"Wake up, you spineless sod! We've got forty-five minutes to stop bleeding out!"
Pain exploded behind his eyes.
He groaned, his hand instinctively reaching up to clutch his forehead, only to find his fingers slick with something sticky. Gel? Grease?
He blinked. The world came into focus through a blurry, high-contrast vignette.
He wasn't in his apartment, sitting in front of his dual-monitor setup with Football Manager 2024 running a simulation of the Vanarama National League.
He was sitting on a hard wooden bench in a room that looked like a prison block designed by Adidas.
"He's alive. Unfortunately," a voice sneered from the corner.
He looked up. Standing over him were fifteen men. They were massive, glistening with sweat, and wearing red and white kits that were stained with mud and grass.
And they all looked like they wanted to murder him.
Where the hell am I?
"Gaffer? You with us, or are you still dreaming about a tactics board that actually works?"
Gaffer?
He looked down at himself. He wasn't wearing his lucky pajama pants. He was wearing a suit.
A cheap, ill-fitting polyester suit that was currently dusted with white powder.
A tactical whiteboard lay shattered in two pieces near his Italian leather shoes.
Oh. I remember now.
He wasn't Alex, the 26-year-old data analyst and top-ranked Football Manager streamer.
He was Marco Rossi. 42 years old. The half-Italian, half-English manager of the Blackwood Ravens, a historic London club currently rotting in the relegation zone of the Championship.
He was known for two things: his perfectly gelled hair and his absolute inability to organize a defense.
And five minutes ago, in a fit of halftime rage while trailing 0-3 to bottom-of-the-league Rotherham, his own captain, Gavin "The Tank" Miller, had thrown the tactical whiteboard at his head.
"Holy..." Alex muttered, touching the bump on his head.
"Don't start speaking Italian, Marco. We don't speak pasta," Gavin growled. The captain was a slab of granite with legs, a center-back whose turning circle was comparable to the Titanic.
"Are you going to tell us how to fix this, or are you going to cry in the toilet like you did after the Leeds game?"
The locker room erupted into nervous, mocking laughter.
Alex stared at them. His heart was racing, but his brain was processing the data.
0-3 down at halftime.
Morale: Abysmal.
Authority: Non-existent.
Formation: A suicidally wide 4-2-4 that left the midfield as open as a 24-hour convenience store.
This was a save file disaster. This was the kind of scenario he played for fun on stream just to see if he could pull off a miracle.
Suddenly, a chime rang out. Not a whistle, not a phone notification. It was a crisp, digital ding that echoed directly inside his skull.
A translucent blue panel materialized in front of his vision, hovering over Gavin's angry, red face.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
[HOST DETECTED: ALEX/MARCO ROSSI]
[SYNC RATE: 100%]
[WELCOME TO THE FOOTBALL MANAGER SYSTEM]
Alex's eyes widened. He reached out to touch the screen, but his hand passed right through it.
"Look at him," the goalkeeper spat, throwing his gloves into a corner. "He's swatting flies. He's got a concussion. Assistant! You take over."
The Assistant Manager, a timid man named nervous Neil, looked like he wanted to dissolve into the floor tiles. "I... uh... maybe we should just park the bus?"
[CURRENT STATUS: CRISIS]
[SCORE: 0-3]
[AUTHORITY: 5/100 (Mutinous)]
[MISSION TRIGGERED: "Show Them Who's Boss"]
[OBJECTIVE: Regain control of the locker room before the second half begins.]
[REWARD: Unlock "Tactical Eye" (Level 1)]
[FAILURE PENALTY: Immediate Sacking and a lifetime of regret.]
Alex took a deep breath.
The pain in his head receded, replaced by the cold, calculating adrenaline he felt during a penalty shootout in the Champions League final.
He stood up.
"Sit down," Alex said. His voice wasn't loud, but it was steady.
"What did you say?" Gavin stepped forward, towering over him. "You want another whiteboard sandwich, Gaffer?"
"I said," Alex looked Gavin dead in the eye, ignoring the massive size difference, "sit your arse down, Gavin. Before I terminate your contract for gross misconduct and assault."
The room went silent. The silence was heavy, confused. Marco Rossi never threatened anyone. Marco Rossi usually bought them pizza when they lost.
"You can't—"
"I can," Alex interrupted, his voice sharpening.
"And I will. You're thirty-two years old, Gavin. Your contract expires in June. You think a League One club is going to pick up a center-back who turns slower than milk and throws tantrums like a toddler? Sit. Down."
Gavin's jaw worked silently. The sheer audacity seemed to short-circuit his aggression. Slowly, confusedly, the big man sat back on the bench.
[AUTHORITY: 12/100 (+7)]
Alex didn't stop. He turned to the winger, a fast but brainless kid named Jaden.
"Jaden. You've touched the ball six times. Four of them were throw-ins. You're playing as a winger, not a spectator. Why are you hugging the touchline when their fullback is leaving the inside channel wide open?"
Jaden blinked. "But... the instructions said width..."
"The instructions were for a team that actually passes the ball!" Alex snapped. He walked to the center of the room, stepping over the broken whiteboard. "We are losing 0-3 to Rotherham. Rotherham! Their striker is older than my dad and he's scored a hat-trick against you lot."
He looked at the blue screen that was now populating with data.
[SQUAD ANALYSIS]
Gavin Miller (CB): Morale (Angry), Fitness (65%), Concentration (Low). Trait: Leads with aggression, crumbles under pressure.
Enzo Silva (CM): Morale (Depressed), Fitness (90%), Passing (16/20). Trait: Playmaker being forced to play as a ball-winner.
Alex's eyes locked onto Enzo, a diminutive Portuguese midfielder sitting with his head in his hands.
"Enzo," Alex called out.
The player looked up. "Si, Mister?"
"Stop tackling," Alex commanded.
"What?"
"You tackle like a wet noodle. Stop it. I see you running around trying to snap ankles. You're a creator, not a destroyer. Second half, you don't drop back. You sit in the hole behind the striker. If Gavin gets the ball, he gives it to you. If the keeper gets the ball, he gives it to you. You run this show."
Enzo's eyes lit up. For the first time all season, someone wasn't asking him to be Roy Keane. "Freerole?"
"Complete freedom. If you lose the ball, it's on you. If you create a goal, I'll buy you a steak dinner. Deal?"
"Deal, Mister."
[AUTHORITY: 20/100 (+8)]
[MORALE SHIFT DETECTED: Hopeful (Enzo Silva)]
"Gaffer," Neil the Assistant whispered, looking terrified. "The board... the formation... we practiced the 4-2-4 all week..."
"Burn the 4-2-4," Alex said, grabbing a marker pen from the floor. He walked over to the shiny metal door of a locker and started drawing on it directly, the squeak of the marker echoing in the quiet room.
"We go 4-1-2-1-2. Narrow diamond."
Gavin scoffed. "Diamond? We'll get slaughtered on the wings."
"They're Rotherham, Gavin, not Real Madrid!" Alex shouted, slamming his hand against the locker. The loud bang made three players jump.
"They are crossing blindly into the box. You love heading the ball, don't you? So let them cross! We pack the middle. We overload their slow midfield. We actually play football."
He turned to the squad. The fear in their eyes was gone, replaced by confusion, but more importantly, attention.
They were listening. Not out of respect, perhaps, but out of sheer curiosity at the sudden personality transplant of their manager.
"Listen to me," Alex said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"The fans out there? They're booing you. They think you're overpaid clowns. They think I'm a joke. And right now, the scoreboard agrees with them."
He looked at the timer on the wall. Two minutes until the restart.
"I don't care if we win," Alex lied... he cared immensely, he needed the XP.
"But I will not accept being humiliated by a team whose stadium is smaller than our parking lot. Go out there. Play through Enzo. Keep the ball on the ground. And for the love of god, Gavin, if you hoof the ball long one more time, I will personally sub you off for the U18 goalkeeper and play him at center-back."
Gavin looked like he wanted to argue, but he swallowed it. "Right. Ground. Got it."
The referee's whistle blew from the corridor.
"Move!" Alex barked, clapping his hands. "Let's go! 3-3 is the target. Get out there!"
The players stood up. There was no cheering, no high-fives. But there was urgency. They shuffled out of the locker room, casting wary glances at the man in the chalk-dusted suit who had just verbally undressed them.
As the last player left, Alex leaned against the lockers and exhaled, his legs shaking slightly.
[MISSION COMPLETE]
[REWARD UNLOCKED: Tactical Eye (Level 1)]
[DESCRIPTION: Allows you to see real-time player ratings and fatigue levels during a match.]
"Sir?" Neil asked, holding the door open. "Are you coming?"
Alex straightened his tie. He wiped the blood and gel from his forehead with his sleeve. He caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked tired, bruised, and insane.
He grinned.
"Yeah, Neil," Alex said, stepping toward the tunnel where the roar of twenty thousand angry fans awaited him.
"I wouldn't miss this for the world."