edge of the desk, arms crossed, brows furrowed.
"You're drawing attention," Ken said flatly.
Firdaus remained silent.
"Someone's talking. And not through official channels," Ken continued. "A journalist has been reaching out to lower-level staff. Cleaning crew, drivers, even an intern. They're asking about you. Offering cash."
Firdaus didn't blink. His arms crossed calmly.
Ken stood and walked to the window. "Look, I don't care how you win games. But when media starts circling like this? The board gets itchy. If something's going on, I need to know. Now."
"There's nothing going on," Firdaus replied simply.
Ken turned. "Then control the noise. Do interviews. Smile. Shake hands. Be a manager—not a myth."
Firdaus didn't answer. He nodded, turned, and walked out.
Behind him, Ken sighed deeply and stared back out the window, phone in hand.
The receptionist caught him on his way back to his office.
"Coach," she said, holding out a plain envelope. "Someone dropped this off. Said it was personal. Didn't give a name."
Firdaus took it. No label. No stamp. Just his name written in black marker: Firdaus.
He walked back to his office, shut the door, and locked it. His hands were steady, but his thoughts weren't. He set the envelope down on his desk, stared at it for a long moment, then finally opened it.
Inside were printed photos. Sharp. Crisp.
His eyes scanned quickly.
They were images of the system interface.
Not full views—but enough.
Match simulation screens. Training analysis overlays. A red tactical heatmap from last week. The same system interface he had seen that morning.
His fingers tightened around the edges of the paper.
They weren't screenshots from his computer. These were photos—of his screen. Taken from somewhere nearby.
Someone had captured them.
Beneath the photos was a single typed note:
"You're not the only one who can play the game."
Firdaus froze.
The system interface burst into action.
[SYSTEM WARNING – SECURITY BREACH DETECTED]
[Unauthorized External Awareness Confirmed]
[Risk Level: CRITICAL – Recommend Immediate Defensive Action]
A list of probable breach vectors appeared.
[Top Suspect: Optical Capture | Time Window: ±72 hrs | Location Match: Office | Observation Radius: 12-15 meters]
Firdaus stared at the pulsing red warnings.
For the first time since acquiring the system, he felt a chill he couldn't explain.
Someone knew.
And worse—
They were watching.
The screen pulsed again.
[Initiate Auto-Shield Protocol? Y/N]
Firdaus didn't click.
Not yet.
He reached slowly for the blinds.
And pulled them shut.
To be continued...
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