Time slowed.
Robinson met the ball with perfect timing. He struck it first-time, side-footed, aiming low and hard toward the bottom corner. The Leeds keeper dove full stretch—fingertips brushing the ball.
But it wasn't enough.
GOAL.
Cardiff 2 – 1 Leeds United
Elland Road fell silent.
The away end erupted in chaos. Flags waved. Smoke from a flare curled into the floodlights. Cardiff fans hugged one another, roaring into the Yorkshire night like a single, defiant voice rising from the concrete stands. Some fans even shed tears, overwhelmed by the dramatic finish. Firdaus' name rang from their section—chanting, emotional, raw.
On the touchline, Firdaus didn't celebrate. Not wildly. He simply turned toward the bench and gave a short nod.
His message was clear: this wasn't luck.
It was the plan.
Behind him, Riza grinned. "You called it perfectly."
Firdaus finally allowed a faint smile. "They chased. We punished."
When the final whistle blew, Cardiff's players dropped to their knees, some exhausted, others elated. Perry Ng pumped his fist. Joe Ralls roared into the air. Rubin Colwill lifted his arms toward the fans, eyes wide with disbelief and pride. The bench cleared to join the celebration—staff, substitutes, even the kit man.
Firdaus walked calmly to the halfway line, shaking hands with the opposition staff, each gesture composed.
Daniel Farke gave a curt nod as he passed. "Smart setup."
Firdaus gave only a soft "Thanks" before walking away.
Inside, his heart raced—but on the outside, he was unreadable. He thought briefly of the hours spent refining the system, the risk of every command, the thin thread of control he walked. Like the system itself, calculated and controlled.
Behind him, Sam Bridges, a junior Leeds analyst barely out of his coaching badges, muttered, "That guy doesn't even blink."
After a brief cooldown, Firdaus moved through the underbelly of Elland Road. Camera crews wheeled by. The hall buzzed with rushed conversations. Then—
Post-match, the press room was crammed. Reporters lined the back wall, mics out, voices waiting to pounce.
Firdaus sat down, media officer beside him. Flashbulbs popped.
"Firdaus," one journalist began, "another win. Tactical shift late in the game paid off. Was that instinct or preparation?"
Firdaus blinked slowly. "We prepared. We saw where we could hurt them. The players did the rest."
Another hand shot up. "You're unbeaten in four. Cardiff look transformed. What's changed?"
He shrugged slightly. "Clarity. And belief."
A third reporter chimed in. "There's talk of Premier League interest already. Care to comment?"
Firdaus leaned forward slightly. "I'm focused on Cardiff City."
He stood before more questions could follow, the media officer quickly ending the session.
Behind him, one of the local Welsh journalists turned to his colleague. "He's ice. Reminds me of Arteta when he started."
Back in the dressing room, music blared. Players laughed, joked, towels snapped through the air. Boots tapped against benches. The scent of deep heat and sweat filled the room like steam after battle. Speakers boomed with afrobeat and grime.
Ralls handed Colwill a can of energy drink, grinning.
"That one-two? Cold, bro."
Colwill laughed, still catching his breath. "Been waiting for that moment."
Grant leaned in with a grin. "About time you showed that spark, man."
Colwill smirked. "Told you. All I needed was minutes."
Ojo danced in the corner, spinning a towel in the air as the rest of the team erupted in laughter. Even the goalkeeping coach was nodding to the beat.
Firdaus stepped inside.
The room quieted instantly.
He didn't speak for a full ten seconds.
"You earned this," he said simply. "Every second. Every run. Every tackle."
A pause.
"Enjoy it tonight. But remember—next week they'll come harder. And now they know what we're capable of."
He turned, started to leave, then paused.
"Colwill," he added, looking back. "That was quality. Stay ready."
The room let out a mix of cheers and applause, loud and unforced.
Firdaus gave a rare smile before slipping out. As he passed the hallway, he exchanged a look with the kit manager, who simply gave him a thumbs-up.
"Nice one, gaffer."
Later that night, as Firdaus sat in his small apartment, reviewing clips and noting timestamped player positions, his phone buzzed.
A message from Ken Choo:
"Scout from Brentford was in attendance today. You're being watched."
Firdaus stared at the screen.
He re-read it twice.
His hand hovered over the keyboard. One message. One reply—and it might shift everything. But he didn't reply. Not yet.
Outside, fireworks cracked the sky from a nearby neighborhood. A small celebration, nothing to do with the game, but the timing felt surreal.
Inside, his mind whirred. Not with panic—but with precision. He didn't crave the spotlight. He craved control. Growth. Challenge.
And now, the stakes were rising.
He stood and walked to the window, staring at the street below.
The pressure wasn't easing.
It was just beginning.
To be continued...
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