Deep Within the Facility…
The chamber was the kind of dark that felt deliberate.
No windows. No unnecessary light. Just a round table, high-backed chairs, and the people powerful enough to sit in them — the highest-ranking officials of the OOTP, gathered in a silence that none of them seemed willing to break first.
The Director let it stretch.
Then, unhurriedly, he spoke.
"You're all wondering why I called this meeting."
He leaned back in his chair with the ease of someone who had never once doubted a room would listen to him.
"Well…" A faint smile. "My dear Maeve has something interesting to propose."
He turned his gaze toward her — and there was something in that look, subtle but unmistakable, that a few around the table quietly noticed.
"The floor is yours."
Maeve rose without hurry.
Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she crossed to the illuminated screen — not rushing, never rushing — like the room had been waiting for her specifically and she was simply arriving on schedule.
"Good day, everyone."
Her voice was smooth. Controlled. The kind of voice that could deliver terrible news and make it sound like a gift.
"As you're all aware, the preliminary stage has been delayed."
The screen behind her lit up — data logs, group standings, breach reports laid out in clean columns.
"Due to a system breach."
Murmurs moved around the table like a current.
She let them run their course before continuing.
"And the cause?" A brief pause — she was good at those. "A group operating from within the facility. They call themselves… Timor."
One of the officials didn't even wait for her to finish.
"That's impossible. Our system is built to detect any intrusion from the inside out."
A woman across the table — Rose, early thirties, with the kind of eyes that had a habit of seeing things people preferred stayed unseen — leaned forward slightly.
"Unless," she said, almost to herself, "someone on the inside helped them."
The murmuring stopped.
That kind of silence is different. Heavier. The kind that comes when something true has been said out loud and nobody wants to be the first one to respond to it.
Maeve walked behind Rose slowly. She placed a hand — gentle, almost tender — against her cheek.
"My dear Rose…" She smiled down at her. "Now isn't the time for internal suspicion."
Another official jumped in quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. "She's right. We should be focused on the tournament."
His voice didn't quite carry the conviction it was reaching for.
The Director spoke before the tension could settle into something uglier.
"Rose." His tone was calm, but the kind of calm that closes doors. "I understand your concern. Maeve will lead the investigation. Trust the process."
Rose exhaled — slow, measured.
"…If she's handling it," she said finally, "then I'll let it be."
Maeve leaned down close to her ear.
"Good girl…" she murmured. "Do you want a reward?"
Rose's expression flickered with something between irritation and amusement. "You do realize we're not in our real bodies."
Maeve pulled back with a light laugh. "Oops. My mistake."
She turned back to the screen like the exchange had never happened.
The display shifted to group standings.
"You all know the original structure," Maeve began. "Top seven candidates per group qualify. Seventy total move forward."
She let that sit for exactly one second.
"But given the delay…" Her head tilted slightly. "Why not make things more efficient?"
Nobody spoke. She took that as her cue.
"After Matchday 5, only the top five candidates in each group qualify automatically."
The room processed that quietly. A few faces shifted — not dramatically, just the small, careful adjustments people make when they're recalculating.
"Candidates ranked ninth and tenth…" Her voice dropped a register. "…will be eliminated immediately."
Still no reaction. The room was too stunned for one.
"And candidates ranked sixth, seventh, and eighth…" She clicked to the next slide. A playoff bracket appeared. "…will enter a playoff phase. Seventh versus eighth. The winner faces sixth. One advances."
She folded her hands.
"Only one."
The silence held for a moment before one official found his voice.
"So… we're going from seventy candidates advancing down to sixty? Top six per group?"
"Exactly," Maeve said pleasantly.
An older official pressed his palm flat against the table — not a slam, but close.
"This is unnecessary. We should honour the original format."
The Director's voice came in low and even, cutting right through.
"I like Maeve's idea."
The room went still in a different way now.
He looked at the older man without any particular hostility.
"You may be the most senior person at this table. But time doesn't negotiate." He leaned forward slightly. "Preparations for the next stage are complete. We cannot afford another delay. We move forward." His eyes moved around the table once. "Is that clear?"
A beat.
"Yes, Director."
Maeve crossed the room and sat herself casually on his lap — unbothered, like it was the most natural thing in the world — and tapped his nose once with her finger.
"Thank you, darling."
He did not look entirely displeased.
Rose cleared her throat. "Should the announcement go through the system?"
Maeve stood.
"No." She smoothed her jacket. "I'll deliver it myself."
A male official frowned. "We're not supposed to reveal ourselves yet."
Maeve's smile returned — slower this time, sharper.
"Exactly." She glanced back at him. "That's what'll make it interesting."
No one pushed back.
The Director nodded once. "Do it. Meeting adjourned."
The officials filtered out in ones and twos until the room was quiet again.
The Director activated a private screen.
Two figures appeared — Desmond Willy and Amina Adisa.
"I trust you're enjoying the developments," he said.
Desmond smiled. "Very much."
Amina leaned slightly toward the camera. "You're doing well. The President will approve the additional funding." She paused, and something shifted in her expression — not quite business anymore. "…But I do have a question."
Desmond glanced sideways at her with a grin already forming. "Go on."
Amina's eyes gleamed. "Are you and Maeve… in a relationship?"
The Director blinked.
Then, beneath his mask, something very human happened — warmth crept up the back of his neck and into his face before he could stop it. He coughed once.
"I… don't know."
Desmond let out a full laugh. "At your age? Still blushing?"
"Shut up."
He cut the screen and walked out — mask on, composure held — but the blush trailing right behind him the whole way.
Back at the Facility — Analysis Room
The room hummed with the quiet focus of people who knew something important was coming and weren't sure they were ready for it.
Match footage cycled across multiple screens. Daniel and his roommates had pulled their chairs into a loose cluster, and Chinedu stood near the tactical board like he'd appointed himself head coach and wasn't particularly interested in debate.
He looked at Ayo.
"I think you're going to lose."
Ayo's head turned so fast it was almost funny. "Why would you say that?!"
Tunde winced sympathetically. "Bro. That's cold."
"I'm being honest," Chinedu said, unbothered. "You're facing Fiona. She plays transitional football — wing-based, fast, deliberate." He picked up a marker. "Sit down. Watch closely."
Daniel leaned forward without a word.
Chinedu began drawing on the board. "Fiona runs a 4-2-1-3. Sound familiar?" He glanced at Daniel.
Daniel's eyes narrowed. "…Similar to mine."
"Very." Chinedu tapped the board. "She uses what's called X-diagonal passing. The ball shifts from one wing to the opposite wing — immediately, almost without warning. Her wingers and fullbacks work in sync. They drag your defenders wide, open the center, then she attacks — from wide or through the middle, depending on what you give her."
Ayo stared at the board for a moment. "So she stretches the pitch."
"She suffocates it," Chinedu corrected. "And then she breathes."
He looked at Ayo directly. "You're in trouble."
Ayo leaned back in his chair, arms crossing slowly. A few seconds passed.
"…Don't worry," he said quietly. "I've got a plan."
Chinedu didn't look convinced. He turned to Daniel instead.
"And you?"
"My opponent uses a 3-5-2," Daniel said. "Midfield dominance. Low-block. He'll make it compact and wait."
Tunde tilted his head. "Like Inter Milan?"
Daniel nodded.
"And your approach?" Chinedu asked.
A small smile. "Break his structure."
Chinedu studied him for a moment, then nodded — seemingly satisfied, or at least not worried.
He turned to Tunde. "And you. Don't slack."
Tunde laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Obviously not—"
"Obviously," Ayo echoed with a grin, "says the man who slept through the last analysis session."
Tunde opened his mouth. Closed it.
Chinedu threw the marker.
They scattered. Daniel's laugh came out before he could hold it back, quiet but real, and for a moment the room was just four people who'd been through a lot and weren't quite ready to say it out loud.
The laughter faded naturally.
And the screens kept playing — footage from upcoming opponents, formations, patterns, tendencies — quiet and relentless in the background.
Matchday 5 was coming.
And each of them, in their own way, knew this one would cost something