Ethan stood in the cool, humming darkness of the command center, a universe of scrolling data reflected in his wide eyes.

It was a key. A back door to the entire FCG world.

He could see everything.

Leo's Orion FC had a shockingly low budget for the upcoming transfer window.

GridironGuru's Quantum FC had a 'Team Cohesion' rating of 99, a near-perfect score.

"This is..." he breathed, unable to find the right word.

"This is a cheat code."

"It's better than a cheat code," Maya said, her face illuminated by the glow of the monitors.

"A cheat code breaks the rules. This is the rules. It's the source code. My brother used it to find the players who were undervalued, the ones whose stats didn't tell the whole story. Look."

She typed a few commands and pulled up the profile of a random League One player.

"See? His 'Finishing' is a 65. Decent. But look here."

She pointed to a hidden data string.

"Hidden Attribute: Composure_Under_Pressure = 85. It means he's incredibly clutch. He doesn't miss big chances. The game knows it, but it doesn't show it on the main interface. This is the kind of information that wins you a title."

Ethan's mind was reeling with the possibilities.

The tactical advantages were limitless.

He could prepare for any opponent with perfect, secret knowledge.

A sudden buzz from his pocket jolted him back to reality. It was a text from his dad.

Dad: Your mom is asking about your great-aunt. Hope everything is okay.

"I have to go," Ethan said, a wave of guilt washing over him.

"My pickle-loving great-aunt... her condition is... stable."

Maya laughed, a bright, happy sound in the high-tech room. "Go," she said.

"We'll explore the matrix another time. Now you have my number, we can form a proper scouting alliance."

"An alliance," Ethan said, a wide grin spreading across his face. "I like the sound of that."

The bike ride home was a dizzying blur. His brain was fizzing with the implications of what he had just seen. He felt like he had been given a superpower.

He was so lost in thought that he almost didn't hear his phone ringing as he walked through his front door. He looked at the screen.

Mr. Henderson.

His heart sank. He answered, trying to sound as somber as possible.

"Hello?"

"COUCH!" his manager's voice roared down the line, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury.

"Your great-aunt must be the unluckiest woman in the world, because I just saw her an hour ago in the frozen food aisle! And she looked suspiciously like a teenage girl with purple hair buying a family-sized lasagna!"

Ethan froze. He had been so careful.

"Uh..."

"Don't you 'uh' me!" Mr. Henderson bellowed.

"I don't know what's going on with you, Couch. One minute you're the best damn cheese-stacker I've ever seen, the next you're starting food fights and making up sick relatives! You're on your last warning. Your very last. Be here tomorrow morning, on time, or don't bother coming back at all. Got it?"

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

He hung up the phone with a sigh. Superpowers in one world, last warnings in another. It was all about balance.

He went to bed, his mind a chaotic mess of tactical data and dairy-aisle-related dread.

He woke the next morning to the smell of sizzling bacon. He walked downstairs to find his mom in the kitchen, humming a cheerful tune as she flipped pancakes.

Gaffer was sitting at her feet, his tail thumping a hopeful rhythm against the cabinet.

"Morning, sunshine," she said, her smile as warm as the coffee she was pouring.

"I figured you could use a proper breakfast before facing the firing squad."

Ethan just grinned, the stress of the previous night melting away in the simple, perfect reality of a family breakfast.

They sat and ate together, talking about nothing and everything, the easy, comfortable silence a soothing balm on his chaotic mind.

His shift at CostMart was a masterclass in model employee behavior.

He was polite, he was efficient, and he didn't assault a single customer or make up any fictional family members. He even managed to upsell a woman on a deluxe, multi-pack of assorted cheeses.

Mr. Henderson just watched him with a suspicious, grumpy eye, but said nothing.

The second his shift ended, he was out the door.

He sprinted to his bike, his heart pounding with an excitement that had nothing to do with cheese and everything to do with football. It was matchday.

A home game against Burton Albion. A chance to get back on track.

He burst through his front door, yelled a quick "Hi, I'm home, got a match, love you!" to his bewildered family, and dived into the pod.

He materialized in his office, the roar of the pre-match crowd at The Apex a welcome, familiar sound. He took a deep breath, the stress of the real world vanishing, replaced by the cool, clear focus of the gaffer.

He pulled up the tactical display for the match. Burton Albion. A solid, mid-table side. He looked at their predicted lineup, their strengths, their weaknesses.

Then, he smiled. He remembered a piece of data he had seen in Maya's command center.

A tiny, hidden detail.

He walked into the dressing room. His players, who were going through their pre-match rituals, looked up, a new, steely determination in their eyes.

"Alright, lads," he began, his voice ringing with a quiet, unshakeable confidence.

"You all know the plan. 4-3-3. We press high, we move the ball quickly, we play our game."

He paused, letting his eyes sweep across the room. "But we're making one small, last-minute change. Jonny," he said, looking at his right-winger, Jonathan Rowe. "You're not starting on the right today. You're starting on the left. David," he looked at David Kerrigan, "you're on the right."

The two players looked at each other, confused.

They had been playing on their respective wings all season.

"Gaffer?" Rowe asked, bewildered

. "Are you sure? Their left-back is their weakest link. I've been studying him all week."

"I know," Ethan said, a cryptic, brilliant smile on his face.

"And their manager knows you know. He's expecting you to target him. But what he doesn't know," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "is that his star right-back, the one who looks unbeatable? He has a hidden 'Weakness vs. Unorthodox Dribblers' trait. He's brilliant against traditional wingers, but he panics against chaos."

He looked directly at David Kerrigan. "David. Your only job for the first half is to be a complete and utter menace. Run at him. Do your ridiculous step-overs. Try to nutmeg him. I don't care if you lose the ball. Your job is to break his brain. Can you do that?"

A slow, wicked, predatory grin spread across David Kerrigan's face.

"Gaffer," he said, his eyes gleaming. "I was born for this."

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