The revelation about 'Predictive Analysis' gnawed at Ethan for two straight days.
It was a splinter in his mind, a constant, irritating reminder that the game he loved was fundamentally, insurmountably unfair at the highest level.
How could he, a kid with a laptop and a knack for tactics, ever compete with a manager who could literally see the future?
This simmering frustration followed him to work on a dreary Tuesday afternoon.
The sterile chill of the CostMart dairy aisle did little to cool his temper.
He wasn't just stacking shelves; he was slamming them, placing cartons of milk down with a little too much force, the plastic thudding a satisfying rhythm of annoyance.
"Easy there, killer," a co-worker joked as she walked past.
"The yogurts didn't do anything to you."
Ethan just grunted in response, his mind a million miles away, replaying the image of 'Prodigy' on the Old Trafford touchline.
