Michael Sterling felt like he was floating.

He was 18 years old, and he felt like the king of the world. He was so high on his own confidence, so wrapped up in his own beautiful, perfect, 'Kid Genius' story, that he almost didn't hear the voice that cut through the air.

A voice he hadn't heard in a very, very long time.

"Michael."

He froze.

His smug grin vanished. His blood went cold.

He turned, slowly.

She was standing there, under the giant, digital 'FA Cup' sign.

His sister, Jessica.

She wasn't the 19-year-old kid he remembered, the one who had looked at him with horrified, tear-filled eyes after he beat their father 5-0.

The woman standing there looked... older. Tired. And angry.

She was wearing a smart, black coat. No football shirt. No red and white. Just... anger.

"Jess?" Michael breathed, his heart, which had been soaring, now a cold, heavy stone in his stomach.

"What... what are you doing here? Did... did you come for the game?"

Jessica just... stared at him. Then she let out a short, sharp, ugly laugh. It was a sound of pure, bitter, disbelief.

"The game?" she said, her voice shaking. "You think I came... for this? For your stupid... circus?"

"Jess, I..."

"I came," she said, taking a step forward, her eyes blazing, "because I saw you. On the TV. At Chelsea. I saw you... laughing. And... I saw this." She gesttured to the giant, beautiful stadium around them.

"And... I just... I had to see it for myself."

"See what?" Michael said, his own defensiveness rising. "See... see us win?"

"See this!" she snapped, her voice cracking.

"See what you bought... with our family!"

"That's not fair, Jess!"

"Isn't it?!" she was almost shouting now, and a few people in suits turned to look. "I haven't seen you in almost a year, Michael! Not since... that day! Do you even know what you've done?! Do you... do you even care?!"

"Of course I care!"

"No, you don't!" she said, and he saw tears welling in her eyes.

"You're just... playing. This is a toy to you! You took your money, you broke Dad's heart, and you ran off to buy a toy!"

"It's not a toy, Jess! It's... it's my life!" Michael pleaded, his voice desperate. "Look... I know... I know what happened with Dad was... bad. But... he's fine, right? He's..."

"Fine?" Jessica's voice was a whisper of pure venom. "He's a ghost, Michael. He sits in his study. He doesn't talk. He just... stares. Mom... Mom cries herself to sleep, every single night, because her son... her 'Genius' son... is all over the news, and her husband... has just... disappeared."

"I... I didn't mean for that to happen..."

"You just... did it!" she said, the tears now rolling down her face. "And you're... you're happy! That's the worst part! I'm watching my family... our family... fall to pieces... and I turn on the TV... and you're just... smiling."

She looked at him, her heart broken.

"This... this stupid, stupid game... is it really worth it, Michael? Is it... is it better than us?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She just... shook her head, a look of profound, deep, pity on her face.

"I... I have to go. I just... I had to ask."

"Jess, wait!" Michael reached out.

"Don't," she said, flinching. "Just... good luck with your... 'war,' or whatever it is you call it."

She turned, and walked away, her black coat vanishing into the crowds of blue-and-red-shirted fans.

Michael just... stood there.

In the hallway of Wembley. The greatest, happiest, most important place in the world.

And he had never, in his entire life, felt so small. So cold. So... wrong.

***

The next day... was match day.

Michael hadn't slept. Not one minute.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his sister's face. Is it better than us?

He was in the hotel, at the breakfast buffet, but he couldn't eat. The "kids" were all around him, but their usual, loud, "fun" energy was gone.

This was... Wembley. This was the Final Boss.

Even Finn Riley, the 'Wild Fox,' wasn't cackling. He was just... staring at his toast, his headphones on, his eyes a million miles away.

The bus ride to the stadium was so quiet, Michael could hear his own heart beating.

He looked out the window, at the sea of fans. Half red, half light-blue. 90,000 people. For them. His doubt... his sister's words... they were a heavy, cold rock in his stomach.

What am I doing here? he thought.

He walked into the Wembley dressing room, and his heart just... sank.

It was... perfect.

It wasn't a tiny, "insulting" green room. It was massive. It was beautiful. Red carpets. Pristine, oak lockers. A giant, high-tech tactics screen.

It was a dressing room... for winners.

And his "kids"... they looked... tiny.

They were all just... sitting. Staring at their lockers.

Jamie Weston was stretching, his face pale, his jaw set.

Danny Fletcher was reading, and re-reading, and re-reading the same sheet of tactical paper, his 'Brain' clearly whirring, but with... fear.

It was 30 minutes to kickoff.

Michael just... stood in the corner, his hands in his pockets, his heart full of a cold, gray dread.

The door to the manager's office... opened.

Click... clack...

Arthur Milton stepped out.

Michael's jaw... dropped.

Arthur... wasn't in his usual, comfortable, red-and-white tracksuit.

He was wearing... a suit.

A sharp, perfectly tailored, black suit. A crisp white shirt. And a shining, beautiful, red Barnsley club tie. He looked... He looked like a general!

The players... who had all been in their own worlds... just... stared.

Click... clack...

Arthur walked to the center of the silent, perfect, terrifying room.

He didn't yell. He didn't need to. His voice, a low, gravelly, beautiful rasp, cut through the tension like a knife.

"Right," he said.

The players just... looked at him.

"So," Arthur rasped, a tiny, almost-invisible smirk on his face.

"This... is Wembley. Nice, isn't it? Very... clean."

A few of the players let out a nervous half-laugh.

"I've been... reading the papers," Arthur continued, his eyes scanning every single player. "It's... it's a 'horror movie,' apparently. Doku... is the 'monster.' Haaland... is the 'final boss.' And we... we are the 'kindergarteners' who are here to get an 'execution.' A 'lesson.'"

The players looked down. That was... exactly what they were all thinking.

"They're... right," Arthur said, quietly.

Michael's heart stopped. What? Gaffer, no!

"They're right," Arthur repeated, his voice just... calm. "That... Doku... is faster than you, Finn. That... Haaland... is stronger than you, Danny. That... their entire team... is better than us. In every single position. They are... a team of gods. And we... we are just... kids."

He let the words hang in the silent, perfect, room.

"But," he said, and his voice... changed.

It went from a quiet, soft, rasp... to a low, cold, dangerous... growl.

"Gods... have a weakness. They don't... bleed. They don't... hurt. They... have never... had to... fight."

He slammed his cane onto the pristine, red, Wembley carpet.

THWACK!

Every player... jumped.

"Today!" he roared, his voice suddenly full of fire, "We... are not... going to 'play' them! We are not... going to try and be 'pretty'! We... are not... going to 'win' a football match!"

He pointed at Finn.

"You! 'Wild Fox'! I don't want you to tackle Doku... I want you... to hunt him! I want you to be so... so annoying... so... in his face... that he forgets... how to run!"

He pointed at Danny. "You! 'Brain'! You are not... a center-back! You... are a shadow! I want you... to be so close... to that big, blond, 'robot'... that when he goes home tonight... he still... feels your breath... on his neck!"

He looked at all of them. His eyes... were on fire.

"They... are playing a 'cup final'!" he roared. "They... are here for a 'trophy'!"

"WE... ARE IN A WAR!"

"We... are not 'League One'! We... are not 'kids'! We... are... Barnsley! And we... are... ANGRY!"

"I want you... to go out there... for 90 minutes... and I want you... to run... until your lungs burn! I want you... to fight... until your legs break! I want you... to make... them... BLEED!"

He was panting, his face red, his hands gripping his cane.

"They... are not... just 'in our way.'

"They... are the enemy!"

"Now... go... and win... your... WAR!"

He turned, click-clack, and walked towards the tunnel.

Michael... was shaking.

Their faces... were red. Their eyes... were blazing.

Finn Riley... was grinning.

Jamie Weston... was pounding his own chest, his face a mask of pure, red-hot, energy.

"LET'S GO!" he roared, his voice a battle cry.

The doubt... the fear... Jessica... it all... vanished.

Michael's heart was no longer cold. It was on fire.

He was 18. He was at Wembley. And he was about to watch his "kids"... go to war.

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