The revelation about 'Predictive Analysis' gnawed at Ethan for two straight days.

It was a splinter in his mind, a constant, irritating reminder that the game he loved was fundamentally, insurmountably unfair at the highest level.

How could he, a kid with a laptop and a knack for tactics, ever compete with a manager who could literally see the future?

This simmering frustration followed him to work on a dreary Tuesday afternoon.

The sterile chill of the CostMart dairy aisle did little to cool his temper.

He wasn't just stacking shelves; he was slamming them, placing cartons of milk down with a little too much force, the plastic thudding a satisfying rhythm of annoyance.

"Easy there, killer," a co-worker joked as she walked past.

"The yogurts didn't do anything to you."

Ethan just grunted in response, his mind a million miles away, replaying the image of 'Prodigy' on the Old Trafford touchline.

He was a fraud, a cheat. He wasn't a manager; he was just a player with the strategy guide open.

It was in this foul mood that he met the customer.

The man was in his forties, wearing a suit that was too expensive for a Tuesday afternoon at CostMart, and talking loudly into a Bluetooth earpiece. He was standing directly in front of the strawberry jam, blocking the entire aisle.

"Excuse me, sir," Ethan said, trying to keep his tone polite as he pushed a cart laden with boxes. "Could I just squeeze past?"

The man ignored him, continuing his loud conversation.

"No, Philip, you tell them the deal is final. If they can't meet the valuation, we walk. It's that simple."

Ethan tried again, a little louder. "Sir, I just need to stock the shelves behind you."

The man finally turned, lowering his phone, and looked Ethan up and down with an expression of profound disdain.

"Do you work here, or are you just admiring the preserves?"

"I work here," Ethan said, his jaw tightening.

"Good," the man said, turning back to the shelf.

He picked up a jar of strawberry jam, examined it for a second, then casually tossed it into his shopping cart, missing completely.

The glass jar hit the metal frame, exploded in a shower of sticky red goo and shattered glass, and splattered all over the pristine linoleum floor.

The man didn't even flinch. He just looked at the mess, then back at Ethan. "Well," he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

"Looks like you have a cleanup job. And while you're at it, get me another jar of this. The organic one."

Something inside Ethan snapped.

All the frustration of the last few days—the unfairness of the game, the pressure of his new responsibilities, the feeling of being a small, insignificant cog in a massive machine—it all coalesced into a single, hot point of anger.

"Pick it up yourself," Ethan said, his voice dangerously quiet.

The man stared at him, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"What did you just say to me?"

"I said," Ethan repeated, taking a step forward, "pick it up. You made the mess. You clean it up."

"I don't think so," the man said with a sneer, turning to walk away.

"That's what they pay you for."

He took one step, and Ethan reacted. He didn't think. He just moved. He reached out and shoved the man's shoulder.

It wasn't a hard shove, more of a frustrated, impulsive push, but it was enough.

The man, caught off guard, stumbled sideways, his expensive leather shoes slipping on the sticky jam.

He flailed his arms, pinwheeling for a moment, before crashing into a carefully constructed pyramid of honey jars, sending them cascading to the floor in a second, even bigger explosion of glass and golden, sticky liquid.

The entire aisle froze.

A few customers gasped.

The man lay on the floor, covered in a mixture of jam and honey, looking like a bewildered, poorly dressed bear.

"COUCH!"

The roar came from the end of the aisle.

Mr. Henderson was storming towards them, his face a thunderous shade of purple.

"My office," he barked, pointing a thick finger at Ethan. "Now."

The walk of shame to the manager's office was a blur. Mr. Henderson didn't shout.

He just sat behind his cluttered desk, rubbing his temples as if trying to ward off a migraine.

"I have two rules, Couch," he said, his voice a low, tired rumble. "Don't be late, and don't assault the customers. You've been here less than two weeks, and you've already broken one and a half of them."

"He was a jerk," Ethan muttered, staring at his shoes. "He threw the jam, he was rude..."

"I don't care if he was the king of England," Mr. Henderson cut him off.

"Your job is to smile, stack the shelves, and take the abuse. That's the deal. But you're a good kid. You work hard. So you're not fired."

Ethan looked up, a wave of relief washing over him.

"You're suspended," Mr. Henderson finished. "For two days. Go home. Cool off. And when you come back, you will be a model employee, or you will be an ex-employee. Got it?"

"Got it," Ethan mumbled, his face burning with shame.

The bike ride home was a miserable, self-loathing crawl. He wasn't a hero.

He was an idiot who had just gotten suspended from his minimum-wage job for losing his temper over a jar of jam.

He crept into the house, hoping to avoid everyone, but his mom was in the living room. She took one look at his face and knew something was wrong.

"Tough day at work?" she asked gently.

"You could say that," he said, collapsing onto the sofa.

He told her everything

. The rude customer, the jam, the shove, the honey apocalypse, the suspension. He expected a lecture. Instead, she just listened patiently.

When he was done, she reached out and brushed a stray piece of hair from his forehead.

"You can't carry the world on your shoulders, Ethan," she said softly.

"You've been under so much pressure lately. Everyone snaps sometimes. It doesn't make you a bad person. It just makes you human."

She stood up. "Now, you are going to sit right there. I am going to make you a cup of tea. And then you are going to go to your room and get some rest. Doctor's orders."

He felt a profound sense of gratitude for his mother's simple, unconditional love.

He did as he was told. He went to his room, the weight of his real-world failure heavy on his shoulders. He needed an escape.

He needed a win. He needed to be the gaffer of Apex United, a world where he was in control, where he was a winner.

He lay down in the pod, the familiar hum a comforting sound. He closed his eyes, ready for the transition.

But nothing happened.

The hum just faded into silence. The pod remained dark. He sat up, confused, and looked at the small integrated screen. A new message was displayed in a calm, blue font.

[MANAGER WELL-BEING PROTOCOL: ACTIVATED]

He frowned, tapping the screen.

[Biometric data indicates elevated levels of stress, aggression, and mental fatigue. This is a sub-optimal state for effective management. A mandatory 24-hour 'cool-down' period has been initiated.]

[Access to FCG servers is temporarily suspended. Please take this time to rest and recuperate. A calm manager is a winning manager.]

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