Chapter 0: Under the Floodlights
The floodlights burned white against the dark November sky. Ethan Carter stood on the touchline at Villa Park and watched his breath drift through the cold air. Rain had fallen all evening and turned the pitch into a slick green mirror.
The scoreboard glowed in the distance:
Aston Villa 0
Liverpool 5
The second half had only just restarted. Forty-six minutes gone, and sickness rolled through him as Liverpool pulled them apart.
Craig Morrison jogged back into position five yards behind Steven Gerrard, leaving the same gap that had hurt them all match — the same space Henderson refused to acknowledge. Ethan leaned towards the pitch and whispered for Morrison to track his man, yet Morrison's eyes were on the ball again.
Morrison's legs looked heavy and his first touch ran from him. Each time Liverpool took possession, Gerrard had time to pick passes at will, and the pattern felt like a slow wreck he could not stop.
Ethan glanced at the bench. Danny Williams sat bouncing his legs, ready to run: twenty-two, quick feet, a better work rate than Morrison had shown all season. Henderson had made his choice and never changed it once the team sheet was in.
The crowd's mood shifted from anger to fury. Boos rolled down from the stands and gathered under the roof, thick as the rain.
Morrison pressed Dietmar Hamann and arrived late. The German took a touch, scanned, and slid a simple pass into Xabi Alonso. Without hurrying, Alonso threaded the ball into the penalty area with training-ground calm.
Milan Baroš had already started his run and had been making it all night while Villa's defenders watched and reacted a step too late.
Ethan let his breath go. "No," he muttered.
Baroš took one touch to control and another to set himself, then drove a low finish into the bottom corner as if a ruler had guided it there.
Aston Villa 0
Liverpool 6
The Holte End fell silent for a heartbeat, then the noise twisted into something uglier. Programmes and plastic bottles sailed through the rain as rage replaced disbelief.
Henderson stood with his arms folded, as if this were part of a plan, as if watching his team humiliated at home were somehow acceptable.
Heat that had built in Ethan's chest finally broke. He stepped to the edge of the technical area and raised his voice across the din. "Make a change — this is embarrassing!"
Several substitutes turned to stare. Dave Murphy's eyes went wide. The fourth official glanced over. Henderson's jaw set hard enough to look painful.
Henderson did not move. He did not so much as glance at the bench where five fresh players sat ready.
Ethan pointed towards Williams and spoke again, forcing his voice to stay level. "He's been ready for seventy minutes, and Morrison's been a ghost since kick-off. They're ripping us apart while we stand here."
Henderson's face coloured as the words landed in front of his staff and the players. The challenge struck at his authority.
Ethan stabbed a finger at the tactical board. "We have pace and energy on the bench — players who will track runners and help the full-backs."
Dave Murphy started to nod before catching himself. Jim Reeves watched Henderson as if seeing him clearly for the first time.
In the commentary box, the lead voice cut in, measured but urgent, saying there was a heated exchange in the Villa technical area and that Henderson was under enormous pressure. His co-commentator agreed that the staff knew changes were needed.
Henderson turned at last, pitched his voice so the entire bench could hear, and went for humiliation. "You're a clueless nobody. Sit down before you make it worse."
The words hung like poison. Dave Murphy's mouth fell open. Jim Reeves looked stunned. One of the young subs smirked and then looked away; Danny Williams stared at his boots as if willing the floor to open.
The crowd's anger rolled behind them, a constant roar that made every sentence feel public.
Heat climbed Ethan's neck. Meetings where Henderson dismissed ideas without listening flickered through his mind; matches where the same errors repeated while pride outweighed sense. He steadied himself and answered without shouting. "I've told you all night what would happen. Morrison isn't tracking runners. The midfield is open. They're slicing through us at will."
Henderson narrowed his eyes. "Sit down."
Ethan held his ground and counted the goals on his fingers. "Six at home, and we won't admit the setup was wrong from minute one?"
Henderson flushed. Being challenged here — in front of staff, substitutes, and forty thousand witnesses — hit every nerve he had. His voice rose as he demanded to know whether a failed assistant thought he knew better.
Ethan stepped closer until Henderson had to look at him. "Someone who can see what's happening on the pitch might have something useful to say."
Ethan's hand moved before caution could return; he caught Henderson's sleeve, not to shove, not to threaten, only to force eye contact and be heard.
Henderson snapped.
The shove came hard and sudden, driving Ethan backwards into the bench area as substitutes scattered, Dave Murphy lurched to his feet, and Jim Reeves started forward.
Henderson leaned in over the noise. "Don't put your hands on me," he snarled, loud enough for the nearest rows to hear.
In the commentary box, the lead voice jumped an octave, reporting a serious altercation developing in the Villa dugout.
Three years of being treated like furniture boiled over inside Ethan. He surged back towards Henderson until they were nose to nose, close enough to smell aftershave and see thin red veins in his eyes. "Maybe if you listened to anyone except your own ego—"
Henderson's hands hit Ethan's chest like pistons. This time the shove was vicious, meant to hurt as much as to push him away.
Ethan's heel clipped the concrete step of the dugout. His arms pinwheeled as gravity pulled him, and there was nowhere left to go but down.
The back of his head met the metal frame of the dugout roof with a crack that sounded like hammer on anvil.
White heat filled his skull for a heartbeat. Warm liquid ran down his neck, soaked his collar, and spread across his shirt.
Blood. A lot of it.
Dave Murphy lunged and shouted for help while Jim Reeves grabbed for Ethan and yelled for the medics. The substitutes rose as one, some backing away, others leaning forward in shock.
Along the touchline, fans stopped booing and started pointing. A supporter near the front shouted that someone was hurt and that there was blood everywhere. Phones lifted, then froze as the mood shifted from anger to alarm.
In the commentary box, both voices climbed over the rain, describing a serious incident in the technical area and the Villa medical team sprinting across the touchline. One said this had gone beyond football.
Ethan tried to push himself up, but his arms felt like rubber and the world refused to settle. The floodlights smeared and swam above him as if grease had been rubbed across his vision. Cold rain struck his face and mixed with the iron taste in his mouth.
Henderson hovered over him, torn between anger and shock, barking at anyone who would listen to get the medical staff now. Hands found Ethan's shoulders and arms — the medics, the kit man, Jim Reeves — and lifted him off the concrete while Henderson kept issuing orders no one followed.
The roar of the crowd turned distant and muffled, as if it came from underwater. The edges of the world narrowed like dimming lights in an old stadium.
In the commentary box, the lead voice steadied and said Villa's assistant coach was being helped away by medical staff. His partner added that a six-nil defeat at home, followed by this, would ask serious questions of Henderson's position.
Ethan's vision tightened to a tunnel until only the scoreboard remained clear, still burning through the rain.
Aston Villa 0
Liverpool 6
Darkness rushed in and swallowed everything.