The digital clock in the Barnsley changing room flashed 05:58 AM.
Outside, the Yorkshire sky was pitch black. The rain wasn't falling; it was being fired at the earth by an angry god. It was the kind of weather that made ducks reconsider their life choices.
Inside, the squad sat in stunned silence.
They were used to 10 AM starts. They were used to pre-activation massages, warm espressos made by Enzo, and a gentle jog while discussing which nightclub in Leeds had the best VIP area.
Today, there were no espressos. There were no masseurs.
There was only Bastion King.
The new offensive coach stood by the door. He wasn't wearing the official club tracksuit. He was wearing a grey wool jumper that smelled of wet dog and tobacco, combat trousers, and boots that looked like they had kicked a tank to death.
He held a stopwatch in one hand and a whistle in the other.
"You look pretty," Bastion growled, breaking the silence. His voice sounded like a cement mixer full of gravel.
