Old Trafford. The Theatre of Dreams.
Michael stood in the glass-fronted director's box, looking out at the endless, suffocating sea of red.
75,000 people, a roaring, breathing monster, all expecting a slaughter.
The sheer scale of the place was designed to intimidate, to crush the hope of any visitor before a ball was even kicked.
Down in one far corner, a tiny pocket of 3,000 Barnsley fans, a defiant splash of red and white, sang their hearts out, but their voices were swallowed by the noise.
Michael felt impossibly small.
He thought of his brother's venomous, sneering phone call. He looked across the halfway line to the main director's box, where he could just make out his father, Richard Sterling, sitting with the Manchester United executives, his face a stern, unreadable mask.
He was here to watch the execution.
The whistle blew.
The next twenty minutes were not a football match. They were, as Arthur had feared, a public execution
It was absolute hell.
The Man United players, a £400 million collection of B-teamers and squad players, played with a ferocious, synchronized hunger.
They pressed with the speed of rabid wolves, their movement so fast, so intelligent, that Barnsley's players looked like they were moving underwater.
The "Barnsley Philosophy" of smart, passing football was a joke. His team couldn't get the ball.
When they did, they had it for less than a second before a world-class athlete was on them, taking it back.
The first goal came in the tenth minute. It was painfully simple.
Barnsley's defense, so organized against Bolton, was pulled apart by three, lightning-fast, one-touch passes.
Their £70 million striker, a man who wasn't even good enough to start for their main team, found himself one-on-one with the keeper.
He didn't panic. He just calmly rolled the ball into the bottom corner.
1-0.
The stadium erupted with a deafening, dismissive roar. Michael felt the first hot flush of humiliation.
His team looked scared. They were boys, in a theatre built for kings. They were just hoofing the ball, panicking, abandoning every principle Arthur had drilled into them.
But in the twenty-second minute, a flicker of hope.
A desperate clearance was hooked down the left wing. Jamie Weston [PA 89] had no right to win it, but he chased it down with the "hungry" desperation Michael had spoken of.
He was up against Man United's starting right-back, a £50 million superstar.
Jamie didn't care. He did the exact move that had failed him in his first match, the move from the cage.
A shimmy, a step-over, and a burst of explosive speed.
The superstar defender, used to predictable, high-level tactics, was completely bewildered.
He lunged in and Jamie was gone, skinning him, leaving him on the grass.
The tiny pocket of Barnsley fans screamed in delight.
Jamie was in the box! He fired a vicious, left-footed shot at the near post.
The Man United goalkeeper had to scramble, just managing to get his fingertips to it, pushing it wide for a corner.
Michael was on his feet, his fists clenched.
"Yes! That's it! That's the hunger!"
But the hope was a cruel illusion.
The resulting corner was easily cleared. And Manchester United countered.
It was ruthless. Three seconds after the corner was taken, the ball was at the other end of the pitch.
Barnsley's players were jogging back; Man United's were sprinting. It was a three-on-two attack, a blur of red shirts. A simple cut-back, another calm finish.
Twenty-fifth minute. 2-0.
It was that easy for them. The goal felt deeply, profoundly unfair.
Now his players looked broken. The glimmer of hope was gone. They were just chasing shadows, their energy sapped by the sheer, disheartening quality of their opponents.
Then, in the thirty-eighth minute, another spark from the ashes. Finn Riley [PA 90] got the ball, his first real touch of the game.
He was surrounded by two defenders, and he was angry.
He was the "wild fox," and he was tired of being hunted. He went on a mazy, impossible run, all quick feet and chaotic, unpredictable feints. He beat the first man. He nutmegged the second, a £60 million midfielder. He was free. He looked up, saw the keeper a fraction off his line, and from thirty yards out, he unleashed it.
Michael watched the ball's trajectory, his heart leaping into his throat. It was a rocket. It was perfect. The World Cup-winning keeper didn't even move. He just watched, helpless.
CRACK!
The sound of the ball smashing against the crossbar echoed around the entire stadium.
The 75,000-strong crowd let out a collective, involuntary gasp. The bar was still rattling as the ball bounced out and was cleared.
Michael slumped back into his seat, his head in his hands. An inch lower. One inch.
It was the last act of defiance. Two minutes later, in the fortieth minute, a Man United midfielder, angered by Finn's audacity, picked up the ball.
He took one touch and curled an unstoppable, perfect shot from twenty-five yards into the top corner.
3-0. It was a goal of pure, spiteful, dominant quality. A goal that said, "Don't you ever dare to even try."
The halftime whistle blew, a sound of mercy.
Michael watched his team trudge off the pitch. Their heads were down. Their shoulders were slumped.
They were defeated, broken, humiliated on the world's biggest stage. He looked across at his father.
Richard was just sitting there, unmoved, his expression hidden by the shadow of the stands. The humiliation was complete.
Michael was furious. He was helpless. He felt the taunts of his brother, the smug superiority of the United manager, the silent, crushing "I told you so" from his father.
His grand philosophy, his "money vs. hunger" speech... it all looked like a child's pathetic fantasy.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, staring at his broken players as they disappeared down the tunnel.
And then, as he was consumed by a wave of pure, white-hot rage and despair, the world went blue.
A familiar, transparent screen flickered into existence in front of his face, blotting out the sight of the pitch.
[CRISIS CONDITION MET: OVERWHELMING DEFEAT!]
[PUBLIC HUMILIATION THRESHOLD REACHED!]
[NEW FEATURE UNLOCKED: SYSTEM SHOP & SKILL GIFTING!]
Michael stared, his anger vanishing, replaced by a sudden, electric shock of adrenaline.
[DESCRIPTION: The Owner can now access the System Shop to purchase temporary attribute boosts, permanent skill traits, and other items for players and staff using System Points.]
[NEW CURRENCY ACQUIRED: SYSTEM POINTS!]
[BALANCE: 200 SYSTEM POINTS!]
A new tab appeared on the screen:
[SHOP]
Michael stared at it, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was not helpless. He was not furious. He was suddenly the most dangerous man in the entire stadium.