The mysterious text message sat on Ethan's phone like a ticking time bomb.

It's time to meet the other managers.

For a few frantic hours, his mind had raced with a thousand wild possibilities.

Was it a trap? A prank? A genuine invitation to a secret society?

But then, his 24-hour FCG ban kicked in, forcing him out of the virtual world and back into the real one.

He spent the day helping his mom, who was now walking around the house with a new lease on life. He played with Gaffer, the fluffy, four-legged source of endless joy. He talked to his dad about the toy shop.

And as the hours of normal life went by, the cryptic message began to seem less like a thrilling conspiracy and more like a stupid, childish prank.

First the fake death story, now this? he thought, deleting the message with a decisive swipe. Someone on the forums is just trying to mess with the new guy. I'm not falling for it.

He had a team to manage.

A real team, with real momentum.

He wasn't going to be distracted by a phantom text message.

The next day, his 'cool-down' period was over.

He logged into the pod feeling refreshed, focused, and ready to get back to work. He appeared on the training ground, the virtual sun shining, his players already going through their drills.

He called a team meeting, gathering them in the briefing room. The mood was electric.

"Morning, lads," he began, a wide, confident grin on his face.

"I trust you all had a good day off. Now, let's get down to business."

He brought the official League One table up on the main holographic screen.

There, in the number one spot, glowing with a golden light, was the Apex United crest.

Played: 5, Won: 5, Points: 15.

A low, appreciative murmur went through the room. Seeing it there, official and undeniable, was a powerful thing.

"That," Ethan said, pointing to the screen, "is where we belong. Five wins from five. A perfect start. Every single one of you should be incredibly proud. We are the team to beat in this league."

"Too right we are!" Jonathan Rowe cheered, and a few other players clapped in agreement.

"But," Ethan continued, his tone turning serious, "being at the top is the easy part. Staying there is what's hard. Every team we play from now on will be desperate to be the one to knock us off our perch. They will play their best game of the season against us. We have to be ready for that. We have to be better."

He swiped the screen, and the profile of their next opponent appeared. "This Saturday, we're at home to Accrington Stanley. They're a solid, mid-table side. They work hard, they're organized, and they will not make it easy for us. So, this week in training, we are going to be relentless."

He brought up a tactical diagram. "We're sticking with our 4-3-3. But I want our pressing to be even more aggressive. I want us to win the ball back higher up the pitch. I want our transitions to be so fast they don't even have time to breathe. We are going to suffocate them with our energy. Any questions?"

The players were silent, their faces a mask of focused determination.

Three days later, it was matchday.

Ethan appeared in the home dressing room at The Apex.

The pre-match atmosphere was a perfect blend of confidence and focus. The players were relaxed, but there was a sharp, professional edge to their conversations.

"Right, Jimmy," Kenny McLean was saying to the new S-Rank defender, James McCarthy. "Their striker is a big lad, but he's slow. Don't get into a wrestling match. Just use your pace, step in front, and win the ball."

McCarthy, who had settled into the squad with incredible speed, just nodded. "No worries, Kenny. He won't get a sniff."

Nearby, the attacking trio was having their own conference.

"Okay, so I've been watching their games," Emre said, looking at a tablet. "Their left-back likes to bomb forward, but he's slow to track back. Jonny, you're going to have acres of space on that right wing."

"My favorite kind of acres," Jonathan Rowe said with a grin.

"And Vik," Emre continued, turning to the Danish striker. "Their center-backs are not comfortable on the ball. If we press them together, we can force a mistake."

Viktor just gave a thumbs-up, a quiet confidence about him that had been absent just a few weeks ago.

Ethan listened, a proud smile on his face.

He didn't even need to give a team talk. His players were managing themselves, analyzing the opposition, creating their own strategies.

They were becoming a team of leaders.

He let them talk for another minute before clapping his hands. "You all know the plan," he said simply. "You're top of the league for a reason. Go out there and show them why. Have fun. Play our football. Let's get another three points."

The team walked out into the roar of the home crowd, a wave of blue and white rising to greet their table-topping heroes.

"A huge welcome to a sun-drenched Apex stadium, where the home fans are in fine voice, and why wouldn't they be?" the commentator's voice boomed, filled with an infectious energy. "Their team, the sensational Apex United, have had a perfect start to the season! Five wins from five! They are the talk of the division! Today they face a tricky Accrington Stanley side, but on current form, you would have to be a brave man to bet against Ethan Couch's young superstars!"

The match began.

And from the very first second, it was clear that Apex United was playing a different sport.

The ball was kicked back to the Accrington defense.

The Apex front three, led by Viktor, swarmed them like a pack of wolves, just as Emre had planned. The Accrington center-back, panicked by the sudden, ferocious press, tried to play a simple pass to his full-back.

But David Kerrigan was already there. He intercepted the pass, took one touch to control the ball, and without even looking, he whipped a first-time cross into the box.

The cross was a thing of beauty, a curling, vicious ball that bent perfectly between the last defender and the goalkeeper.

And arriving at the back post, having made a lung-bursting run from the right wing, was Jonathan Rowe.

He met the ball with a thunderous, diving header that nearly ripped the net off its moorings.

Goal!

The stadium exploded. The match was thirty-eight seconds old.

"GOOOOOOOOAL! I DON'T BELIEVE IT! I DO NOT BELIEVE WHAT I AM SEEING!" the commentator screamed, his voice already gone. "THIRTY-EIGHT SECONDS! THAT'S ALL IT TOOK! A ferocious press, a moment of panic, a sublime cross from David Kerrigan, and a bullet header from Jonathan Rowe! Apex United are playing football from another planet! Accrington Stanley haven't even touched the ball in the opposition's half, and they are already one-nil down! This is absolutely breathtaking!"

Ethan just stood on the sideline, a wide, disbelieving grin on his face.

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