Sunday morning arrived with the same 5:30 am alarm, but the exhaustion felt different. It was a dull, heavy ache, the kind that settled deep in your bones and refused to leave.
The Brighton match had been a win on paper, but a loss in every other sense of the word. We'd been outplayed, outfought, and out-thought for large parts of that match, and the 2-1 scoreline was a lie, a flattering illusion that hid a multitude of sins.
I pulled on my running gear, my muscles screaming in protest, and headed out into the pre-dawn darkness. The 6k run was a slow, painful slog, my mind replaying every mistake, every missed opportunity, every moment of disjointed pressing.
I finished in 33:45, the system flashing the numbers in my vision; Fitness 48/100, Mental Fatigue: Critical, but I ignored it. There was no time for rest. There was only work.
