Sunday crawled by like an old dog with a limp.
Adams Harding woke up, and the sun was breaking through his narrow window. His neck ached from sleeping hunched over the flickering tactical tablet. The stale noodle pack he'd half-eaten at midnight was still perched on the corner of his desk, congealed broth and all.
He poked the soggy mess aside, booted up the LeagueNet replay for what felt like the hundredth time. Kingsport's counterattack. Elliot drifting too wide, Lopatin sucked out with him, the back four pulling apart like cheap wallpaper. A single pass — a single flick — dead.
"One pass," Adams rasped through cracked lips, voice sandpapered by too many restless nights. "Dead."
The System pulsed awake at the corner of his vision, cold text curling like frostbite behind his eyes:
> [Daily Objective: None — Rest & Reflect]
Adams let out a humorless bark of laughter. Rest. Sure. His version of rest was staring at a back four splitting open like a gut wound until his eyes stung.
By noon, he was pacing the drizzle-slick streets of Primeport. He drifted past shuttered chippies and neon boards half-flickering to death. The Dropped Anchor — the last half-decent pub by the docks — belched stale lager air into the street. Through a cracked window, two blokes in battered Anchors scarves argued.
"Waste of space, that Harding. Got no grit. No bite."
"He's got no bloody budget, you daft prat!"
Adams tugged his collar higher, slipping past the ghost of his own reputation. The wind slapped the word waste against the side of his head like a wet newspaper.
At the corner shop, a kid in a muddy Primeport kit spotted him. Big eyes, nose crusted with snot, grin missing two front teeth. The boy shoved a crumpled matchday programme at him.
"Sign it?" he squeaked.
Adams pulled a marker from his pocket — old habit — and scrawled his name. Adams Harding. The flourish looked steadier than he felt.
The dad loomed in the doorway, arms folded over a battered raincoat. "Better be worth the ink, gaffer. We can't stomach another drop."
The boy peered up at him, the paper already limp in his mittened grip. "Are we gonna win next week?"
Adams forced a grin so hollow it nearly cracked his teeth. "Count on it, lad."
The kid shrugged. "Dad says you're a Relegation Wanker."
Adams barked a laugh, ragged and splintered as the rain started pattering his hood. Relegation Wanker. Obliteration Wanker, more like. The word stuck to his ribs like damp paint.
By evening, he was back in his flat, hunched over a scrap of paper, tracing passing triangles again and again. Lines, pivots, and overloads as his pen never left the page.
His phone buzzed. Ernesto.
"Boss." The voice on the other end was a tired grin wrapped in static.
"You want a pint?" Ernesto asked.
Adams didn't even look up from his scribbles. "I want a miracle."
They laughed — that special kind of laugh that scraped your ribs hollow.
When the call dropped, the flat felt too big, too wet. Neon signs bled through the cracked window, painting blue and flickering like a dying pulse.
The System flickered alive once more before bed:
> [Season Objective: Avoid Relegation]
> [Progress: 55.6% | Position: 22/24]
> [Failure: Obliteration]
Adams tasted that word again. Obliteration. Not fired. Not sacked. Wiped — as if he'd never kicked a ball, never dreamed of this job, never mattered at all. A cold static crawled up the back of his neck whenever the word appeared, like the System itself was testing the taste of his erasure.
He shut his eyes. Sleep was a rumour now. He drifted off eventually, cheek pressed against his notebook of triangles. Outside, the rain did what it did best: fall. He dreamed in shapes — three at the back, five across the middle, Anchors clawing at the storm.
---
The next morning, Monday. Game week.
Adams Harding stood hunched over a chipped counter, frying two eggs that hissed like angry cats. He scraped half the yolk onto stale toast and barely tasted any of it. The LeagueNet ticker looped Dupont's goal again and again in the background. Silent — but louder than any commentary.
He forced himself to look away, the System's cold pulse waiting at the edge of his vision:
> [Daily Objectives:]
☐ Identify the Weakest Link
☐ Boost Staff Morale
☐ Approve Medical Load Management
"Three errands between me and the gallows," he muttered. He tugged on his club tracksuit — navy with the Anchors crest peeling off the sleeve — and zipped it to his chin.
Outside, the marsh wind bit his cheeks raw as he trudged toward the training ground — a rusted fortress perched at the edge of the salt flats. The floodlights flickered even in daylight, casting jittery shadows across puddles that never seemed to dry.
A few of the backroom staff waved as he passed, coats pulled tight against the chill.
"Morning, gaffer."
Adams clapped a shoulder here, nodded there — the ghost of a grin. The System flickered:
> [Objective Progress: Boost Staff Morale 10%]
Inside the main building, the cracked AR panels showed a reflection he barely recognized — rain-creased tracksuit, jaw bristled with stubble, eyes too old for thirty-two.
The first players drifted in. Boots squeaked on the cheap vinyl floor. Chatter ricocheted off water-stained walls.
"Daisuke, you're late," Adams barked across the corridor.
The wiry winger with a splash of blue hair shot him a sheepish grin. "Missed the shuttle, boss."
"That shuttle's older than my Nan," Lopatin rasped behind him. "If it starts at all, you're lucky."
"Shut it, grandpa," Daisuke shot back, fingers raking his dyed fringe — a nervous tic Adams had clocked every time the kid felt the weight of the pitch.
A few snickers from the lads. Adams didn't let it run too far. He jabbed a thumb at the pitch door. "Jog to the far line and back. Twice."
Daisuke's shoulders slumped. "Yes, boss."
The System pulsed cold in his sightline:
> [Weakest Link Identified: Daisuke Takeda | Defensive Transition: 34%]
Adams's jaw ticked. One slip, one open door — this whole shape would drown.
Outside, drones hovered over the soggy pitch, scanning heart rates and sprint lines. AR cones glowed like ghosts on the rain-lashed turf.
He gathered the squad in the centre circle, rain drip-drip-dripping from his hair. Every pair of eyes stared at him — some wide, some dead, some waiting for an excuse to jump ship.
"Listen up," Adams growled, voice rolling over the wind. "New shape. Three-five-two. Three centre-backs, five across the middle, two up top pressing like rabid dogs. No more static lines — you move as one. The triangle is life. You break it, you kill us all."
A few nods, a few mutters. Daisuke tugged his sleeve down over his wrist.
"Warm up," Adams snapped. "Stretches, passing drills, shape work. Ernesto — overlaps."
Ernesto leaned on his tablet. "You heard the man! And Daisuke — try not to pull a muscle with those anime legs."
"Oi!" Daisuke barked, flushing red.
Lopatin leaned in, voice pitched to carry. "Watch him slip on the AR cones. First anime star to break his ankle on a cartoon line."
The squad cracked up — tension bleeding out like pus from an infected cut.
The System pinged:
> [Objective Progress: Boost Staff Morale 50%]
They worked until steam rose off their jackets. Passing triangles, shape compressions, switch drills. Daisuke struggled to track back, the winger's instincts dragging him too far forward every damn time. Adams clocked every slip, every half-second gap.
"DAISUKE!" he barked. The player froze, eyes wide. "This triangle lives or dies with you. Mark the damn zone, not your reflection."
Ernesto jogged over and clapped the kid on the shoulder. "Look — you drift wide, you open this lane. Stay tight, pivot here. Lopatin covers. Team first."
Daisuke nodded, chest heaving. Lopatin flicked the back of his head. "Do what the old man says. He's never been right about anything — except this."
They laughed again — a spark in the mud. Adams didn't smile, but his chest unclenched half an inch. The System pulsed:
> [Objective Progress: Boost Staff Morale 90%]
One crisp move snapped through the drizzle — Lopatin spraying it wide, Daisuke ducking inside, a neat one-two at the edge of the box, net rippling like silk. Even Ernesto whooped, punching the air.
"That's it!" Adams barked, voice cutting the wind. "Play like that, and maybe we don't drown."
The System chimed:
> [Reward: Staff Loyalty +5]
The final whistle of the session was the boots squeaking down the tunnel, steam curling off their shoulders. Adams stood alone on the touchline, rain drumming on his hood like a funeral march. He felt Abril Fernandez before he heard her boots.
She leaned close, voice all razors and sugar. "Nice sermon out there, gaffer. Kingsport's coach is calling you 'dead man walking.' Fans are lapping it up."
He snorted. "Let him run his mouth. We'll shut it."
She flicked his badge. "Keep your dressing room tight. Stories like that don't leak themselves."
She brushed past him, the scent of rain and cheap perfume lingering like a promise. "Save this club, Harding. Or bury it. Either way, make it worth watching."
He didn't watch her leave — eyes already on the next ninety minutes that could save his soul. The System pulsed one last warning:
> [Failure: Obliteration. Squad Loyalty -15 if next match is lost.]
Adams shivered, boots sinking into the marsh mud. He clenched his fists so tight his knuckles cracked.
Anchors hold, he whispered to the empty pitch.
This time, he wasn't so sure they would.