Michael stood in the doorway, his heart still hammering a furious rhythm against his ribs from the injustice he'd just witnessed.

The scene inside was pure chaos. Players were fuming. One of the reserve defenders, not even in the squad, kicked a medical crate, sending bandages and tape flying across the room.

"He was five yards onside!" he roared, a sentiment echoed by everyone.

Then, Arthur Milton walked in.

The room fell silent, the rage simmering down, replaced by an anxious, expectant hush.

The players looked at their gaffer, their faces a mask of frustration and anger, desperate for leadership. They expected him to be just as furious as they were.

Arthur was not furious. He was ice-cold.

He walked calmly to the small, greasy tactics board, picked up a marker, and stood there for a second, his back to the room.

When he turned, his eyes were not angry. They were sharp, analytical, and almost amused.

"Well," he said, his voice quiet but cutting through the tension. "They're rattled."

The players stared, confused.

"Gaffer?" Dave Bishop said, "Did you not see what just happened? They robbed us! The ref—"

"Of course, he robbed us," Arthur cut in, his voice sharp as a razor. "And he'll probably rob us again. So what?" He looked around the room. "You're all fuming. You're all screaming about the ref. That's exactly what they want. They've stopped playing football. They're playing the referee, they're playing the crowd, and right now... they're playing us. And we're letting them."

He tapped the board. "They're rattled. They were getting embarrassed. That 'Butcher' Harris, their captain? He was terrified of Raphael. So, what did they do? They created chaos. And we fell right into the trap."

He pointed to a set of notes Mark, the analyst, had just handed him.

"In their panic, they've made a mistake. A fatal one. Their right-back, the one Finn was destroying, has dropped deep. He's not pushing high anymore. He's been ordered to just... defend. He's terrified."

A predatory gleam entered Arthur's eyes. "And that's their mistake. Because they've just given us the entire left side of the pitch."

He began moving magnets on the board, his hands a blur. "Finn, you're switching to the left wing. I want you to live in that space he just abandoned. Jamie," he looked at his left-winger, "you're tucking in. You're not a winger anymore. You're a 'shadow striker.' You play deeper. I want you and Finn constantly interchanging. Confuse them. Mess with their heads. They won't know who to mark."

He then looked at his [PA 93] magician, who was watching him with wide, intelligent eyes.

"Raphael. Your free roam? It's even freer. Go find the chaos. They don't know what you are. Go do your thing."

"We are not going to try and out-fight them," Arthur concluded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl.

"We are not going to complain to the ref. We are going to out-think them, out-run them, and we are going to pass them to death. We are going to be a ghost. Now, get out there and haunt them."

The second half kicked off, and the plan worked. It was a tactical masterpiece.

Finn, on his new left wing, was a demon, finding acres of space. Jamie, now lurking in the center, was a constant, dangerous threat, arriving late.

The "Butcher" and his thugs had no one to mark. It was like trying to punch smoke.

The inevitable breakthrough came in the 55th minute.

The ball was worked to Raphael, who had "done his thing" by drifting into a pocket of space just outside the box. A Millwall defender, enraged by his dancing, charged in to break him in half.

Raphael, with his [Evasive Dribbler] he used it, spinning off the defender's momentum like a matador. He was now facing the goal. He could have shot. He could have dribbled.

Instead, he did something filthy.

He did a "no-look," reverse pass, threading the ball backwards through the legs of the defender who had just tried to foul him, perfectly into the path of the onrushing Jamie Weston.

The crowd gasped. It was a pass of pure, arrogant genius.

Jamie didn't even have to break stride. He was 25 yards out. He didn't think. He just let the [Power Shot] take over.

BOOM!

The connection was pure. The ball didn't spin. It didn't curl. It was a missile.

The Millwall goalkeeper, a good shot-stopper, was a statue. He didn't even dive. He just watched, his mouth open, as the ball exploded into the top corner of his net and nearly tore it from the posts.

1-1. The tiny corner of Barnsley fans went absolutely insane.

But the joy was short-lived. The game descended back into chaos.

Millwall, furious at being embarrassed, abandoned all pretense of football. It was a street fight. And in a street fight, the referee is king.

In the 72nd minute, Millwall lumped a high, hopeful corner into the box.

Harris grabbed Dave Bishop in a headlock. The referee, just yards away, just... watched.

As Bishop was wrestled to the ground, the ball bounced off his back and fell to a Millwall striker, who poked it into the empty net.

The referee blew his whistle. And pointed to the center circle.

Goal.

2-1 to the Butchers.

The injustice was so profound, so blatant, that Michael felt a cold, white-hot rage fill his entire body. His team had been robbed. Again.

It was now the 80th minute. They were losing. They were exhausted. They had been cheated.

Down on the touchline, Arthur Milton made his last substitution, bringing on another striker for his last remaining central defender.

Then he walked to the edge of his technical area, his face a mask of pure, glorious, attacking insanity.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed, his voice roaring over the din.

"EVERYONE GET FORWARD! EVERYONE! I DON'T WANT A SINGLE DEFENDER LEFT IN OUR OWN HALF! GO! WIN IT!"

This was it. All-out attack.

The Barnsley players, running on pure, adrenaline-fueled fury, threw themselves forward. It was a siege. The 88th minute. The ball was at Finn Riley's feet on the edge of the box. He was surrounded.

He beat his man with a step-over. He beat a second with a burst of pure pace. He was in! He took the shot!

The Millwall keeper, who had been brilliant all day, launched himself sideways in a desperate, acrobatic dive. He got his fingertips to it! A miraculous save.

The ball wasn't cleared. It looped up, high into the air, spinning... hanging...

It hung in the air for an eternity, a perfect, hopeful beacon against the dark, furious sky.

And as it began to fall, Michael saw him.

Danny Fletcher. The Prince. The brain. The man who had had his own perfect goal stolen by a linesman's flag. He had read the play. He was there. He was leaping...

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