"It's my spot," David Kerrigan stated, his arms crossed, his chest puffed out. "I won the foul. My ball."

"You won the foul by running into a brick wall," Grant Hanley grunted, placing the ball down with the care of a bomb disposal expert. "This needs power. A captain's touch. I'll take it."

Emre Demir said nothing.

He just stood a few feet away, looking at the angle, at the keeper's position, his mind a quiet supercomputer processing the possibilities.

"Power?" Kerrigan scoffed. "We're not trying to knock the stadium down, skip. This needs finesse. A bit of magic. Something you wouldn't understand."

"I'll give you a bit of magic with my boot if you don't back off," Hanley retorted, not unkindly.

Ethan watched from the sideline, a grin tugging at his lips.

His team was arguing over a free-kick like a group of kids in the park.

It was the most illogical, un-data-driven thing he had ever seen.

It was perfect. He decided not to interfere. He trusted them.

Finally, Emre spoke, his voice quiet but carrying an undeniable authority.

"Let Viktor take it."

The other three turned to stare at him.

Then they looked over at the 16-year-old Danish striker, who was standing nearby, looking as surprised as everyone else.

"Viktor?" Hanley said, bewildered. "

The lad's never taken a senior free-kick in his life!"

"Exactly," Emre said, a subtle, brilliant glint in his eye. "They have data on all of us. On my curls, on David's power, on your... well, your power," he said to Hanley. "They have nothing on him. He's a ghost. An unknown variable."

It was a moment of pure, tactical genius, born not from a computer, but from the mind of a footballing prodigy.

Kerrigan and Hanley looked at each other, then at Emre, and then they both broke into slow grins.

"The kid's got a point," Hanley conceded, clapping Viktor on the shoulder as he walked past. "Don't mess it up, son."

Viktor looked terrified, but he stepped up to the ball. He looked over at Ethan, who just gave him a calm, reassuring nod.

You got this.

"Well, this is a turn-up for the books!" the commentator exclaimed. "It's not Demir, it's not Kerrigan... it's the 16-year-old, Viktor Kristensen, who's placing the ball! What on earth is going on in the mind of Ethan Couch?"

Viktor took a deep breath. He ran up and struck the ball.

He didn't try to curl it. He didn't try to blast it. He hit it low, hard, and straight at the wall. But as the wall jumped, the ball went under it, skidding across the turf.

The goalkeeper, already moving to cover the top corner, was completely wrong-footed. He scrambled to get down, but it was too late.

The ball nestled into the bottom corner of the net.

1-0 to Apex!

The stadium was stunned into silence.

It was a simple, clever, and utterly unexpected goal. A human solution to a digital problem.

The half-time dressing room was buzzing.

The players were mobbing Viktor, who looked like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

"Under the wall! The oldest trick in the book!" Kenny McLean was laughing.

"They never see it coming!"

"Emre, you're not just a player; you're a 4D chess master," Jonathan Rowe said, shaking his head in awe.

Ethan let them celebrate. "That was brilliant," he said, his voice filled with pride. "All of you. We faced a perfect wall, and we found a crack. That's what we do. But this game isn't over. They're going to come out angry. Their AI co-manager is probably processing a thousand different ways to beat us right now. We have to be ready."

The second half began, and Plymouth were indeed different.

They had abandoned their cautious, percentage-based game and were now pressing with a frantic, human aggression. The 'Safe Mode' seemed to have been switched off.

The game opened up, becoming a chaotic, end-to-end battle.

In the 55th minute, Plymouth equalized. A swift counter-attack, a brilliant save from Gunn, but the rebound was tucked away.

1-1.

The game was on a knife-edge.

Both teams were creating chances.

Both teams were taking risks. It was a fantastic, thrilling spectacle.

Then, in the 68th minute, the match descended into pure madness.

A long ball was played over the top for a Plymouth striker.

Grant Hanley, using his experience, got his body between the man and the ball, shielding it out for a goal kick.

The striker, frustrated, gave Hanley a little shove in the back after the ball was already dead.

Hanley, the grizzled old captain who had been in a thousand of these battles, snapped.

He turned around and got nose-to-nose with the striker, shouting something that was probably not a compliment.

The referee, who had been letting the game flow, sprinted over. He showed the striker a yellow card for the push. Then he turned to Hanley.

He showed him a yellow card for the reaction.

But Hanley, his face red with fury, continued to argue, pointing a finger at the referee's chest.

The referee's face hardened. He reached into his pocket again.

A second yellow. Followed by a red. Grant Hanley was sent off.

"Oh dear, oh dear! The captain has lost his head!" the commentator lamented. "Grant Hanley, the experienced head in this young Apex side, has let his temper get the better of him! A completely unnecessary sending off, and Apex United are down to ten men!"

Ethan put his head in his hands. It was a moment of pure, unprofessional madness from his most senior player.

He was just about to shout instructions to his remaining ten men when he saw it.

David Kerrigan, who had been standing nearby, had not appreciated the striker's initial push on his captain.

As the referee was dealing with Hanley, Kerrigan walked past the striker and "accidentally" tripped him up. It was a subtle, petty, but very deliberate act of revenge.

The linesman saw it.

He flagged furiously. The referee, his red card still in his hand, jogged over.

After a brief conversation, he marched over to the bewildered David Kerrigan, who was trying his best to look innocent.

The referee didn't even bother with a yellow. He brandished a straight red card.

"I DON'T BELIEVE IT! I ABSOLUTELY DO NOT BELIEVE IT!" the commentator screamed, his voice reaching a new octave of disbelief. "He's sent off another one! David Kerrigan is off! For an off-the-ball incident! Apex United have gone from 11 men to 9 in the space of sixty seconds! This is a complete and total meltdown! What on earth is going on?!"

Ethan stood on the sideline, his mouth agape, a feeling of horrified, almost comical despair washing over him.

He was down to nine men, with twenty minutes left to play, in the biggest game of the season.

His team hadn't just lost the plot. They had set the plot on fire and thrown it out the window.

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