Michael walked out of the hospital, the afternoon sun warming his face.

He was a new man. The fear, the doubt, the icy knot of dread that had been sitting in his stomach for the last twenty-four hours... it was gone, burned away by the simple, powerful loyalty of his manager.

He turned them down.

"We'll keep your seat warm, Gaffer," he whispered to himself, a fierce, protective, and deeply personal determination hardening his heart. He wasn't just doing this for himself anymore. He wasn't just doing it to beat his father. He was doing it for Arthur.

He strode onto the training ground at Oakwell, his step light, his mind clear. He was ready. He could face anything. He was ready to find Steve, the terrified interim manager, and fill him with the confidence of his manager's faith. He was ready to lead.

He turned the corner to his office corridor, a confident smile on his face, and stopped dead.

Brenda, the secretary, was standing by her desk, her hand over her mouth, her face a pale, terrified white.

Blocking the entrance to his office were three men.

They were the anti-Arthur. They were in dark, rumpled, identical suits. They had the bored, joyless, vaguely threatening aura of men who dealt in bad news and relished the small, petty authority it gave them.

"Mr. Sterling?" the man in the middle asked. His voice was a flat, nasal drone. He didn't offer a hand.

Michael's new, hopeful mood evaporated in a cold, prickling flash.

This was a new kind of enemy. Not a cynical journalist, not a rival club. This was... bureaucracy.

"I am," Michael said, his voice instantly becoming cold and defensive.

"Can I help you?"

The man flashed a badge so quickly Michael couldn't even read it. "We're from the League Medical Committee. We're here to conduct a surprise, full-squad, random drug test."

"A surprise test?" Michael said, his mind racing. "Now?"

"That's generally how 'surprise' works, son," the man said with a dead-eyed sneer. "We'll need a full roster. And a room. Now."

His team was already reeling from the loss of their manager. They were emotionally fragile, held together by a single, defiant thread of "Win for the Gaffer." And now, this.

"Brenda, show these... gentlemen... to the staff canteen. I'll... I'll gather the players," Michael said, his jaw tight.

He strode out onto the training pitch, his heart a cold stone.

Steve, the interim gaffer, was in the middle of a drill. He was trying his best, his [CA 55] on full display. He was yelling, but his voice was cracking with nerves.

"Lads! Lads! Faster! More... philosophy!" he was shouting, in a poor imitation of Arthur.

"Steve!" Michael called out, his voice sharp.

Steve stopped, looking relieved for the interruption.

"Boss! Just running the... the triangles!"

"Steve, I need you to pull everyone in. Now."

The players, sensing the new, icy tension in their owner's voice, jogged over, their faces curious and tired.

"What's up, Boss?" Dave Bishop asked

. "The Gaffer... is he...?"

"The Gaffer is stable," Michael said, and he saw a wave of relief wash over the team. He hated what he was about to do. "But we have a new problem. We have visitors. From the League. They're here for a full-squad... drug test."

The reaction was instantaneous.

"What?!"

"Now? Are you serious?"

"After what happened?!"

"They're implying we're cheating!" Finn Riley snarled, his eyes flashing.

"After Old Trafford! That's what this is!"

Steve, the interim manager, looked like he was about to have a full-blown nervous breakdown. He went a pale, sickly green.

"Drug test? Oh, lord. Oh, dear lord. The press... Michael, what do we do?"

Michael had to take control.

"We do nothing," he said, his voice low and firm, silencing the rising panic. "We have nothing to hide. We are the 'Barnsley Braves.' We are professionals. We will go in, we will give them their samples, and we will do it with our heads held high. Let them look. They won't find anything. Now, go. One by one. And let's get this over with."

He watched his players, his brave, angry, and now deeply unsettled team, get pulled from their training, their sanctuary, one by one.

He stood in the hallway, a furious, helpless guardian, as the men in suits processed them, their faces bored.

He did the only thing he could. He activated his system.

He scanned every player. He wasn't looking for guilt, not really. He was looking for... anything. An anomaly. A flicker in their stats. He saw nothing. He saw [Anxiety: High]. He saw [Morale: Low].

He saw [Focus: 0].

But he saw no sign of what the men were looking for.

The whole process took two agonizing hours.

By the time it was done, the day's training was ruined. The team's focus was shattered.

The next twenty-four hours were hell.

The team tried to train under Steve's shaky leadership, but the magic was gone. The rhythm was broken. The players were distracted, whispering in corners, checking their phones.

Michael sat in his office, his door closed, just pacing. Pacing, and waiting for the phone to ring.

It rang at four p.m. the next day. The day before their next match. It was an unlisted number.

He snatched it.

"Sterling."

The voice on the other end was the same, cold, bureaucratic drone from the day before.

"Mr. Stirling. This is the League Medical Committee. We're calling to inform you of the results of yesterday's test."

Michael held his breath.

"We regret to inform you," the voice said, and Michael's heart sank. "...that we have one positive sample."

The air left Michael's lungs. He felt dizzy. He leaned on his desk for support. "One... one positive?"

"That's correct. A banned diuretic, often used as a masking agent."

Michael's voice was a tight, strangled whisper. "Who?"

The man on the phone paused, as if to find the right file. "A Mr. Mark Jennings."

Michael was stunned. Jennings?

Not Jamie. Not Finn. Not Danny. Not one of his new, volatile, superstar kids.

Mark Jennings. "The Lungs" of the team. A 31-year-old, model professional. A workhorse defensive midfielder, a guy who never got a headline, but was the first one in training and the last one to leave. He was the quiet, reliable engine of the team.

Michael, in his shock, pulled up the man's file on his system.

[Mark Jennings: CA 65 / PA 65].

He was maxed out. He was at his absolute limit.

And Michael, in a sickening, horrifying flash, suddenly realized why.

He had brought in a team of [PA 90] superstars. He had implemented Arthur's high-intensity, lung-bursting tactical system.

And Mark Jennings, the old, reliable engine, had been running on fumes, terrified of losing his spot to the new generation. He wasn't a bad guy. He was a desperate one. He had been doping... just to keep up.

This wasn't just a scandal. This was a tragedy of his own making.

"Mr. Stirling? Are you there?" the man's voice droned. "The player is provisionally suspended, effective immediately, pending a full investigation. The press release will be sent out in an hour."

The line clicked.

Michael just stood there. The match was tomorrow. His manager was in a hospital bed. And his entire starting midfield had just been blown apart by a doping scandal.

He had lost his architect. Now he'd lost his engine. The whole thing was collapsing.

He closed his eyes, the panic rising, cold and acidic. He was out of ideas. He was out of time.

No. I am not.

He took a deep breath.

"System."

The blue screen flickered to life.

"Show me my balance."

[BALANCE: 150 POINTS]

He had been saving them for a rainy day.

He looked out the window. It had just started to pour.

"Show me the Shop," he commanded. "Show me everything."

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