The door to the dressing room shut behind Firdaus with a muted thud. Players filed in, their boots scuffing against the concrete floor, jerseys damp with sweat, some still buzzing from the unexpected lead. Yakou Meite grinned as he collapsed onto the bench, Ramsey shared a quiet fist bump with Robinson, and Omer Riza was already glancing at the stat sheet on his tablet.
Firdaus stood silently in the middle of the room, arms crossed. The celebrations quieted on their own.
"No shouting," he began, voice calm but firm. "Good job. But it's only half done."
He walked over to the tactics board and tapped the magnetic markers into a new alignment, rearranging pieces with a surgeon's precision.
"They'll come out aggressive. They'll target our right flank harder. James won't wait this time. They'll isolate Perry. Ralls, shift to cover more. Meite, track back more than before. One more sprint won't kill you."
Meite chuckled softly, wiping sweat from his brow. "Yes, boss."
Firdaus nodded to Ramsey. "Float. You don't need permission. Find the space. You'll know it when it opens. Drag Ampadu away from that pivot."
Ramsey gave a faint smile. "Got it."
His gaze moved to the back line. "McGuinness. Ng. Win your headers. If you lose one, you make sure your second touch kills the counter."
And finally, his voice dropped to a cold calm.
"No panic. If they score, we respond. Not with chaos. With control."
Silence again. This wasn't a pep talk. It was a blueprint.
Even Omer gave a small nod, impressed despite himself.
Back on the pitch, the rain had lightened to a mist, hanging over Elland Road like a warning. Firdaus adjusted the collar of his coat, standing still as the teams re-emerged. The stadium noise grew deafening. Leeds fans were restless. Cardiff fans, buzzing. It felt like a powder keg waiting to blow.
"System," Firdaus whispered, barely audible.
The interface blinked into view before his eyes only.
[LIVE MATCH MODE – ACTIVE]
[Stamina Drop: Ng (Left thigh tightness) | Tactical Shift Suggested: 5-4-1 Compact]
[Morale: Stable | Confidence Spike: Meite, Colwill]
He noted the data. Ng's thigh was a concern, but it wasn't time to change yet. Trust the players.
He scanned the crowd briefly. Pundits and scouts were in attendance. He spotted a familiar face—an FA representative likely sent to observe Ramsey, maybe even a few Leeds talents. But now, that gaze might shift to him.
The whistle blew. Leeds came out like a storm.
Daniel James sprinted down the flank, blazing speed, this time cutting inside early. Perry Ng matched him stride for stride but winced mid-run. Firdaus narrowed his eyes.
"Sub warming?" Omer asked, glancing down the line.
"Let him hold one more duel," Firdaus replied calmly, hands in his pockets.
The pressure increased. A low ball flashed across the six-yard box, McGuinness sliding just in time to clear. The Leeds crowd were on their feet.
Leeds launched wave after wave. Crosses zipped in. Piroe latched onto one, forcing a stunning save from Alnwick. Cardiff cleared, but they couldn't keep the ball.
Minute 53.
A brief lapse. Ralls hesitated, Ramsey delayed the press. Ampadu slid the ball to Piroe. No one closed quick enough.
The strike was clean. Curling. Precise.
GOAL – Leeds United.
The crowd exploded. Firdaus stood still, face unreadable.
He turned toward the bench.
"Get Colwill up," he said, tone level.
Omer blinked. "Now?"
"They're overcommitting. We'll need someone to ghost into that gap."
The fourth official raised the board. Colwill got his instructions. Firdaus didn't give a rousing speech—he spoke just three sentences.
"Inside right channel. Ayling is tired. One cut, and he'll be a step behind."
Colwill nodded slowly, steeling himself.
The mood on the pitch shifted. Leeds had the wind behind them, both literal and emotional. Firdaus made minor tweaks through the system.
[Formation Tweak: Reduce Width – Confirm?]
[Opponent Fatigue Watch: Ampadu Sprint Load – High Risk]
He approved both.
Meanwhile, pundits buzzed in the commentary box.
"This Firdaus lad is ice cold. Is that confidence or just no clue what's happening?"
"Whatever it is, his team isn't crumbling. That says something."
"Second half is where you usually see inexperience. But this guy's face hasn't changed since kickoff."
Colwill stood on the sideline, stretching.
Firdaus turned to him. "Inside right channel. Ayling's overstepping. You go there, we win this."
Colwill blinked. "You think I'll get space?"
"I know you will. Ramsey will see it."
The match pressed on. Firdaus remained motionless, giving only the occasional nod or command. The crowd noise blurred into white noise.
Minute 81.
Leeds surged forward again. A thunderous shot from outside the box clipped the bar. Gasps filled the stadium.
Firdaus didn't flinch. His eyes scanned the layout.
Then it clicked.
Colwill peeled wide. Ramsey received a throw-in, beat one man, and drove forward.
The pass came fast.
Colwill didn't stop to think.
Touch. Turn. Explode.
He ghosted behind Ayling, into the gap Firdaus predicted. One quick cross.
Meite dummied it—brilliantly.
Robinson timed his run.
GOAL – CARDIFF CITY.
The bench erupted. Omer lost his headset. Staff hugged. Players screamed.
But Firdaus?
He didn't move. Just turned to sit down again.
His heart, however, pounded.
Omer approached, dazed. "How did you—?"
"The data never lies."
The away fans sang Firdaus' name for the first time. On social media, his name lit up like wildfire.
#FirdausMasterclass
"He's not just lucky. He's surgical."
"From nobody to genius in 90 minutes."
As the referee blew the final whistle, Firdaus stood, adjusted his collar, and walked quietly toward the tunnel.
No fist pumps. No grin.
Just the same cold stare.
But deep inside, beneath the mask—relief, pride, and a growing fire.
Outside the tunnel, a Sky Sports reporter tried to approach him.
"Ahmad Firdaus! Just a quick word—how did it feel to win your first game in charge?"
Firdaus paused only briefly.
"It's just one game."
And with that, he vanished into the stadium tunnel, leaving behind a storm of headlines.
To be continued...
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