The door to my flat slammed shut, the sound echoing in the tiny hallway.
I fumbled with the bolt, my hands shaking so badly it took three attempts to slide it home. Locked in. Safe. As if a deadbolt could keep out a hallucination.
My flat. My sanctuary. It was a testament to a life lived on minimum wage.
A cramped, one-bedroom affair above a kebab shop, which meant the whole place smelled faintly of garlic sauce and regret, especially on weekends.
The living room was dominated by two things: a lumpy, second-hand sofa that had probably witnessed more drama than an episode of EastEnders, and my command centre.
A desk, cobbled together from mismatched parts, held my pride and joy: a slightly aging PC I'd built myself, piece by expensive, hard-saved-for piece.
This was where I became a different person. Here, I was not Danny Walsh, convenience store clerk. I was Il Magnifico , the tactical genius who'd taken A.S. Roma to three consecutive Serie A titles.
I was the miracle worker who'd guided a non-league Wrexham side into the Premier League in a record-breaking ten seasons. Here, in the glow of the monitor, I was a legend.
But now, reality had been hacked. The game had leaked out of the screen and into the world, and I was terrified.
I collapsed onto the sofa, my heart thudding a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to erase the after-image of those glowing panels, the impossible numbers floating over ordinary men. It had to be a dream.
A waking nightmare. I'd been working too many night shifts, drinking too much Red Bull, mainlining caffeine and sugar until my brain chemistry had finally snapped.
"Okay, Danny, let's think this through," I muttered to the empty room, the sound of my own voice a flimsy anchor in a sea of insanity.
"You're twenty-six. You work in a shop. You have no history of mental illness, unless you count the time you spent three real-world days trying to sign a specific left-back from the Brazilian third division on Football Manager. That's not psychosis. That's dedication."
My attempts at humour fell flat, swallowed by the oppressive silence. I clutched the leather notebook. It felt solid, real. The worn cover was smooth under my trembling fingertips. It didn't feel like part of a dream. It felt like an artifact, an object with weight and history.
Sleep. That was the answer.
I hadn't slept properly in… well, ever. I stumbled into my bedroom, kicked off my trainers, and fell face-first onto the bed without even bothering to change out of my work clothes.
If I could just get a few hours of proper, dreamless sleep, I'd wake up, and the world would be back to its normal, boring, soul-crushing self. Please, let it be boring again.
Sleep didn't come easy.
My mind was a frantic highlight reel of the morning's events: the old man's twinkling eyes, the feel of the pen in my hand, the sickening lurch of my perception, and those impossible, glowing numbers. CA: 28. PA: 35. Pace: 14. Positioning: 3.
The data points swirled behind my eyelids, a language I understood intimately, now speaking to me from the real world.
When I finally drifted off, it was into a restless, dream-filled doze where I was trying to give a halftime team talk to a squad of animated baked bean tins, all of whom had terrible morale and were demanding new contracts.
I woke up with a gasp, the afternoon sun slanting through the grimy windowpane, painting a dusty stripe across my duvet. For a blissful moment, everything was normal. The distant sound of traffic, the faint smell of garlic from downstairs. It was just a dream. A weird, vivid, stress-induced dream.
I sat up, relief washing over me in a warm, comforting wave. I swung my legs out of bed and stood up, stretching the kinks out of my back. I glanced out the window, down at the street below. A couple of kids were kicking a scuffed-up football against a wall. And then my blood ran cold.
Above their heads, the panels were there. Fainter in the bright daylight, but undeniably present. Shimmering, translucent rectangles of light.
> Name: Leo Sharma
> Age: 11
> Position: Midfielder (Centre)
> Current Ability (CA): 15/200
> Potential Ability (PA): 115/200
> Key Attributes:
> - First Touch: 8
> - Passing: 7
> - Vision: 9
It wasn't a dream. It was still here. It was real.
I backed away from the window, a strangled cry catching in my throat. I tripped over my discarded work trousers and landed hard on the floor. Lying on the carpet, where it had fallen from my bed, was the leather notebook.
For a long time, I just stared at it. It was the source of all this. The cause of my shattered sanity. I should throw it away.
Burn it. Pretend none of this ever happened. But I couldn't. The part of me that had spent thousands of hours immersed in a world of stats and potential, the part of me that lived for the beautiful game, was screaming with a terrifying, exhilarating curiosity.
Slowly, I crawled across the floor and picked it up. My hands were steady now. The fear was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was being overshadowed by something else. A desperate need to understand.
I sat on the edge of my bed and opened the notebook. The first page still bore my signature. I turned to the next page. It was no longer blank. Words and symbols were appearing on the page as if written by an invisible hand, forming a clean, minimalist menu.
> THE GAFFER'S EYE - MAIN MENU
> - Personal Profile
> - System News & Updates
> - Retire
My eyes were drawn to the last option. Retire. Was that an escape hatch? A way to undo all this? I felt a surge of hope. I could just press it and go back to my normal life.
But what did 'retire' mean? Retire from what? The system? Or… life? The ambiguity was chilling. It was like the 'Discard' button on a promising youth intake player in Football Manager. You just don't press it. Not until you're sure.
My gaze shifted to the first option. Personal Profile. My heart started to beat a little faster. With a sense of morbid curiosity, I focused my intent on the words, and the page shimmered, the text changing instantly.
> PERSONAL PROFILE
> Name: Daniel "Danny" Walsh
> Age: 26
> Level: 1
> Experience (XP): 0/100
> Reputation: Unknown
> Managerial Attributes :
> - Attacking: 8
> - Defending: 7
> - Tactical Knowledge: 14
> - Player Management: 6
> - Youth Development: 9
> - Scouting Knowledge: 13
> Mental Attributes :
> - Adaptability: 7
> - Determination: 15
> - Motivation: 5
> - Discipline: 6
> Current Ability (CA): 38/200
> Potential Ability (PA): 165/200