The alarm buzzed at 7:00 AM sharp.
Rafael Moretti opened his eyes slowly, the grey dawn light spilling in through the blinds of his modest Reading flat. The room was silent, save for the low hum of the radiator and the steady patter of rain outside — April in England, unpredictable and raw.
He rolled over, still groggy, and reached for his phone.
But before he could grab it, the air shimmered.
A faint pulse of light spread through the room, flickering in front of him — familiar, ghostlike, and now impossible to ignore. The system had returned.
[NOTIFICATION: SYSTEM LEVEL-UP]
[TACTICAL DESTROYER: LEVEL 50 REACHED]
He blinked, rubbing his eyes, watching as the translucent interface hovered above his chest.
[NEW ABILITY UNLOCKED: TACTICAL ANNIHILATION]
Rafael stared at it.
Then laughed.
"I thought this was supposed to be legendary difficulty," he muttered, sitting upright in bed, hair a mess, mind already spinning. "And you're giving me cheat codes?"
The system pulsed again, almost smug.
[CAUTION: DO NOT PUSH IT.]
He scoffed. "Yeah, yeah."
Another line appeared.
[COMMENCE ANNIHILATION PROTOCOL?]
Beneath it, a flickering input box.
TARGET OPPONENT: ____________
Rafael didn't hesitate.
He typed: Sheffield United.
The screen glitched for a moment — the kind of visual quake he'd come to associate with large data influxes — and then it began.
One by one, simulations unfolded before his eyes.
Patterns. Heatmaps. Statistical blind spots. Tactical transitions. Player behaviour. Rest defence structures. Off-ball reactions. Midfield tilts. Mental fatigue thresholds. All of it laid bare.
Sheffield United, top of the table, with everything to play for — the title theirs with a win.
And yet… they were leaking. Not in obvious ways. But in subtle, deadly ones.
Their wingbacks took too long to recover when caught high. Their centre-backs had a delayed response to second-ball transitions. Their midfield lost cohesion under heavy rotational pressure. Their forward line, electric as it was, didn't track back when Reading's full-backs pushed high.
Moretti leaned forward, watching it unfold like a chessboard being mapped in real time.
They were dominant, yes.
But not unbeatable.
Not if you knew where to aim.
[TACTICAL ANNIHILATION CONFIRMED.]
[LOADING TACTICAL PLAN: 87% EFFICIENCY RATING. EXPECTED WIN RATE IF FULLY EXECUTED: 18%. REQUIRED GOAL DIFFERENCE: +5.]
Rafael raised an eyebrow. "Eighteen percent, huh?"
The system flickered.
[HIGHEST PROBABILITY STRATEGY SELECTED. YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO.]
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Let the weight of it settle.
Reading were seventh. Sheffield United, first. One chasing the playoffs, the other chasing the title. And yet — somehow — the mission was still alive.
He stood, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and whispered to himself:
"Let's rewrite the ending."
…
Downstairs, the kettle boiled.
Rafael stood in the kitchen, stirring his tea slowly, eyes fixed on the tactics board on the wall. He'd pinned it up months ago when he'd first arrived — a half-broken magnetic thing with worn lines and names scribbled in black marker. Now it looked almost ceremonial.
He removed all the magnets. Wiped it clean.
Started fresh.
No formations. No shapes. Just arrows.
Chaos. Movement. Overloads. Drift. Collapse points.
He outlined three attack lanes: one through Maatsen and Savio on the left, one with Hoilett cutting in from the right, and a central overload zone just behind Sheffield's pivot line. João to drag defenders. Casadei to ghost in. Wharton to quarterback it all.
The defensive plan?
Simple.
Win the ball high. Press the second ball. Don't let them breathe.
"Fluidity kills rigidity," he whispered to himself. "Poetry, not prose."
The clock read 8:03 AM when Dempsey finally arrived at his door, coffee in hand, already dressed for war.
"You look like a man who either hasn't slept or has solved football," he said.
Rafael simply pointed at the tactics board.
Dempsey stepped closer.
He studied it for a moment.
Then turned to Rafael, eyes wide.
"You're going for it."
"Yeah," Rafael said softly. "We don't die wondering."
…
By midday, the dressing room at Bearwood was humming with energy.
Not nerves.
Something more refined.
Focused anticipation.
Rafael stepped in. The players fell silent.
He didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice. He just walked to the centre, looked each of them in the eye.
"We've done something incredible," he said. "Twenty-one games unbeaten. Fifty-six points. From 23rd to seventh."
A pause.
"Now we've got one more door to kick down."
He pointed at the nameplate of the opposition written on the board.
"Sheffield United want the title. But they don't know what we want."
He let that sit.
"They don't know we've built something here. That we believe in this. That we've turned chaos into choreography. That our left side is a symphony. That our press is a vice. That our football is no longer survival — it's a statement."
He walked between them now.
"Five goals. That's what we need. Not because we're greedy. But because that's the price of glory. And I know — I know — we can do it."
He looked at Maatsen.
"At Chelsea, you were an option. Here, you're a weapon."
To Wharton.
"You were a backup. Now you're the heartbeat."
To Savio.
"You were forgotten. Now they call you the next Neymar."
And finally, to the room.
"You're not just footballers anymore. You're the story. The one they'll tell years from now."
A pause.
"Let's finish it."
…
At 5:12 PM, the Reading team bus rolled into Bramall Lane.
It was still raining.
It always rained when something important was about to happen.
And Rafael Moretti, hood up, coat zipped, stepped off first — unreadable. Focused.
He wasn't here to participate.
He was here to destroy.
The roar inside Bramall Lane was deafening—but it wasn't the kind of noise Sheffield United were used to hearing. It wasn't celebratory. It wasn't confident. It was nervous, anxious, the type of hum that brews when something is very, very wrong.
And something was very wrong.
Reading were dominating.
Not just edging. Not competing.
Dominating.
From the first whistle, the away side seized control like they had scripted the match themselves. Moretti, standing on the touchline in his black coat, barely moved. His arms were folded, his gaze calm, expression unreadable—but inside, he knew: the Tactical Annihilation protocol was working to perfection.
Every movement had been rehearsed. Every transition calculated. Every Sheffield weakness had been mapped and catalogued by the system. And now it was all unraveling on the pitch.
By the 10th minute, Reading had registered over 100 completed passes.
Sheffield United? Eleven.
Wharton and Loum controlled the middle of the park like puppeteers. Maatsen pushed so high down the left he might've been mistaken for a winger, creating a two-versus-one with Savio every time. Casadei floated between the lines like a shadow, never marked, always moving.
The home fans were stunned.
Reading weren't playing like a team clinging to a miracle. They were playing like champions.
The breakthrough came in the 17th minute.
Wharton, operating as the deepest midfielder, slid a low ball into Casadei between the lines. Casadei took one touch to control, then swiveled, spotting Savio darting toward the box.
One pass. Perfect weight. Perfect angle.
Savio didn't hesitate. He let the ball run across his body, cut inside with his right, and opened up his hips like he was going to curl it to the far post—only to lash it near-post instead, catching the keeper flat-footed.
1–0.
The away end exploded.
Savio didn't celebrate wildly. He simply pointed at Casadei, nodded once, and jogged back toward the halfway line. There was still work to do.
From the restart, Sheffield tried to build some rhythm. But they couldn't breathe.
Reading pressed in packs—Ince, João, Savio—cutting off angles, reading passes before they left the foot. Loum snapped into tackles. McIntyre bullied their striker off every aerial ball. And Sarr, still burdened by the memory of Sunderland, played like a man possessed—every clearance thumped into orbit, every step purposeful.
The numbers told the story.
By the 30th minute: Reading 76% possession. Sheffield 24%. Not a single shot for the league leaders.
Moretti didn't celebrate the small victories. He expected them.
And then came the second.
It began with a turnover. Loum stepped across the halfway line and intercepted a lazy sideways pass. He immediately switched the ball wide to Maatsen, who had sprinted into acres of space. The Dutch full-back took one touch to settle, then whipped a left-footed cross into the heart of the box.
Tom Ince was already in motion.
Ghosting past his marker, he leapt—hung in the air like a moment suspended in time—and crashed a header into the top corner.
2–0.
Now the away fans really believed. The miracle? It was on.
Moretti didn't flinch. He turned to Dempsey on the bench and said, low and measured, "One more before the break. We break them now."
And that's exactly what they did.
The third goal began at the back.
Sarr calmly played a pass into Wharton, who feinted left, turned right, and burst into the midfield with the poise of a veteran. He skipped past one red shirt, then spotted João peeling off the shoulder of Sheffield's backline.
It wasn't even a through ball.
It was a thread—a surgical incision between defenders, perfectly timed.
João latched onto it, took a touch to steady, then slotted it low beneath the keeper.
3–0.
Sheffield were stunned. The fans were silent. Their players looked at one another as if searching for answers that weren't there.
Halftime arrived with boos echoing from the home crowd, and Reading—yes, Reading—walked into the tunnel as the most terrifying team in the Championship.
They hadn't just played well.
They had annihilated Sheffield United.
And Moretti, calm as ever, simply adjusted his coat and disappeared into the tunnel, already thinking about the next forty-five minutes.
The second half had barely begun when the shockwaves started.
Rafael Moretti had made a decision that would be replayed on highlight shows, debated in pubs, whispered about in coaching courses.
It was madness. It was genius. It was both.
Sheffield United came out from the tunnel looking shellshocked, already three goals down and being utterly dominated. But they couldn't have expected what was coming.
As the referee prepared to restart play, the fourth official raised his board: #6 – McIntyre off. #2 – Sarr off. #7 – Carroll on. #23 – Hoilett on.
"Is that… two centre-backs off?" one commentator stammered. "He's… he's playing without a backline. What is Moretti doing?!"
Dempsey, on the sideline, had hesitated when Rafael made the call. "Are you sure?" he'd asked, voice low but tense.
Moretti hadn't looked at him. Just stared straight at the pitch and said, "I'm sure."
It wasn't arrogance. It was control. He had unlocked Sheffield. Every movement, every press, every reaction. They were done. Now came the kill.
Reading lined up in a 2-3-5 shape — if it could even be called that. Hoilett and Maatsen were now flying wing-backs. Loum shielded the halfway line alone, with Wharton and Casadei just ahead. The front five were fluid chaos: Ince, Savio, João, Carroll, and Hoilett.
And it was too much.
48th minute. Sheffield tried to pass out from the back — a mistake. Carroll pressed, forced a turnover. Casadei recovered and pinged it into Savio, who danced between two defenders. A dummy pass. A cut inside. He rifled it into the bottom corner.
4–0.
The Reading away end, stunned at first, now sounded like an avalanche. It had gone from hope to belief to something else entirely — delirium.
52nd minute. Wharton won a duel in midfield, brushing aside Norwood like he was weightless. He laid it to Hoilett, who drove down the right. Carroll made a decoy run, and Hoilett whipped it across to João. The striker brought it down, turned, and buried it under Foderingham.
5–0.
Sheffield looked like statues. Unmoving. Unable to respond. Paul Heckingbottom stood on the touchline with his arms crossed, but even he looked ashen. This was not a team chasing a title. This was a team being dismantled.
"Remember when he said I didn't know how to handle nights like this?" Rafael murmured to Dempsey, eyes fixed on the chaos. "How poetic."
59th minute. Maatsen again. This time, a one-two with Savio down the left — they played it like it was choreographed theatre. Maatsen floated a cut-back to the edge of the box.
Casadei. Volley. Net bulged.
6–0.
The camera panned to the Sheffield crowd — hundreds heading for the exits.
The United players had given up pressing. Their midfield had collapsed. Their defense stood ten yards too deep and still couldn't stop anything.
It was clinical. It was cruel.
It was everything Moretti had planned.
64th minute. Wharton — still calm, still sharp. He spotted Carroll peeling off the back post. He lofted a diagonal over the top, the kind that dropped like a stone.
Carroll, the veteran, the warrior, rose above his marker and thundered it into the top corner.
7–0.
Reading's bench exploded. Even the most stoic players were laughing in disbelief. Sheffield's players were shattered. Their title hopes in pieces.
And yet — Reading weren't done.
78th minute. Casadei carried it through the centre, gliding past the ghost of a press. He fed Ince, who had been relentless all afternoon.
Ince turned inside onto his left foot — and instead of shooting, rolled a disguised pass to Savio, who ran past three players as if they weren't there.
Tap-in. Simple.
8–0.
Rafael didn't celebrate this one. He just stood there, arms crossed, as if watching a thesis unfold in real time.
The camera caught Heckingbottom slumping into his seat. Word came through from Burnley — they'd beaten Coventry 2–0. Sheffield, even with a draw, would have finished second.
Now?
No title. No pride.
Full-time.
Eight-nil. Eight-nil.
Reading had done the impossible. The tactical annihilation was complete. They had made the playoffs — from 23rd place. On goal difference. By a single goal.
The team gathered in a huddle, screaming in disbelief. The fans wept, sang, jumped until the concrete shook.
And Rafael?
He walked slowly toward the tunnel, his coat flapping in the wind. He didn't speak. He didn't raise his arms.
But there was a fire in his eyes — one that hadn't dimmed since that loss at Sunderland.
It wasn't just a win.
It was vengeance.
…
@FootyBanter77
MORETTI JUST SHAT ON HECKINGBOTTOM'S DREAMS AND WIPED HIS BOOTS WITH SHEFFIELD'S TITLE HOPES.
This is not normal behaviour.
@ItsOnlyBall
Reading scored EIGHT away from home on the final day.
Nah.
That's has to be illegal.
Heckingbottom needs therapy.
@EFLMemes
Sheffield: "We just need a draw to win the title."
Moretti: "Cool story."
Drops 8 goals like it's FIFA on amateur mode.
@BallKnowledge101
Moretti watching Sheffield's defensive line crumble for the 5th time:
"You get cooked. And you get cooked. And YOU get cooked."
@ReadingLad69
I knew Moretti was cooking.
I didn't know he was cooking a Michelin-star seven-course humiliation at Bramall Lane.
Serve it COLD.
@BurnleyAfterDark
We were sweating a Sheffield win.
Moretti pulled up and said:
"Relax, I got this."
Man turned their title hopes into a punchline.
@NotSoNeutralFan
Moretti: "No defenders second half."
Sheffield: "That's our chance!"
Moretti: "Haha, nope. That's YOUR funeral."
@BigChampEnergy
SHEFFIELD FANS LEFT IN THE 60TH MINUTE.
EVEN THE REF WAS TRYING TO ESCAPE.
THIS WASN'T FOOTBALL.
THIS WAS A PUBLIC EXECUTION.
@BarcaBanter
If Pep is ball, Moretti is bullet.
Lethal, precise, and will ruin your tactical plans in 90 minutes or less.