Adams Harding stepped out of the narrow tunnel. Rust streaked the pipes overhead; paint peeled like dead skin. The hum of old screens leaked from the Boardroom ahead — the static stutter of LeagueNet notifications pinging in the silence between arguments. The air tasted like stale rain and colder sweat.
Behind him, Ernesto trailed, tapping the corner of his battered tablet against his thigh. Tap, tap, tap. His blue eyes flicked everywhere except forward — like he'd rather slip back onto the pitch and drown in the bog than follow Adams into this concrete coffin.
Ernesto forced a grin through cracked lips. "We could run, you know. Ferry's still docked. Salt marsh might be better than that lot."
Adams snorted, though his voice was so dry it felt like rust flaking off his throat. "What, and let them call me a coward and incompetent? No chance."
He reached for the dented door handle — but paused just a heartbeat, thumb brushing over old paint blisters. The System flickered at the edge of his vision, cold blue text rippling under his eyelids:
> [Daily Objective: Face the Boardroom — Status: In Progress]
The Boardroom looked worse than the locker room. Four cracked concrete walls, patched here and there with AR screens bolted over mold scars. A greasy bulb swayed on a half-dead wire, flickering the dust in and out of shadow. It smelled like stale coffee, cheap printer toner, and something colder underneath — fear that had seeped into the floor tiles.
Three men waited for him. The same ancient club fossils who had bled Primeport dry, season after season — never brave enough to sell, never humble enough to admit they were the anchors dragging it under. Their eyes were heavy bags of broken dreams and worse lies.
And then there was the new face: Bob Payne. A sleek dagger of a man in a synth-suit so pristine it looked like it rejected the rain. Neon pin pulsing faintly on his lapel, hair gelled so smooth it could cut skin. His grin was all polished teeth and contract clauses.
Chairman Reyes leaned back in a sagging office chair, gut drooping over a club scarf that had seen more promotions than he ever would. His breath smelled like stale lager and something sourer.
"Take a seat, lad." The words were soft but carried the weight of an iron collar.
Ernesto hovered by the door, flicking through phantom updates on the tablet.
Adams made sure to square his shoulders, spine straight. His eyes locked onto Reyes, not on the flickering LeagueNet screen just behind him, which broadcast their shame for the world to see:
> [League Position: 22nd]
> [Matches Remaining: 4]
> [Relegation Probability: 74.3%]
Bob Payne spoke first, voice like a silk rope tightening around a neck. "Mister Harding. Let's not waste time, shall we? Do you understand the significance of tonight's result?"
Adams held the man's icy stare. He could feel the System pulsing, an unblinking witness behind his eyes. "I'm aware," he said, voice calm but iron-edged. "We fought back twice. The lads gave everything. We were undone by a single counterattack. And I take responsibility."
Carroll — the finance vulture who never missed a buffet — gave a wet grunt. "It's always something, eh, Harding? Weather, luck, the pitch—"
Adams cut him off before he could choke on his excuses. "Bad defending," he said, voice flat enough to knock the wind out of Carroll's flabby self-satisfaction. "I know where we failed. I'm not blind."
Bob flicked his eyes to the LeagueNet feed. The screen ticked up another percentage point on the relegation probability. Adams felt the digits like cold rain dripping on the back of his neck.
Bob's grin widened — a shark tasting blood. "The Board does not accept excuses, Mister Harding. The data is clear. Primeport is sinking. Attendance has dropped five percent since you signed that contract."
Ernesto shifted at the door, tapping the tablet once. Tap.
Reyes puffed out his chest like an old pigeon trying to look important. "We brought you in 'cause you were the bright spark, the kid with the fancy tactics. Maybe this level is just too much for you, lad."
Adams clenched his fists under the table, nails digging crescents into his palms. The System flickered, the blue text curling like frostbite across his sight:
> [PENALTY FOR FAILURE: Obliteration]
No second chance. No save file to reload.
He leaned forward, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the mildew in their lungs. "Unless you're here to increase the budget, upgrade the training pitch, or buy me an actual striker, you're wasting my time."
Bob arched a brow — the predator's grin now in full bloom. He flicked a finger at the LeagueNet uplink. A soft hum filled the bunker as the old projector stuttered awake.
"Clause Seven," he said. "Failure to maintain League status results in immediate termination. You know the penalty."
The word termination tasted like rust in Adams's throat. But the System made it worse, crawling like static across his mind's eye:
> [Failure to achieve core objectives will result in immediate personality wipe and slot reset. No recovery possible.]
No funeral. No grave. Just digital dust on a server shelf.
Bob's tone was soft, almost pitying. "Two home matches left. Two away. One's a derby. Next up: Kingsport United. Twelfth in the table. Not exactly a walk in the park."
The LeagueNet feed ticked again:
> [Squad Defensive Integrity: 52%]
> [Goal Threat: 34%]
> [Manager Stability: 38%]
Ernesto stepped forward, voice cracking just a hair. "We've got a plan. The lads are behind him. They'll fight."
Reyes barked out a laugh that smelled like last week's stale pint. "Time? One slip, Harding — and you're gone."
Adams rose. The chair squeaked like a rat fleeing a trap. He planted his fists on the table, leaning into the weight of these fossil-thrones and their cheap threats.
"Four matches," he said, every word dripping oil and grit. "You keep your claws off my dressing room. I hear one whisper, just one, and I'll bury your shares under the same mud we'll drown in."
Bob tilted his head, eyes glittering. "Very well. The Board will honor your contract to the end. Fail — and you're finished."
A thin grin split Adams's rain-washed face, all cracked teeth and reckless defiance. "Good. Glad we're all on the same page."
He turned so hard that the door slammed against the cracked concrete. Ernesto flinched, nearly dropping his tablet.
They stomped through the tunnel. Water dripped from pipes overhead. Ernesto tapped the tablet — tap, tap — as if that could chase the storm out of Adams's mind.
A cold pulse flickered:
> [Reward: 3–5–2 Formation Module Unlocked]
The formation blueprint unfolded in his mind's eye like a blade drawn under moonlight — three centre-backs, wing-backs pressing, strikers hunting in pairs. A shape that could choke the game dead before the scoreboard could bleed them dry.
Ernesto risked a glance. "Bold in there, boss. Thought Carroll might drop dead when you slammed the table."
Adams's bark of a laugh sounded like gravel cracking. "Would've saved me the trouble."
They stopped at the corridor window. Outside, the pitch sat empty — a mud-slick graveyard under the halogen glare. Boot prints filled with rain like open wounds.
Adams tapped the glass, eyes unfocused. "They think numbers tell the story. Games are played by men, Ernie. Not machines."
Adams pictured it: a back three like an iron gate. Wing-backs clawing every inch. Forwards pressing like wolves on raw meat. It would hurt, but hurt was better than dead.
They split at the corner. Ernesto jogged to the bus stop, shoulders hunched under his plastic poncho, tablet tucked to his chest like a last hope. Adams kept walking. One streetlight at a time. Each puddle was a mirror that flickered the System's cold text in the rain.
> [Next Match: Kingsport United — Avoid Defeat] > [Failure: Immediate Obliteration]
A blast of wind rattled a metal sign loose above a shuttered shopfront. It clanged and spun, echoing down the alley like a bell tolling for the dying.
He turned onto the side street behind the fish shop. The smell hit him first — salt, fryer oil, the stale heartbeat of a dying city.
The stairs creaked under his boots. He pressed his palm to the door scanner. The biometrics flickered green. A click. Inside: a box room of stained walls, a desk, a second-hand rig that still buzzed with old gaming stickers peeling at the corners.
He slumped into the chair, boots still dripping mud. The neon from the street stuttered through cracked glass, painting him in pale, guttering light.
He cracked open a stale noodle pack, rain tapping the glass like an old rival tapping his shoulder. He ate in silence. Cold. Bland. Survival fuel.
The System unfurled its daily reminders across the darkness:
> [Daily Objectives:]
✔ Score Multiple Goals
✔ Raise Squad Morale
✔ Tactical Insights
[Reward: +20 GC]
Adams let out a low, humorless laugh. It echoed against the peeling wallpaper like a ghost of better nights. He tapped the edge of the desk twice — once for fear, once for resolve.
Somewhere in the dark, he swore he could hear the stadium chanting. Anchors Hold. The oldest lie they told themselves.
"Damn right they do," he muttered. But the System pulsed again, like a judge's gavel pounding in his skull:
> [Warning: Failure to secure next match — Immediate Obliteration Clause Enforced ]
> [Additional Risk: Squad Loyalty -5 if XP drops below 3500 ]
A new line crackled into view — flickering blue, sharp as frostbite.
> [New Objective: Integrate New Formation — Penalty for Failure: Tactics -10 ]
Adams froze, chopsticks halfway to his lips. The rain hammered harder, drumming the window like bones on a coffin lid.
One heartbeat. Then another. He exhaled — a thin cloud of breath in the cold room.
"One game at a time," he whispered. But the System never slept. And now it wanted more.
Outside, the neon signs flickered. The rain
kept falling.
And the Obliteration Clause waited.
> [PLAY TO SURVIVE]