Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

🧩 Isagi POV

The final whistle cracked through the air. A sharp, metallic sound that tore through the frozen tension in the stadium. It shattered the doubts — and the illusions — of those who hadn’t expected it, who had never truly believed.

Then the realization hit the crowd. And they roared. The stands shook, rippling under a tidal wave of cheers, flashing lights, and applause crashing like thunder.

It wasn’t just joy. It was a collective upheaval. A victory. Not the one they had expected. But a victory nonetheless.

Blue Lock had defeated the U-20 national team.

Japan was watching. Maybe the whole world was. The thought hovered, unreal, on the edge of his consciousness.

This match, meant to be their grave, had become their breakthrough. Even against the national idol, Itoshi Sae, they had endured. They had bitten, devoured, dominated. More than anything, they had revealed what Ego Jinpachi had been building in the shadows. What they had become. Monsters of the pitch, still hatching, but promising and ravenous.

And they had done it.

Stumbling at times, but brilliantly.

Isagi Yoichi stood at the center of the field, vision blurred, a torrent of emotions bubbling up. His breath caught the air, uneven. The sour, familiar smell of grass was the only sharp detail keeping him upright. 

His heart pounded, rapid and steady. A pulse too loud in his temples.

But he knew it wasn’t just fatigue.

His mind was still racing, maybe too fast, replaying and reshaping his final move. The breach in the defensive line – a fleeting imbalance, barely a heartbeat. The space, calculated. The shot, executed. The net stretching, just as planned.

A goal.  He had scored the final goal. A precise one. The net had quivered like a violin string. So flawless that even the pros had nothing to say.

It had been years since Yoichi had felt this... alive. Football, once his childhood love, had become routine. A dull machine, predictable and no longer dazzling.

But now, at this moment, the pitch shone again.

That was exactly why he had said yes to this insane project.

He caught himself smiling. Just barely. A twitch of the lips, like a nervous spasm. This was life. Here, in this fragile second of perfection.

Around him, the world erupted. Swept away by the euphoria of the moment, the Blue Lock players celebrated with the stadium. 

Bachira spun with laughter, Chigiri dropped to his knees, eyes shining. Nagi yawned, ever lazy, but even Yoichi saw a flicker of pride in his usually neutral gaze.

The others joined in. Applauding, shouting. A wave of relief swept through the pitch... but it bypassed two Blue Lock players:

Yoichi and Itoshi Rin.

The latter stood still. Ten meters away. Arms crossed, like invisible armor, gaze locked on him.

The younger Itoshi, Blue Lock's current ace, wore no expression. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t joined the celebration. Just that stare. Burning. Hateful, but more than anything... tense. 

Sharp as a blade.

Beside him stood his older brother, just as still. Itoshi Sae, midfielder of Re Al Youth, radiated a different kind of presence. Less wild, more controlled, his aura was dark, consuming. The prodigy was every bit as technical as the rumors claimed. Silent, like a conductor.

And in that moment, he perfectly mirrored his brother. Both Itoshi had their full attention on Yoichi. So intently that the number 11 felt their green eyes like an echo pulsing in his bones.

However, he chose to ignore their gaze, still too aware of the adrenaline humming in his veins. If he didn’t calm down, the high would burn him from the inside.

Blue Lock 11 closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. Inhale. Slowly. Exhale. Again. And again. Control the breath. Stretch the back muscles without thinking. 

Unclench the jaw.

He had made it. Not just through the match, but through the waiting, the doubt. The dull fog that had gnawed at him too long.

Yoichi was here. And he had scored. 

His body didn’t tremble. He didn’t even celebrate. Instead, there was peace. Familiar, focused clarity. A mental precision bordering on obsession. A pure moment.

It took him seconds to steady himself. His shoulders loosened, his breathing evened out.

The crowd became background noise again, distant and blurred. He could now feel the cool breeze combing through his hair. The air carried grass and sweat – two constants of his life.

And yet, that didn’t matter. Because he’d done it.

Proved he belonged here, in the organized chaos that was Blue Lock. That he had a place in this world.

But more importantly... Yoichi had shown himself he still had it. That mastery, that lucidity, that edge that bordered on obsession.

Like before.

He didn’t know when it had started. The dull ache. The creeping numbness. Something between boredom and cold resignation. A silent feeling he’d refused to name. But he remembered.

At sixteen, his game had sparkled. Fluid. Instinctive. Almost flawless. Then... emptiness. Six months. Six months of silence and absence. No matches. No training footage. No progress. Nothing. 

A quiet, total erasure.

Some had thought it was an injury. Others, a dropout. But Yoichi never spoke about it. Maybe he didn’t have the words. Or maybe... he was afraid to dig too deep and shatter himself in a silent quest for worth.

Blue Lock had been a jolt to the system. A scream in the dark. A last attempt, maybe, to find himself again.

He hadn’t come here to be a hero.

Yoichi came to see if he was still allowed to dream. To see if the path he’d bled for was still his to follow. An endless loop chasing perfection in a monochrome world turned dull.

The sudden quiet yanked him from his thoughts. Around him, the joyful noise shifted to hushed murmurs. The air stilled, almost crisp, like something was approaching.

He felt it before he even saw him move, and slowly lifted his head. Someone was cutting through the crowd. Not rushing. Not shouting.

He moved slowly, steadily. Like a predator half-awake, drawn to a new subject.

Itoshi Sae.

He walked as if he hadn’t lost. As if defeat belonged to someone else. As if the match had just been a detour on his schedule.

The Blue Lock players exchanged glances, uncertainty hanging in the air. 

Was he looking for a rematch? Trouble?

Even in doubt, they stepped aside when it became clear he wasn’t here for them.

Cameras locked onto him. Coaches froze, ready to step in. But he saw only one thing: him. He stopped exactly one meter away. Not too close, not too far. A shared respect rooted in culture, even if the Japanese prodigy had lived in Spain for years.

His jersey clung to his skin, a towel hung around his neck. A faint scent of mint, pine, and cold steel clung to him – as if each step cut through time. His auburn hair, a striking contrast to Rin’s viridian black, stuck to his forehead. But his eyes…

They were unreadable.

"Well played, Isagi Yoichi."

His voice had that strange clarity people have when they never try to persuade. Dark velvet on a winter night. Low, slicing without being sharp, with the slight accent of those who’ve traveled too much. It echoed more in the chest than the ears.

Yoichi didn’t reply right away. His breath still buzzed in his head. He studied the other player, noting every move. He stopped himself, barely, from nervously scratching the back of his neck.

Rin's brother took the silence as a cue to continue. He pulled a pen from his pocket, a black-and-red fountain pen matching his hair – how long had it been there? – and pointed towards Yoichi's hand, expectant. No wasted movement. Perfect control, on and off the field.

"I'm giving you my number."

Straightforward. Unapologetic.

The striker squinted just slightly, refusing to show surprise. Still, his heart skipped a beat.

"Why?" he finally asked.

Sae shrugged. Just a little.

"I want to see you again," the prodigy admitted, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Silence followed. Not in the stadium. Just here. In this pocket of space between two players. One who had proven his worth. The other still chasing it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Yoichi saw Kurona shift. Nagi turned his head. And to the left, Reo stopped smiling.

Rin, already tense, stepped forward. Prepared to interfere if something happens.

Yoichi, surprised, didn’t move. This wasn’t an invitation. And while polite, it wasn’t praise either. It was an evaluation. A selection. Like the oldest Itoshi had found what he was looking for.

He knew the look. That curious, hungry stare that appeared when you found potential. He saw it in his own reflection sometimes.

Itoshi's hand remained extended.

But the number 11 still didn't approach. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t a compliment. It was like the prodigy had spotted a rare piece in a dusty collection. The way a player spots an opening. 

An exploitable opponent. Or a partner.

Their eyes met. They remained silent but everything was clear.

The Re Al player's hand stayed out, unwavering.

Yoichi wanted to hesitate. But his body, still flushed with adrenaline, moved first. He extended his hand. Palm open, neutral. A blank canvas. An offering to something dangerous.

Itoshi uncapped his pen. The soft click echoed like a gunshot. Then, the sensation.

Ink against skin. The tip gliding over his palm, sketching numbers with careful, surgical movement. The contact wasn’t intimate. It was calculated.

And each digit burned like a seal.

He could’ve written his name and it would’ve felt the same.

Yoichi shivered. Not with fear. Not entirely desire, either. A particular tension, like a key turning in a rusted lock.

Something had clicked. A silent, irreversible shift.

The oldest Itoshi capped the pen. Then leaned forward, still at that precise distance, just shy of indiscreet.

"See you soon, Isagi-kun."

A whisper. Like a promise. Then he turned and walked away. Calmly. As if he hadn’t just set off a storm.

Yoichi stayed put.

The crowd returned as background noise. Voices, flashes, shouts. Distant.

He looked down. Just a number. Black digits across his palm. But they pulsed like a warm burn. Like an invisible mark.

He couldn’t explain why, but the gesture – so simple to others – had anchored itself in him. Like a dissonant note in a familiar song. A strange, intimate vibration.

And deep down, something whispered that he should’ve run.

But he knew he wouldn’t.

🧩🧩

The locker room was thick with the scent of sweat, steam, and half a dozen brands of soap and cologne fighting for dominance.

Under the stream of warm water, Yoichi placed his hands against the sterile white tiles, slowly coming down from the calm he had found earlier. He silently enjoyed the sensation of being clean again after so much effort, like a hard-earned trophy.

Around him, muffled murmurs and heavy breathing formed a soft, dull background noise, almost comforting in its monotony.

He looked down at his palm. There, still faintly visible despite the moisture, was a fine trace of black ink, stretched across the edge of his hand like a silent reminder.

Itoshi Sae’s signature.

Strangely straight, steady, precise, like him.

Yoichi brushed a thumb over it, but didn’t rub. He could’ve washed it away, let it disappear down the drain like any other remnant of the day, but he didn’t.

Something held him back.

It wasn’t a meaningless mark. It was a sign, a sign that a world-class player had taken interest in him. A sign of the way he had looked at him — precise, analytical, almost possessive.

The kind of gaze that imprints itself far deeper than the skin.

Number 11 closed his eyes for a moment, letting his senses absorb the weight of the moment: the dull ache in his legs, the familiar tingling in his fingers, and that persistent tension vibrating in his chest. A bitter mix of exhaustion and feverish excitement, like a promise kept against all odds.

His breath stayed short, but his movements remained calm, almost mechanical. He had learned, over time, to manage internal turbulence without letting it show.

Somewhere behind him, a bag hit the ground with a heavy thud, echoing the rhythm of his own heartbeat, steady and relentless, like it was trying to whisper that this was only the beginning.

In Yoichi’s thoughts, the older Itoshi was beginning to take a dangerous place, a place filled with uncertainty.

The prodigy wanted something from him. He knew it — not just because the other player had given him his number, but because he could read people.

He’d done it since he was young, a distraction amid the chaos of his overstimulated senses. He had learned to stay quiet at the right times, and strike when needed, a skill he also used on the field. So it was obvious he’d notice that pleased glint, hidden beneath layers of politeness and disinterest, almost like the Japanese prodigy had finally found the missing piece of his puzzle.

The only question now: would that be a good thing or a bad one?

Maybe, with time, Rin’s older brother would forget all about it.

Yoichi hummed a silent chord and turned off the water. He took his time drying off and putting on clean underwear before stepping back into the main locker room, still buzzing with energy.

The white, buzzing neon lights pierced through the charged atmosphere. They cast shadows on tired but satisfied faces. Every breath seemed lighter in that cramped space.

The team had calmed down now. The adrenaline had dissolved, leaving room for something more complete. Conversations bounced between the match and personal preferences, a post-game atmosphere as warm as those they’d had back in Blue Lock.

Bachira wandered around naked, to Chigiri’s great distress, who kept scolding him.

Barou was yelling at Nagi, who still hadn’t showered, while Reo chased off the self-proclaimed king with a smirk worthy of royalty.

Across the room, Yukimiya was chatting with Hiori — and Kurona?

Well, that was new.

Others, like Niko, were slowly recovering from the match.

Rin was still silent, calmly getting dressed while Karasu laughed at something he’d said, probably telling him to shut up.

And the chaotic presence of Shidou Ryusei was missing, since he had joined the U-20 for the match at Itoshi Sae’s request.

Yoichi had gotten used to the Blue Lock squad’s slightly unhinged dynamic. Each player was different, sometimes too loud, but most of them — almost all — meant well.

Blue Lock was a bit like a prison, and they had learned to coexist from the very start. For someone as discreet and calm as him, the change had been radical: too much noise, too much motion, so little respect for personal space.

He’d almost quit in the first few days.

Yoichi wasn’t someone who approached others easily. He liked his space. A fact that people like Bachira and Chigiri had refused to accept. He’d literally been dragged down the hallways by the two of them. Their laughter still echoed in his ears, like little gremlins in disguise, with sweet faces and demonic energy.

They had even made him socialize.

Yeah, you had to be insane to join a project like this. Yoichi wondered what that said about himself...

Nothing good, probably.

That thought only became clearer in the following minutes.

He was doomed. The moment he walked in, every gaze turned toward him — the hyenas had found their prey. It was written all over Bachira’s too-wide smile, in the mischievous sparkle lighting up Chigiri’s eyes.

Yoichi had avoided every conversation since that moment — the one where the Re Al player had asked for his number. He’d been the first to head for the showers and had locked himself in one of the private stalls, hoping they’d forget he even existed.

It might have worked.

Until now.

He felt the disaster the second Bachira opened his mouth.

“So, did you find yourself a sugar daddy, Isagi-kun?” the Gremlin asked, grinning from ear to ear.

Oh, for the love of football gods.

Yoichi felt his soul leave his body at alarming speed. He prayed for lightning, an explosion, a landslide — anything to erase that moment from existence.

And sugar daddy? Seriously?

As if his life could ever be that simple, or he, that lucky.

Laughter erupted around him. He even heard Rin choke on his water bottle.

Poor guy.

Yoichi was pretty sure he definitely didn’t want that image of his brother in his head.

“I mean, Itoshi is hot,” Chigiri added, pretending to ponder, his eyes shining with amusement. “And you’re just so cute, Isagi.”

Oh no.

Not this.

Bachira and Chigiri shared a synchronized glance — like a telepathic duo — before closing in like giggling vultures. They grabbed him by each arm before he could escape.

Even if he knew resistance was futile, Yoichi still struggled.

In vain.

Their predatory grins were like a blank script — a social challenge he had to survive, like any other on the pitch. Nothing personal. Just a game whose rules he didn’t fully know yet.

“Look at those pretty eyes,” Bachira cooed mockingly.

“That face, that baby glow… No wonder the prodigy fell for you,” Chigiri sighed dramatically. “Honestly, who wouldn’t want a slice of Isagi?”

They burst out laughing at his mortified expression.

Yoichi questioned all of his life choices. Maybe he could flee the country. Quit the project and live anonymously.

No. Reo would probably sponsor the manhunt.

He wiggled out of their grip and managed to put some space between them. Finally free from their claws, Yoichi stepped back, pointed at them with a flushed face.

“You’re public threats.”

He turned his back on them, muttering something unintelligible — a curse aimed at his teammates. He tried to regain some dignity by calmly laying his towel near his locker, back straight, acting like he definitely hadn’t just been called cute like some team mascot.

But Reo wasn’t about to let it go. From the other end of the room, he shouted with a wide grin:

“So, he asked for your number… Did he offer dinner, too? A villa in Spain?”

Kurona coughed into his fist to stifle a laugh. Even Gagamaru — usually lost in his own world — raised an eyebrow.

Before Yoichi could answer, Rin beat him to it. His tone was almost alarmed:

“He’s my brother.”

The effect was immediate, laughter echoing across the locker room to the dismay of both involved.

Even so, Rin’s attention was locked onto him.

Yoichi froze, slightly turning in surprise at the tone. The younger Itoshi now watched him with that cold intensity he had mastered too well.

“I know,” Yoichi replied simply.

Rin continued, without moving.

“He’s not like us.” He paused. Then, almost reluctantly:

“Just don’t confuse ambition with obsession.”

Number 11 raised an eyebrow.

“Yours or his?”

A short breath escaped the other player — almost a laugh. It caused a ripple of murmurs among the others watching the exchange.

“Yours. He knows exactly what he wants. You’re the one at risk of getting lost.”

Yoichi stood still for a second, then nodded once. Not a thank-you.

More like: I hear you. I’ll keep you posted.

The conversations resumed — along with the teasing. He quickly threw on his hoodie and jeans, pulled on his sneakers, and prepared to flee his teammates.

Just as he was heading for the exit, Chigiri called after him:

“Oh no, don’t abandon us, Isa-kun!”

What a pain.

He ignored it and left, praying their conversation hadn’t been overheard in the U-20 locker room, which was right next to theirs.

Yoichi walked away quickly, his cheeks still burning. He tried not to think of Sae as his “sugar daddy” – thanks for the image, Bachira – and cursed his own taste in footballers.

But his brain, that traitorous bastard, conjured up a perfectly unnecessary image:

Sae, leaning against a table, hands sliding down his hips, that half-mocking, half-calculating look, cold, clinical, intense.

While Yoichi knelt between his knees, hands on those slightly broader shoulders and –

He blinked.

Okay... Wow. What the hell?!

He shook his head violently, like chasing off a bad smell.

Shit... When was the last time I even had sex?

The thought surfaced unfiltered. He winced.

It wasn’t even a real question, more like a brutal mental inventory. A reply shouted into the void.

He thought of that volleyball guy he’d run into at the Saitama training center, tall, built, brown-haired, always smiling a bit too much. They’d hooked up a few times, simple, clear stuff, no feelings. They still exchanged messages sometimes when the mood lined up.

But the thought of seeing him again felt dull, lacking impact. Not like that damn image of Sae that now lingered in the shadowy corners of his brain. Not like that tension he’d carried with him from the pitch, stuck in his spine like a splinter.

Yoichi ran a hand down the back of his neck, exasperated.

Great. 

Now I’m having a post-match existential crisis about my nonexistent sex life, and talking to myself. 

Perfect.

He felt heat crawl up his cheeks.

Not romantic embarrassment, no. A system error, a mental “fuck” hurled into the void because he hated that his body still reacted to this kind of crap.

He picked up the pace, jaw clenched, trying to outrun these ridiculous thoughts and the next ones already forming about Nagi’s sleepy beauty or Yukimiya’s refined one.

And yet, it was Sae’s image that returned, brief, like a replay. A look that said, “You’ll be mine, sooner or later.”

Shit.

His face flushed redder, and he tried to ignore the sound of the locker room door opening behind him, but it was useless.

As soon as the others stepped into the hallway, a voice followed:

“Tell him I want an invite to that villa too, okay?!” shouted Reo, laughing.

Bachira jumped in right after, hair still dripping, bouncing as he yelled:

“And we want a rematch! Him versus us – three on one!”

Yoichi didn’t look back. He just raised a hand behind him, palm open, somewhere between a goodbye and a shut-the-hell-up.

And then he was finally outside.

Temporarily alone, the silence hit almost as loud as their mockery. No more yelling, no more laughter, no more creative insults about his supposed love life. Just his footsteps, slow, echoing against the concrete.

And despite himself… a faint smile stretched across his lips.

Their noise had been deafening – yes – but it had become a routine, his world.

A world he would tame in his own way, with his silent rules and his own way of devouring it.

🧩🧩

Evening settled softly over Saitama. Orange and deep blue hues slipped between houses, and neighborhood cats lazily returned after a day of hunting and napping.

The couch welcomed his weight with that comforting familiarity only appreciated after skirting extremes. His phone lay on his chest, screen off. He no longer had the energy to scroll through it, let alone answer the pile of messages that had accumulated.

He had expected it. Blue Lock was making waves. They had won, so it made sense that the media were talking about them.

What he hadn’t expected was all the attention directed at him. Yes, he had scored the final goal, but Rin had shone throughout the match, and Nagi’s goal was far more spectacular than his.

The young man sighed, weary. The day’s fatigue had piled up, and now that he had eaten, now that he had finally stopped moving, he could feel sleep creeping in.

To his great relief, the house was quiet tonight. His parents had gone out for a dinner date. And although he’d been happy to see them again after all these months, he savored the silence.

Away from voices, taunts, and the sharp gazes of teammates and rivals.

His family home was nothing special. They lived in a typical modest residence, with a well-kept garden, a battered mailbox, and shutters that sometimes creaked.

But for Yoichi, a child who had always preferred silence to crowds, it was a sanctuary. A place where the world fell quiet, where dreams hadn’t yet turned into obligations.

Where, in the entrance, a faint trail of incense always lingered — without fail — the one his mother sometimes lit at day’s end. Green tea and burnt almond — a soft and mysterious blend.

Reassuring.

A place where his cleats had always waited in the same spot. The scent of warm rice drifting through weekend afternoons. And the softness of the tatami whispering that, here, he belonged.

He had always loved Saitama. Not too empty, not too hectic. Close enough to Tokyo to blend in. Far enough away to breathe. He knew every shortcut to the training fields. The train lines, konbinis open late at night, vending machines that didn’t always give the right change.

But Yoichi knew that now, with their win over the U-20s and the buzz exploding around Blue Lock, the streets would never again be as quiet as before.

He wasn’t there yet.

And yet, he already missed it.

Still, something else troubled him.

Amid all the virtual commotion, only one thought truly occupied his mind.

Itoshi Sae.

The scene played again in his head. The elder’s gaze, the tense silence, that request — almost an order — and the black-and-red pen pulled from nowhere.

He should have been satisfied with that. Let the moment fade into the noise.

But he couldn’t. He wanted to know.

Was it a strange courtesy?

A stupid bet between professionals?

Or something more deliberate?

Yoichi knew Rin and his brother weren’t on good terms. Everyone at Blue Lock knew. Rin had loudly declared his sole goal was to defeat his brother. Which Yoichi found ridiculous, since he saw the younger brother enjoying the game.

The elder Itoshi seemed as complex as his sibling. Maybe more so. He carried an aura of “don’t come too close.”

Had he always been like that?

Yoichi didn’t think so. Otherwise, Rin wouldn’t be so shaken whenever his brother was mentioned.

Nervousness slowly crept up his throat. He sighed deeply. Then grabbed his phone. The screen lit up immediately, revealing the clean interface of a messaging app.

He added a new contact, hesitating a moment over the name.

In the end, he settled for just the last name. Rin was the only Itoshi he knew, and almost everyone called him by his first name.

He typed.

----

       > Me

It’s Isagi.

----

The message hung on the screen. He didn’t press send right away. His thumb froze a moment, as if needing permission, an external push. Almost in one breath, he hit send and sank back into the couch, stomach knotting, throat dry.

Two minutes passed. Then three.

Finally, the phone buzzed just as he was about to set it aside.

----

     > Itoshi

I was wondering when you’d decide.

Tomorrow, 3 PM.

Private field, Tokyo.

I’ll send the address in the morning.

Bring your cleats... And your brain.

----

Yoichi stayed still, eyes fixed on the screen.

It wasn’t a joke. Not a test, nor a coincidence.

The message was clear. Sharp. Without emojis or unnecessary punctuation. Just the essentials — and that typical tone the brothers shared, which clearly said: I’m not waiting for permission to include you in my plan.

It was an outstretched hand, the same one he had refused to accept earlier in the day. A line drawn with precision, as if saying: Take what I offer before someone else does. Before it’s too late.

And it bothered him. Not because it came from Sae. Not because it was unexpected. The Itoshi was an impressive player, with enormous talent. Yoichi knew that at first, the other hadn’t even reached half his potential.

But because a part of him wanted to say yes immediately. And the other, forged in solitude, refused to owe anything to anyone.

He hated being seen through. Being handed a piece as if his entire puzzle was already laid out on someone else’s table. Especially if that look came from someone like Itoshi Sae.

There was something almost obscene about that precision. As if the prodigy had read his entire game plan in barely an hour. As if he knew exactly where the flaw was, in both his structure and his lonely striving.

And Yoichi… Yoichi hated needing others to complete what he wanted to achieve alone. Even more, he hated lying to that thirst inside him. The one that said: I want to improve.

Even if it’s ugly.

Even if it burns.

So he stayed there, motionless. Message still lit. Eyes half-closed. The phone’s light casting a pale glow over his intense dark blue eyes. Eyes made to see flaws, not compliments.

Made to read the game and survive it.

He still remembered his own hands, frozen cold in winter, training alone on Saitama’s frozen fields. Dribbling in the mud, ball escaping the lines, voices of strangers in empty stands.

He had forged himself there. In the absence of light, without concrete help.

Always alone on the path he was carving.

He sighed. His thumb brushed the screen, hesitated...

Yoichi should have said no. But his finger was already typing: OK.

And in the quiet that surrounded him, something pulsed in his chest. A tension knotting his neck. Something supple and cold, like a nylon thread under his skin.

He didn’t move. But his heart beat softly. Too softly, like it was holding its breath.

His ego came first. Then that silent thirst he had tried to forget for far too long.

It wasn’t a trap from the prodigy. It was a call. A blend of excitement and defiance, poorly worded. An instinct for survival mixed with ambition.

He knew exactly what this meeting would look like.

And above all…

He knew he couldn’t stop himself from going.

🌹 Kaiser Pov

Michael Kaiser watched the screen intently. His icy blue eyes gleamed with a curious light.

The slow-motion replay played again.

Isagi Yoichi’s goal. That disgusting goal, executed with alarming precision.

He had already watched it live – well, not live-live. A broadcast replay, as soon as it aired. Japan was making noise now – not just for the flashy Blue Lock PR stunts, but for something real.

But above all… Because that kid, number 11, whom no expert had known a few hours ago, had caught his eye.

And now, on his curved, latest-generation television, in close-up: Isagi’s face. Sweat pearling on his pale skin, typical of his Japanese origins, but surprising for a footballer. Short breaths, yet utterly calm.

Unlike his team, and Sae’s brother – probably a gene running in the family, he thought amusedly – he showed no emotional outburst. No hysteria, and certainly no celebration for the goal he’d scored.

Just that look. Sharp. Cold. Focused.

A killer, with a brain. A being driven by his damn instinct.

Dangerous, his senses screamed.

Interesting, his ego replied.

Kaiser slowly stood up. The leather sofa creaked softly beneath his movements.

He was alone in his apartment, defined by clean lines, bathed in the bluish light of the screen. Marble floors. Crystal glasses aligned to the millimeter. A backlit contemporary artwork in the corner.

Michael lived in a cold, perfectly orchestrated luxury.

The air in the German’s apartment was thick with a powerful, subtle, familiar blend – burnt leather, deep sandalwood, a hint of captivating black rose, and a whisper of black honey, sweet and mysterious. Each room seemed soaked in this unique fragrance, the olfactory incarnation of his imperial presence.

Michael didn’t just wear that scent: he was its silent conductor, his invisible aura marking his territory without uttering a word.

As he moved through the shadows of his vast living room, the wafts of “Kaiser No°1” escaped from his skin, wrapping the space like a cloak of authority and mystery. It was a scent of domination – created by him, for himself, challenging others to wear it – and control, an olfactory signature he left in his wake, inspiring both respect and fascination.

In this private sanctuary, every breath seemed to remind him that he ruled, even without showing himself. A half-empty bottle of San Pellegrino rested on the coffee table, next to an empty ashtray – decorative, obviously. He didn’t smoke. But he liked everything to be in its place.

Everything spoke for him.

He had lived through worse. Slept in the dilapidated streets of Munich, with not enough food to sustain him for more than a month.

Escaped from the Schwein household when the pressure became unbearable. Preferring what the winter cold had to offer rather than breathing once again the smell of warm beer, cheap wine, and the stagnant steam of sweat and decay.

Football had been his escape, his talent. One he had honed to survive, to become the best.

The Bastard München star refused to let the place he now called “home” be anything less than perfect, unfathomable.

His phone vibrated somewhere in the room. A dull buzz on the lacquered wood. Probably a message from Alexis.

He ignored it.

A low tension vibrated through his muscles. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, the twitch of a tic he no longer controlled. The leather of his jacket suddenly felt too tight, suffocating, as if mere contact with himself awakened this inner fire.

Isagi Yoichi.

The name was already memorized. Etched, even.

He knew this kind of trajectory.

Rising star, popular, dangerous. The type of player who attracts light, spotlights, sponsors, empty speeches about “pure talent.”

He had seen them all, players like that. And he had extinguished them all. Snuffed out by his own talent, devoured by his ego.

But this one…

The Japanese had something dirty about him.

Real, even miscalibrated.

The German returned to the still-on screen and launched the slow-motion once more. He fixed on the exact moment the ball left Isagi’s foot. The slender, lithe but flexible body leaning in. The gaze that evaluated with disconcerting efficiency.

The young Japanese hadn’t blinked once. It was just him, the ball, and the goal.

Unlike other times, he let the recording continue, evaluating the reactions that followed. From the ragged breathing, to the gentle landing, to the hypnotic movement of his shirt rising under gravity, offering anyone who wanted a glimpse of that disturbingly perfect skin.

Michael caught himself wondering what that skin would feel like under his hands, bearing his mark…

And that look –

That look that didn’t flinch. Not once. That saw the space, calculated the angle, to execute something perfect without trembling.

It was not the look of a passionate man. Not like that of a madman, which many at Blue Lock displayed without shame.

No. It was something else.

More primal.

The look of an animal sure of its kill.

A player who knows he will devour you, and has the power to do so, without raising his voice.

Michael felt something rise along his chest. A mixture of anger, tension, and excitement. He couldn’t help but wonder what that face would look like… the exact moment it breaks. When confidence wavers, giving way to savagery, hidden beneath layers of feigned indifference.

Because, from what he could see, the Japanese was hiding. From someone, from himself, or from something — he didn’t care.

What mattered was this: that little raw diamond was not using all his abilities. He was discreet. Yet, he had been a crucial pawn for those who knew how to read the game.

Isagi Yoichi had perfectly synchronized with Itoshi Rin. The youngest Itoshi’s goal owed part of its fluid, clinical, rapid coordination to him. And that detail, that silent slip, made Michael flinch.

It was clean. Too clean.

A player who fades away to better infiltrate.

A strategy.

None of his former rivals, nor his former victims, looked at the field like that.

None calculated to kill, without trembling.

He wanted to see him falter. Not because he hated him. But because that player… he wanted to tear him down from the sky, himself.

Rip him apart, to maybe — if he had the backbone — rebuild him his way.

He breathed a sigh of pleasure at the thought, distracting himself a little. The recording continued to the Blue Lock players’ celebrations and the chaos of the stands.

Then the image on the field flickered slightly, the camera lights changing angle.

That was when he saw him.

Sae Itoshi.

Walking toward HIS prey. Writing something on Isagi’s hand. A number. A gesture.

A marking.

No jersey exchange. No pat on the back.

Just a target.

A silent warning: back off, I saw him first.

Michael felt an electric tension bite into his guts. He took a deep breath. Once. Twice. But his heart was pounding hard.

He hated that. That kind of move.

Silent appropriation, masked influence.

Annoyed, the German prodigy stepped away from the screen, crossed his living room, and approached the bay window. The familiar Munich sky greeted him. It was a deep black that night, starless. Below, cars raced like veins of light, illuminating what the heavens refused to at such a late hour.

His reflection in the glass returned his image: a tall, imposing, blond, neat, haughty man.

The emperor of the world.

He smiled. Coldly. A smile that never quite reached his eyes, of a depth too wild to be natural.

“Yoichi, huh…”

A name that echoed in his personal space like a dissonant note in a perfect symphony. A name he wanted to see vanish on a screen. Or fold under his cleats.

But deep down, he knew.

Michael would have to be careful. Because beneath his layers of destruction, he recognized the desire born in him at the memory of that skin, those lips, that body. The desire to possess, to control, to make it his.

It was the first time. But he knew himself too well to deny the truth: it would not be the last. That sudden craving was the beginning of an obsession being born.

Silent. Visceral.

And it had the deep, striking blue eyes of that Japanese kid.

Note : 

Gremlins — a French word used to describe chaotic little creatures — slightly unhinged, but weirdly lovable.

Schwein — literally “pig” in German.

Kaiser uses it as a sharp, cutting insult when referring to his father. Not casual. Not kind. He means it.

Chapter Text

🧩 Isagi Pov

Tokyo was a monster of noise. A constant breath of muffled horns, hurried footsteps, laughter mingling with the electronic voices of train stations. The concrete trembled, signs blinked, and even the air felt compressed by the city’s urgency.

Yoichi had long avoided cities like this, too loud for his heightened hearing, too restless for his comfort. But that afternoon, the buzz felt distant, filtered, as if someone had turned down the volume of the world.

He didn’t need to double-check to know he was in the right place. The address Itoshi had given him led to a smooth, almost invisible facade nestled between the gaudy buildings of Minato-ku. No doorman, no flashing advertisements, just a recessed black stone plaque engraved with a discreet silver name: Moon Hotel.

A simple name. Almost too simple. As if everything had been designed to make him feel at ease.

Yoichi paused. His gaze swept the surroundings: no crowds, no obvious signs of luxury. No valets, no lined-up cars. Just clean architecture, sharp lines, and a glass door without a single reflection. Everything about this place seemed to whisper rather than shout.

There was only one thing to say. It was the perfect place for someone like Itoshi Sae. Controlled luxury. Almost secret. Elegance deliberately concealed, as if beauty needed no external validation to exist.

This wasn’t just a hotel. It was a statement. And in the way this place slipped beneath notice, Yoichi recognized something of the Re Al midfielder: distant, sharp, unclassifiable.

A subtle tension slipped between his shoulder blades. Resolute, he straightened up and pushed the door open.

The first thing that struck him was a breath of fresh, filtered air, laced with a discreet scent, something warm and enveloping, a blend of light wood, infused vanilla, and a greener, almost floral note that lingered on the tongue like a memory of damp forest.

It was a vast lobby, yet silent.

Pale-veined grey marble dressed the floor with understated elegance. Soft light streamed through a wall made entirely of glass panes, revealing an inner courtyard worthy of traditional Japanese gardens.

Everything vibrated with geometric harmony, every piece of furniture exactly where it belonged, every curve purposeful. Black velvet armchairs, minimal in design, faced the matching reception desk, dark and elegant, with delicate silver patterns.

On either side, tall and ancient bonsai trees stood still, carrying their age like a crown.

Yoichi wasn’t the type to linger on luxury. But he noticed details. And here, everything spoke, in a language he didn’t yet master, but already understood. A place with no unnecessary noise. Where everything seemed watched over without ever being seen.

There were a few guests seated in the garden or inside, but all were quietly respectful, as if trying to preserve the serenity that enveloped them.

Feeling slightly out of place, the Blue Lock player still moved forward, determined not to be overwhelmed. His footsteps echoed on the marble louder than he would have liked.

He wore a plain black mask, a raised hood. Not to hide his face, but to delay the moment of recognition.

In a place like this, anonymity had the air of quiet arrogance.

Just as he was about to approach one of the receptionists, a man emerged from a hallway and, having spotted him, walked toward him.

Yoichi recognized him instantly. He matched the exact description Rin’s brother had sent him that morning, one of his assistants, or so he understood, of Asian descent.

Broad-shouldered, tall, and imposing, he had that walk typical of someone with military training: upright posture, firm grounding, movements with an almost unnatural economy. A kind of discipline that never quite fades.

The graphite-grey suit hugged his frame with clinical precision. A discreet earpiece blinked faintly in his right ear.

He didn’t ask for respect. He embodied it.

“Mr. Isagi?”

Hearing his family name spoken so formally, he nodded silently. He was aware of a few curious glances already turning their way.

The man gave a small bow. His voice was polite, measured.

“Pleasure to meet you. I am Tachibana Hiroshi, personal assistant to Itoshi-sama for his affairs in Japan. I manage his schedule, his movements, and his security.”

His tone was calm, not trying to fill the silence. And yet everything about him exuded precision. The kind of man who left nothing to chance.

Yoichi understood quickly. He wasn’t just a driver. He arranged everything: times, routes, access, delays, possibly even emergencies.

He definitely had the build for it. A personal assistant in the strictest sense. And probably the only Japanese person Sae fully trusted here.

So, the striker gave a small, respectful bow in return.

“Nice to meet you, Tachibana-san. Thank you for waiting.”

The man offered a faint smile, surprisingly warm though still completely professional, then gestured toward the hallway he had come from.

“Itoshi-sama is already waiting for you on the pitch. If you’ll allow me, I’ll take you there.”

They walked forward. On the way, Yoichi bowed slightly to the hostesses, who returned the gesture without asking questions. He saw curiosity in their eyes, but their professionalism was impeccable. They didn’t pry.

It was easy to see why the older player had picked this place — the staff matched the hotel's silence.

They passed through a discreet hallway with pale grey walls. One side was entirely glass again, clearly a staple of the place’s aesthetic. No irritating background music, no unnecessary sounds. Just the soft rustle of steps on pristine floors.

The kind of place where people knew how to stay silent, or where high-end soundproofing did it for them.

Yoichi kept his eyes sharp, mentally mapping the way back through the long corridors. They turned left, descended a narrow staircase, and passed through a set of double doors.

A rush of fresher, wider air greeted them. And suddenly, the light.

The pitch unfolded in the heart of an inner courtyard, enclosed by high, green-covered walls. The grass was flawless. The lines were clean. The goalpost stood bare, unadorned.

A rectangle of obsession.

And in the center, alone – Itoshi Sae.

The Japanese prodigy wore neither the U-20 colors nor those of any official club — just a simple black outfit, accented with burgundy stripes. His gaze was fixed on the ball at his feet. He approached it, ran his foot over its surface, then with a sharp movement sent it bouncing against the opposite wall.

The ball came back perfectly.

Inside control. Sequence.

Strike. Bounce. Strike. Bounce.

Everything about him breathed regularity, precision. Inevitability. Even from behind, without a word, he imposed tension.

The assistant stopped a few meters from the pitch and bowed once more.

“Good session to you, Isagi-san.”

He slipped away silently, leaving them alone.

Yoichi inhaled deeply. He knew this smell: leather, freshly cut grass, the air thick with the energy of another player. Yet here, something burned quietly beneath the surface.

He stepped forward, staying at the edge of the field, hesitant to dishonor the place since he hadn’t yet put on his cleats.

The ball rolled toward him as if called.

And with it, Itoshi turned around.

No smile. No greeting.

Just that look — analytical, piercing, calm in its superiority.

“You’re late.”

Yoichi barely lowered his chin.

“One minute and twelve seconds. Do you count like that with everyone, or only those you want to test?”

A silence. Then a brief smirk, almost a nervous tic on the elder’s face.

“Interesting.”

He said nothing more, only a slight nod, and Yoichi took it for what it was: permission to warm up. No unnecessary words, no advice — only that unwavering gaze, like a heart monitor.

The young man placed his bag near the field’s edge, removed his jacket, and calmly laced up his cleats with a double knot. A habit, almost a ritual. His fingers were agile, but his heart beat strongly, a slow but steady pulse against his ribs.

He was eager. After all, it wasn’t every day he had the opportunity to train privately with a professional player, known for his intelligence as a midfielder.

Ready, Yoichi stood up, stretched his shoulders. One, two, three steps… a push from the calves, ankles absorbing the weight. He moved into some dynamic strides — arms high, butt kicks, high knees.

His body followed without complaint. Used to these movements as far back as he could remember.

There was still a lingering heaviness in his thighs from yesterday. Light but present. Yet nothing dramatic. Nothing that would keep him from being present. His movements remained quiet, calculated. Calm breathing. No theatrics, certainly no exaggerated effort. Just the minimum needed.

Itoshi remained silent, like a shadow.

Yoichi knew he was watching. Not like in a match. Here, it was personal. And somehow, that idea helped him lock down his mind — like a sniper aligning his shot.

The young man moved through hip openings, swung his legs, rolled his ankles. Squatted down, testing his footwork’s flexibility. Stretched his neck, wrists, and finally raised his arms above his head.

Everything was ready. As if knowing it already, the ball rolled once again to his feet like a signal.

He stopped it with a short touch.

Rin’s brother still watched him, amused.

“I thought you were just a brain. But you look like you can run too.”

Yoichi answered without looking up.

“You think better with a body that follows.”

He finally met the sharp, clear blue gaze. The ball between them stayed still until Yoichi passed it back.

Itoshi returned it as quickly. The ball rolled precise, tight, skimming the ground. A sharp, evaluative pass. Yoichi absorbed it with an inside right-foot control. The grass slipped beneath his cleats. A metallic click rose with every step.

The Re Al player immediately continued, without warning. A sharp pass, slightly inward, forcing him to adjust his footing at the last second. No orders, no words, just the ball and that silent demand in the elder’s gaze.

So the sharp-eyed striker adapted. Right-footed control, a calculated touch — and then the ball was gone again, efficient rather than elegant.

They went on. Short, clean passes, growing faster and faster. The tempo intensified without any clear moment marking the change — like a bass line you only notice once it’s gone.

Itoshi spoke no words. But every movement, every tilt of his body said: follow me.

And Yoichi followed.

With every exchange, precision rose. Controls grew more nervous, strikes sharper.

Then, without warning, The older player glanced up and changed the angle : a sharp, low pass, tricky in its effect. Too perfect. An obvious trap, thus deliberate.

Another test. Yoichi understood instantly. He adjusted his footing, bent his hips, compensated for the ball’s effect — and stopped it with a firm outside left foot.

A sharp grimace broke through before he could stop it. It was a bit too much commitment. Still, control was there.

The ball barely rolled. It stayed between them. Stable.

Almost… companionable.

They still didn’t speak. But they understood each other.

Without warning, Itoshi sent a mid-height pass. Fast. Without a favorable angle.

Yoichi didn’t slow down. He let it bounce, adapted to the second touch, and returned it with a half-volley — just the right amount of snap, without forcing.

A breath escaped Itoshi’s throat.

A laugh? Approval? Hard to say.

Then, finally, he spoke calmly :

“Not bad. You think fast.”

The younger didn’t answer immediately. He held the prodigy’s gaze without smiling, breathing steadily despite the effort. At that exact moment, there was nothing else: the ball between them, and that low tension — like a new language they alone understood.

He knew this kind of remark. It wasn’t a compliment; it was a warning. A masked “hold on.” Because already, Itoshi was stepping back, putting distance between them.

The real test was beginning.

“Again,” said Rin's oldest brother, retreating.

Minutes passed in a tactical choreography.

The Japanese prodigy spoke little. As a midfielder, he moved fast, clean. No wasted motion. He played like a scalpel: cold, efficient, magnificent.

And Yoichi… kept up. His mind opened. His vision expanded. He saw the lines, Itoshi's micro-movements, shifts in weight, angles that opened half a second before they existed.

Finally, in the breath of a tight sequence, the older player said:

“You’ve improved since yesterday.”

He didn’t reply. Because he didn’t need words — his body spoke for him. Every returned pass, every ball control, every quick decision affirmed one thing: I’m here. Not to impress, but to understand. To reach the level he expected.

Yoichi pivoted, launched a combination. Control, pass, drop, support, simulated shot.

Itoshi intercepted effortlessly, continuing in the same breath.

“Think less,” he said, laconic.

He looked up. Not defiantly. With clarity.

“You just said I think well.”

A brief smirk cracked the professional player’s lips.

“Exactly. That’s your problem. You think well. Too much. Not fast enough.”

A hit, clean and deserved. He took it without flinching — truth leaves no room for pride.

The passes became a rhythm. Within it, something clicked inside him. Football wasn’t a series of perfect actions — it was a living tension. A constant reading. A language between predators. And Itoshi Sae was not a teammate. He was a provocation.

The prodigy stepped back one pace, then retrieved the ball, silent.

“My turn.”

He straightened his posture slightly. This was no longer just an exchange — it was a one-on-one. Rin's brother gave no warning. Just a touch, a sudden shift in pace. The ball clung to his feet. Two touches. A feint.

He wasn’t even watching his own footing — or the ball. His eyes were locked on him. Watching how he reacted to the unexpected. Where his gaze went.

When hesitation slipped in. Whether he could move forward without certainty. At the highest level, doubt is a weakness. One that gets punished.

So Itoshi struck, as if every motion had been pre-programmed.

Number 11 reacted immediately.

Reflex? Ego?

He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. What counted was not being caught off guard.

Yoichi stepped back, cut the angle. Tried to anticipate. But the other revealed nothing. No unnecessary moves. No wasted dribbles.

Only subtle adjustments. Perfect positioning.

He switched tactics. Planting his foot firmly, he shifted to intercept.

Almost. Too far left. The ball was already gone. Not forced. Simply placed.

A small net, in the corner. Unstoppable.

It wasn’t speed that beat him. It was intention. A pure attack. He needed — no, should have predicted. Calculated. Isolated the angle sooner. Read the shoulders. Forced the weaker foot.

He was too slow. Just one second too late, but painfully real.

Then, a click.

He was beyond instinct now. He began to read. To analyze not what Itoshi did, but what he intended. Where his center of gravity shifted. What tension in the ankle betrayed the strike. What tilt of the torso foreshadowed the change of pace.

The game started to breathe, step by step. And he learned to breathe with it.

Yoichi felt tiny spaces appear and vanish in an instant. He sensed the invisible line between them, that tension humming like a string ready to snap if either faltered.

He no longer adapted his footing — he dictated it.

He no longer followed the rhythm — he shaped it.

That sensation, that thrill behind the eyes, that buzz in his skull — it was new.

Uncomfortable. Demanding. Exhilarating.

He didn’t want just to follow the game. He wanted to master it. Dissect it. Rewrite it in his image.

Itoshi returned calmly. No sign of breathlessness. Perfect economy in each step. He sent the ball back, sharp, precise.

“You’ve got good eyes. But you’re still watching to understand. I watch to punish.”

The Blue Lock player clenched his jaw. He understood. And hated it.

“Again.”

A smile flickered on the prodigy’s lips. Not soft. Just that precise, mocking curl – a provocation.

The test resumed. This time, he saw clearer. Faster. He read intentions in the hips, false leads in foot placement. He caught the gap between feint and truth.

His timing sharpened. His nerves were taut but steady. He blocked a lane, forced a pass.

But the older didn’t slow down. Each assault forced him to recalculate. Every trajectory, every pressure on the ball became data to absorb, digest, and return.

Yoichi no longer reacted — he anticipated.

He looked ahead. He read the momentum.

It was a duel of minds.

His entire body burned. Every cell worked to solve the equation the elder posed. And every time he found an answer, Itoshi threw a new one.

A moving trap. A suffocating rhythm.

But he held firm.

Itoshi forced him beyond comfort. And he followed – hungry. Ready to bite. To dissect. To steal his knowledge.

But above all… they synced.

Even in opposition, he felt it. His reflexes sought the other’s, and vice versa.

A cycle. A shared breath.

Something pushing them to do more. Be more.

Itoshi Sae was a living problem.

Changing. Wonderfully cruel.

And Yoichi?

He was delighted.

Thirsty, even.

The soles scraped, the footing flowed. The ball became a weapon — and their exchange, a duel of obsession.

On the fifth attempt, Yoichi cut the trajectory cleanly. An interception. The ball stayed under his foot for the first time.

The other player stopped, breath short but steady.

“There. You thought just enough.”

Number 11 straightened. His gaze was colder now. Calmer. No smile. He felt as if he had entered a second space, where everything boiled down only to what was happening on this pitch.

Just as calculated and surgical as the prodigy facing him.

And for the first time during the session, the redhead seemed genuinely satisfied. His eyes — emerald green, so similar to his brother’s that Yoichi almost faltered — held a different light. Colder.

The gleam of a predator who had finally found a worthy playmate.

The striker held his gaze. He had never trained in such a stripped-down setting. No team tactics. No bluffing.

Just football.

He couldn’t help but thank the other, silently, for that.

After that, time slipped by. Two and a half hours, maybe more, filled with drills, silences, attacks, and passes launched like challenges.

The sky had turned softer shades, filtering dimly through the tall nets surrounding the pitch. Air carried hints of clean sweat, warmed leather, and damp grass.

Leaning against the fence, arms crossed, Itoshi drank from his flask in silence. His eyes tracked every shift, every breath — even now, with training over.

Yoichi let him. Breathing calmly, hands on his hips, forehead damp but mind sharp. And before he realized it, he was watching him too.

The Japanese prodigy.

Relentless. Intriguing.

It was he who finally broke the silence:

“Why me?”

The redhead hummed, amused.

“Because you’re interesting.”

Yoichi raised an eyebrow, arms crossing over his chest.

“That’s it?”

“Players like you... You shouldn’t be here,” He gestured vaguely at the ground beneath them. “Not in Japan. Not in this system.”

A pause. Then, with a tone almost teasing:

“Isagi-kun, you’re not meant to stay in the shadows.”

Yoichi tilted his head slightly, caught off guard by the -kun — something the other only seemed to use when amused. Like yesterday, when he’d asked for his number.

“You want me to play for you?”

The Re Al player chuckled and pushed off the fence.

“No,” he said, stepping closer, voice low and direct. “I want you to become strong enough to play with me. That’s not the same.”

The words landed like a clean tackle.

He didn’t reply. He held that green gaze for a few steady seconds — his breath stable despite the weight in his legs — then looked away.

A brief nod. Not a challenge. Not submission.

Just understanding.

A few minutes later, they walked down together in silence, heading to the hotel’s private parking.

The air had cooled. A light breeze tugged at the edges of the thin jacket he’d thrown on.

Contrary to what many might’ve assumed, their silence carried no discomfort. There was now something between them. Something inevitable. A muted tension. A quiet, mutual attentiveness. As if the presence of one sharpened the other — made them more real.

Not comfort. Not exactly.

More like the unsettling sense of having found a missing piece.

Yoichi didn’t try to name the feeling. He let his fatigue guide his steps. But the impression — thin as a blade — carved itself deep into his mind.

Something had shifted. And without knowing it yet, he might have just changed the course of his future.

The assistant was already waiting, standing beside a black vehicle with tinted windows.

Itoshi stopped a few steps away, hands in his pockets, eyes still on him.

“Hiroshi will take you back. It’s rush hour.”

Yoichi nodded. The training had been long, intense. He admitted to being tired. For the moment, more than that, it was the other's gaze that lingered. Too direct, too intense — as if waiting for something. A reaction. A response.

And so, giving in to instinct, just before opening the car door, he asked:

“And now?”

A faint smile appeared — barely there.

“Now, you keep going, Isagi.”

A beat. Then, quieter:

“You’ve got my number, I’ve got yours… I’ll text you tonight.”

Yoichi gave a slight nod. The tone stayed serious, distant — but there was something else in it. A note. A trace of respect. Or maybe the beginning of a silent agreement that didn’t need to be said aloud.

He was about to reply, but the other spoke again. Lower this time. Like a quiet confidence shared only with someone you’ve decided to keep in your sights:

"In the meantime... do some research on Michael Kaiser."

The name cracked through the air. Like a key. It carried a weight he didn’t yet understand.

Yoichi frowned. Itoshi’s voice had remained calm, but his gaze had hardened.

"He’s the German prodigy," he added. "Europe calls him the Emperor. Personally chosen by the Bastard München coach."

A pause. Then, deeper:

"He’ll come for you."

Yoichi froze, hand still on the car door. The silence stretched, heavy and suspended.

Itoshi stepped closer, his shadow gliding across the asphalt.

"You’re alike. Maybe more than you think." A thin smile. Almost unsettling. "He sees things before they happen too."

He seemed to search for the right words, then added:

"But he doesn’t need to watch. He creates what he sees. And destroys what gets in the way."

A shadow flickered in Isagi’s eyes.

Manipulation? Provocation?

No. Worse.

He was telling the truth.

Yoichi inhaled slowly. Reached for a deeper breath, denser, colder.

"You played against him?" he asked, voice low.

"Partly."

Itoshi’s eyes dropped briefly to the ball at his feet. With a precise movement, he rolled it with the tip of his boot. 

"He’s been playing in Europe since he was a teenager. Raised in a different logic. You can’t read him. You can’t anticipate him."

The ball kept turning.

"He watches you. Absorbs you. Then erases you. Until nothing’s left."

Number 11 didn’t flinch. But his jaw tightened.

"And you... you want to throw me against him?"

The older player shook his head. The ball stopped. A fleeting, real smile crossed his face.

"I want you to be ready. I want to see if you’re still standing when he steps forward."

Another silence. Too long to be meaningless. Yoichi broke it. His gaze dropped briefly to the ground, then locked onto Sae’s.

"Then I hope he runs fast."

Itoshi didn’t answer right away.

He stared at him. Attentive.

Not mocking. Not closed off.

Just... present. A rare kind of listening.

Then, quietly, he said:

"Get home safe."

Yoichi blinked. No irony. No mask.

Just a simple sentence. And maybe that was the most disarming part.

Tachibana-san opened the car door. He got in without a word, but cast one last glance through the open window.

The Re Al player was already facing the field again. Arms crossed. Ball at his feet.

"And Isagi-kun," he called out, without turning around.

Yoichi raised his chin slightly.

"We’ll talk again later."

Then, without waiting for a response, he raised a hand in a brief gesture and walked back to stretch – alone. The younger one kept his eyes on him for a moment longer. Then leaned comfortably into the seat.

This time, it wasn’t just Kaiser’s name lingering in his mind.

It was the feeling – sharp, unstoppable – that something had truly begun.

🧩🧩

Yoichi stepped through the door a little after seven — dusk already swallowing the last of the light. The car ride, dragged out by rush hour traffic, had lasted over an hour.

But it hadn’t felt long: Tachibana-san, surprisingly, had been more approachable than Yoichi expected. Quiet but present, with a calm way of speaking, almost soothing. Now he understood better why Itoshi trusted him.

He had even learned they were only five years apart – a trivial detail, but enough to ease some of the tension.

The rest of the evening passed without incident. He saw his parents again, shared the usual dinner with them. They didn’t ask too many questions, and he hadn’t said much either. That kind of silent understanding, something he’d missed a lot since Blue Lock began.

Around ten, after the last “good nights,” the house had quieted down.

Yoichi went upstairs, water bottle in hand. He entered his room, a space that belonged only to him.

The cool freshness of mint still lingered on his tongue when the familiar scent of clean cotton greeted him. The floorboards creaked softly under his feet. On a corner shelf, Omar’s plush toy sat, left there for years. Just above, a slightly faded poster of Noel Noa seemed to watch him.

He hesitated.

Maybe it was time to take it down.

He shrugged it off and told himself he’d deal with it another day. Other things occupied his mind tonight.

The sheets – simple, soft – welcomed him silently as he settled onto his bed. He set down his bottle on the bedside table and slowly opened his laptop. Beside it, his black notebook and pen waited patiently. They already bore a few lines scribbled earlier, barely after coming back from the field.

One caught his eye:

> Don’t try to react. Try to create.

If you want to exist, don’t be useful: be inevitable.

Those words were part of the many pieces of advice the Re Al player had given him that afternoon. He had engraved them in his mind – not only because they made sense but because they would live inside him, sharp and cold, like a tension under his skin.

Yoichi hummed softly as he pushed his notebook aside to focus on his already-on laptop. The blue light from the screen brushed his face like a silent greeting. He grabbed his earphones, knowing he’d probably watch some videos and didn’t want to make noise with his parents working tomorrow.

Slowly, he started his search and typed: “Michael Kaiser”. Prepared to come across any article, match summary, or video – anything that would help analyze the German player.

But the first link that popped up was none of those. It was an advertisement. A black-and-gold banner with elegant typography. An oval logo, like an imperial crest, bore an interlaced monogram: H and W.

Curious despite himself, Yoichi clicked. The site took a second to load, then opened fullscreen.

Haus Weltenbrandt.

Ex tenebris elegantia.

(Elegance born from shadow.)

A perfume and jewelry house founded in Munich, apparently. Specialized in so-called “imprint” fragrances.

Not to wear. To mark.

And at the head of their exclusive line, the one who could only be Michael Kaiser.

He was everywhere.

The blond, with blue streaks, was unsettling. Too polished to be simply handsome. Too composed to be casual. A face made for the camera, as if the world had sculpted him just to watch.

His features were harmonious, but that wasn’t what struck. It was his presence. As if, even through a screen, he demanded to be seen.

Kaiser didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. He looked at the camera like a king looking over a map of his own kingdom. His irises so clear blue they seemed bleached, almost spectral – pierced the screen with cold authority.

KAISER N°1

“Some perfumes speak only to those who leave a mark.”

— Michael Kaiser.

German football player,

Bastard München’s crown jewel.

A light shiver ran down Yoichi’s neck. Brief, almost imperceptible, but it lingered.

It wasn’t jealousy. Not even admiration. It was... a visceral irritation, muted, inexplicable. And at the same time, a magnetic kind of attention.

The young man opened the serious articles. The real ones. The ones he’d come for — though he felt a trace of boredom creeping in.

He typed again in the search bar: “Michael Kaiser + football + Bastard München”.

And this time, the headlines lined up:

“The Kaiser Impact.”

“Michael Kaiser, German prodigy — who can stop him?”

“The brain of Bastard München.”

“Nineteen years old. Two seasons. Zero rivals.”

He clicked. Skimmed. Closed.

Then another. And another.

His eyes flicked fast, each page absorbed. His mind already racing, sorting what mattered, discarding fluff.

Polished portraits, slow-motion clips, match excerpts. Always the same man: blond, tattooed, sovereign. A cocky smile, eyes blindingly clear.

The very image of arrogance.

But that wasn’t what held him.

Not the style. Not the gloss.

What caught his attention was the game before the game. The precise moment everything tipped, between control and shot. The instant Kaiser stole the opportunity from the opponent.

Trajectories cut short.

Spaces torn apart before they even existed.

Yoichi paused. Rewind. Play. Pause. Zoom. He tracked micro-movements. That fluid body, leaning left before the real cut. That seemingly useless move – but one that created the gap.

A thrill of anticipation climbed his spine. He almost whispered without realizing:

“He sees before the others…”

Exactly as Itoshi had said.

He resumed. More slowly this time.

Searching for hidden truths behind the praise:

“Natural leader.”

“Disturbingly precise.”

“Unparalleled peripheral vision.”

“He calculates the moment before it happens.”

Then an interview, subtitled.

Kaiser spoke fast. Too fast. Too sure of himself.

“I’m an emperor. What I want, I take. No one will stop me.”

Yoichi froze, fingers tightening on the keyboard.

He opened another clip. Zoom. Close-up.

The German’s face. Smiling. Certain.

Almost beyond arrogance.

And suddenly, he understood. What the Re Al player had seen in them: it wasn’t posture. Not even raw talent. It was that methodical hunger. That sick need to anticipate. To control. To impose his logic.

A cold obsession, without flare.

Like his own.

Yoichi straightened up. Grabbed his black notebook. The one where he would map what he hadn’t mastered yet.

He turned a page and began writing:

        > KAISER M.

Then below:

“Does he look like me? Or am I going to end up looking like him?”

And further down, dry notes. Precise. Clinical:

• Diagonal spaces — anticipatory reading

• Shot before reception — premeditated intent

• Dominant posture — nonverbal authority

• Vision ≠ intuition: pure strategy

He kept going. For a long time. Videos played on. Sequences slowed down. And the more he watched, the more he wanted to understand.

Break down.

Deconstruct.

Take apart piece by piece.

Open it up.

See what this brain was hiding.

Very slowly… he smiled. No joy, no excitement. A cold smirk. Like an angle closing in on a target.

The young striker set his notebook down. He stretched quietly, then fell back into his cushions.

A tense silence had settled in his room, almost heavy. As if he’d stared too long into the eyes of a predator… and a part of him refused to admit how much he’d liked it.

He grabbed his phone. The screen lit up. Without much thought, he opened the conversation he never opened without reason.

----

     > Me (11:25 PM)

Does he look like me? Seriously?

Itoshi, look at him. The guy poses like he’s selling luxury perfume…

Which he actually is?!

He’s got a crown tattoo and a smile worthy of a soap opera.

Wears a turtleneck on the field.

Who does that?

----

He sent it. Then stared at the screen. Already filled with a slight regret.

He sighed. It was late. Sae must be asleep. Ignore it. But, against all odds, the screen buzzed almost immediately.

----

    > Itoshi S. (11:26 PM)

Difference between you two:

— He’s got shitty tattoos.

— You just look like a guy who calculates the best angle to silently assassinate his teammates.

Anyway. Two styles. Same effect.

----

Yoichi raised an eyebrow. Did he… really just see that?

And as if to confirm:

----

    > Itoshi S. (11:28 PM)

Oh, and at least he smiles.

You, it looks like you made a demon pact with your internal GPS.

      > Itoshi S. (11:30 PM)

Not arrogant like the blond, true.

Just terrifying.

----

A thin smile flickered on his lips. Not a real one. Just the kind of smirk that says: “Okay, well played.”

----

    > Me (11:31 PM)

You don’t like him, huh?

    > Itoshi S. (11:33 PM)

I don’t like anyone.

But him? He’s a rude monster.

I prefer mine well trained.

----

This time, Yoichi laughed out loud. A dry, short laugh, ripped from tension. He muttered to himself:

“‘I prefer mine well trained…’ God, Itoshi. Where’d you hear that, in some yakuza movie?’”

He looked up at the ceiling. The room was peaceful. Silence, complete. And yet, in his head, the Japanese prodigy’s next message kept playing over and over.

Like a warning:

----

    > Itoshi S. (11:35 PM)

Good luck, Isagi-kun.

He’s worse than me.

----

He read that line twice. Then a third time. And gently put his phone down. His fingers hovered a moment in the air, as if wanting to reply –

But there was nothing left to say.

Yoichi sank deeper into his cushions. The fabric against his skin smelled like warm detergent. One last thought, clear and unique, formed in the silence:

Worse than you?

Damn.

Then, I have to become worse than him.

🌹 Kaiser Pov

The ball bounced softly on the floor, the only sound breaking the icy silence that filled the room, drenched in bluish shadows. Screens covered the wall like windows opened onto his growing obsession.

Isagi Yoichi.

Again. Always.

For two days now, the Japanese had become a target to dismantle.

The first clip showed a too-clean teenager – fast, precise, focused. The second was more recent. A match against Kira Ryosuke, a kid once hailed as a prodigy in Japan.

In this one, Yoichi hesitated. He lost his footing. His movements betrayed an invisible weight.

Michael narrowed his eyes.

“Right before this match... complete silence. No trace. No training. Nothing.”

A pause. The screen froze on Isagi’s face, lowered, almost erased.

The ball rolled beneath Kaiser’s foot. He didn’t even look at it.

“Six months of emptiness. That’s too long.”

Behind him, Alexis stopped, uneasy.

“You scare me when you’re like this.”

Kaiser didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

“People say that a lot.”

He sank deeper into the soft leather chair, adjusting the sleeve of his anthracite cashmere sweater. The fabric draped perfectly on his skin, the high collar brushing delicately against his jawline.

Of course. Nothing left to chance.

“He’s... interesting.”

Alexis raised an eyebrow, a bit surprised.

Michael resumed, thoughtful:

“A prodigy gone silent. An absence right when he started to show up... It’s no coincidence.”

He bounced the ball. Once. Precise. Meticulous.

“Sometimes, you just need to hit where it’s already cracked. Remove the light... and let the void do the rest.”

His gaze hardened. The screen reflected his steel eyes.

“And I am the light. Cruel. Blinding.”

Alexis said nothing. Even he, used to this version of Kaiser, felt something had shifted.

The Bastard München’s star ignored him. He took a step forward, completely absorbed by the enigma that was Yoichi – the one the Japanese, the world, were beginning to call “Blue Lock’s ace striker.”

A woody, sensual trail followed him. As always.

“He needs to understand I’m not a rival. I’m the miscalculation. The flaw in his code.”

The ball rolled to the wall and stopped abruptly. With a motion, the German closed the video. The screen went dark, and silence returned.

“I’ll follow him. Until he hears me beating inside his own heart.”

A wild smile stretched across his lips. The cold settled in the room — dense, charged with electric tension.

Deep inside, he almost hoped... for a slow fall.

Something to savor.

After all, Yoichi would be so beautiful, kneeling at my feet... Broken just enough to belong to me.

Note:

Haus Weltenbrandt

The luxury brand I created — combines some German words:

Haus: house (often used in brand's)

Weltenbrandt: a compound word from Welten (worlds) and Brandt (to burn, to mark, to sear)

Together, it can be read as:

“the one who marks worlds” or “the burning of the world.”

Which felt… perfectly fitting for a brand working with Kaiser. 🌹

Chapter Text

🧩 Isagi Pov

The morning light, warm and golden, filtered softly through the curtains, casting smooth, swaying shadows across the wooden floor. It wasn’t even nine yet, and still, Yoichi had been awake for a while. His body, still tuned to Blue Lock’s relentless rhythm, denied him the luxury of sleeping in.

No training was scheduled today. So technically, he could have rested. Slipped into that deep, uninterrupted sleep — the kind that soothes sore muscles and quiets looping thoughts. A quiet day at home should have felt like a blessing. A rare pause amidst the chaos of the past few weeks: the ruthless selections, the tense clash against the U-20… and yesterday’s exhausting session with Rin’s brother.

A rest his body could have used — his aching muscles, his worn-out joints.
But beneath the physical fatigue, something else kept pulsing — a subtle yet persistent current.

Not pain. Not anxiety.

Just… the tension. Like an echo lodged in his chest, vibrating with strange clarity, impossible to ignore.

A sharpened awareness.
The mark of a mind that refuses to shut down.

The night before, he and the Re Al player had kept exchanging messages — short and sharp, often laced with dry humor. The kind of sarcasm, precise and cutting, that almost felt like a form of affection.

Kaiser had taken his fair share of jabs, of course. So had someone named “Bunny,” a player Yoichi didn’t know but imagined was a frequent target caught in the redhead’s sharp sights.

It was strange.

He couldn’t quite say when it had started or why he kept replying. But now, he found himself waiting for those messages, like anticipating a quick, unexpected pass. There was something invisible between them, a thread that seemed to pull them back together.

Two players who had never really sought each other out, yet somehow kept crossing paths.

By the end, somewhere between a jab at bland English clubs and a snide remark about the German’s imperial nickname, Itoshi had simply become Sae.

The blue-eyed striker had seen a different side of him. Less polished. Less distant. Almost chatty once night had fallen. Or maybe just more honest, sheltered behind a screen, away from silence and staring eyes.

What he glimpsed wasn’t just a reflection of Rin, though the brothers shared that same strange calm — a stillness that felt almost protective when they let themselves feel safe.

And Yoichi responded in kind. Not with the fire he reserved for Rin, that raw tension born of rivalry, admiration, and uncertain trust.

This was something lighter.

Softer.

Almost playful. Sometimes, it carried a quiet kind of flirtation — hard to define, but impossible to miss.

Comforting.

Surprisingly, their interests overlapped in unexpected ways. They shared a preference for quiet places, like the sea. A fondness for books too dense, too dark to be considered healthy. And that quiet obsession with imperceptible details, with analysis — precise, merciless.

Things that didn’t ask to be loved. Only understood. That many would find “uninteresting.” Yet for them, these things made sense. Perhaps they were exactly what quietly drew them together.

A closeness that made no sense at first glance. And despite that, it felt natural. As if it had always been there, instinctive, binding two similar minds recognizing each other without needing words.

He hadn’t told Rin. Not to hide it — but because it had no name.

Not yet.

For now, he kept it to himself. The training sessions. The messages.

Like a stray data point. An undefined variable, not yet integrated into the system.

He wasn’t trying to understand. Some part of him resisted closure. As if the puzzle was only just beginning.

The blue-eyed player sighed, forcing himself to push thoughts of the Itoshi brothers aside — knowing they would inevitably return.

In the kitchen, he opened the cupboards, body relaxed, movements automatic.

Rice, salmon, eggs, miso soup — he didn’t do much on rest days, but still aimed for something balanced.

While his body followed the rhythm, his mind was already drifting.

Elsewhere, this time.

On the table, his laptop displayed a recent friendly match of the U-20 Bastard München team. He had set it up earlier in the living room, armed with nothing but a cup of tea. But now that hunger gnawed at him, Yoichi had moved everything to the kitchen.

He stirred the rice slowly. The motion grounded him, as did the hush wrapping the house. And yet, even in that calm, in the quiet warmth of the kitchen, one name kept resurfacing.

Kaiser.

He didn’t know him. Had only studied the German striker through that damned screen. Still, it was enough to sense a shift.

Something unpredictable.

Unstable.

An anomaly already too present to ignore.

Yoichi hated how much space that stranger had begun to take up in his thoughts. Somehow, he already knew that presence wouldn’t fade so easily.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, without even noticing.

Then, the soft chime of his phone pulled him back to reality.

Sae was calling.

Surprised, he answered and tapped speaker. Immediately, the prodigy’s voice — still rough with sleep, like low velvet — filled the kitchen.

“Yoichi?”

No last name anymore. Just as casually as the night before.

“Hmm. Hey.”

“Still don’t have a working internal clock, huh?” came the teasing remark.

“You’re the one calling,” he replied smoothly.

“Just wanted to check if you were awake.”

An amused breath slipped away.

“I watched some of your recent matches,” he admitted, not mentioning how closely he’d studied them.

“Oh.” Then, playful: “So? Missing me already?”

A smirk tugged at his lips. Before he could reply, a faint sound came through the line — light knocks on a door, slippers brushing against tile. A woman’s voice spoke in the background, polite and distant, followed by the clink of dishes and a muffled “thank you.”

Room service, probably.

Moments later, Sae continued as if nothing had happened:

“Trying to copy me?”

“I want to understand.”

“Ha, ha. Like I’d let you.”

That usual hint of arrogance was there, with something softer too. A warmth. The quiet amusement of someone gently pushing back.

Yoichi set a pot on the stove to warm miso soup, then served the food prepared the day before with his mother.

“Did you get any sleep?” he asked, scooping rice into a bowl.

“A little. You?”

“Barely,” he admitted.

He slid the plate into the microwave and added wakame and tofu to the broth, letting them steep on low heat.

“That’s karma for criticizing Kaiser so much last night.”

Rolling his eyes, even if the other couldn’t see it, he said:

“You started it.”

A short, genuine laugh vibrated through the speaker. He’d heard the redhead laugh more often than Rin — which was kinda interesting, considering he’d known the younger brother longer.

They continued like that. While Yoichi finished prepping breakfast, Sae ate his own. Between a few words, he turned off the stove and served the soup. On the table, beside the laptop, he placed a plate: lemon-glazed salmon, spinach omelette, rice. A small bowl of blueberries and strawberries rested nearby. Just enough sweetness to awaken, not weigh down.

Balanced. Like a well-timed pass. Every element had its purpose. The arrangement felt deliberate. Almost obsessive.

When the midfielder asked him what he’d cooked, Yoichi poured some green tea and listed each item, knowing full well how closely the prodigy monitored his own diet: textures, proteins, ratios. He was probably noting it somewhere in that part of his brain reserved for efficiency and control.

After the Blue Lock player finished talking, Sae resumed — quieter this time, using the voice he reserved for things too honest:

“You could open a health-focused ryokan. I’d visit as often as I could.”

Yoichi let out a soft laugh. Warmer than simple gratitude. Almost like a purr of satisfaction.

“You say that, but breakfast already comes to you every day.”

A small huff followed. Amused, not unkind.

“True. But yours is a five-star service. No fake smile included.”

He chuckled despite himself. Then, as casually as someone commenting on the weather, the Re Al player added:

“I watched the match against Kira. Before that… nothing. Six months of silence.”

Of course he had. After their training, there was no way he’d just let it go.

“Then, nothing,” Sae repeated, voice just a shade lower. “That kind of drop-off is dangerous, Yoichi. It usually means doubt. Or worse.”

The striker closed his eyes for a moment.

Smart bastard.

Instead of answering, he lifted the soup to his lips, buying time, shielding thought.

“What does Doctor Itoshi think?” he asked eventually, tone too precise to be sincere.

“Sometimes, that crack returns,” Sae murmured “And someone will know how to use it to make you falter.”

No need to elaborate. He understood.

So did the other — he was the one who’d warned him, after all.

And now that they both knew —

A flash of blond. A surgical strike. A gaze that cut.

A smile designed to dominate.

Yoichi didn’t respond.

But the midfield had already sensed the change.

The tension simmering just below the surface.

His awakening.

The moment he had seemed to be waiting for.

“Could you be that someone?” he asked, trying to move on.

“Maybe,”  Sae replied enigmatically. Then, lighter, as if aware it was too soon, he added: “What were you like in middle school?”

The tone changed. Interested, he followed, knowing the subject was closed – for now.

“Quiet. To myself. I trained alone often. Watched matches, and… dreamed. A lot.”

“Not very popular then?”

Yoichi smiled involuntarily.

“Not at all. Two friends, a few acquaintances, no more.”

Silence returned, heavier this time. Not uncomfortable. More like a shared understanding, a contained breath.

He heard Sae shift slightly, the clink of dishes accompanying his move. The redhead continued:

“I was alone too. Younger, I had Rin. But in Spain… no time to form bonds. And when you become famous, people change.”

He lowered his head slightly, imagining a kid in a foreign land, adored for talent but surrounded by emptiness. He somehow understood that feeling.

“And now?” he asked, finishing miso to start on the plate.

A sigh answered, ironic, almost melodramatic.

“Now, I talk to a kid who reads the game better than me.”

Yoichi raised an eyebrow, mock-outraged as amusement returned.

“Kid? Seriously?”

“You annoy me,” Sae replied, amused. “You’re not allowed to be this sharp at your age.”

They laughed quietly together. A shared laugh. Which seemed to erase every intrusive thought from yesterday.

“So, when are you heading back?” Yoichi asked, biting into salmon, humming at the lemon flavor flooding his palate.

“Two weeks. Almost the same length as your break. But tomorrow morning, I have something to show you.”

The striker took another bite, half skeptical.

“Football?”

“No. I’m coming to get you before 10 AM. Be ready.”

The younger blinked. He recognized the tone — the same that had asked — no, demanded — his number. No request at all.

“You’re coming to my place?” he asked.

Sae answered immediately:

“I might even meet your parents.”

Yoichi swallowed hard, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought, imagining a thousand scenarios — all worse than the last. Finally, he muttered:

“…Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious.”

Who said the Itoshi brothers lacked humor?

Not him, for sure. 

But he remained still, a bit unsettled. 

Because beneath that teasing voice, he sensed restraint. A muffled laugh mixed with something else.

This man was dangerous.

“Okay,” he finally said.

A delighted hum echoed on the other end, light, almost childish — which, coming from Sae, sounded like a trap’s promise. He then heard clothes rustling, a chair scraping, soft footsteps on carpet. A door opening somewhere, followed by a muffled sigh.

Yoichi continued eating slowly, one bite after another. In the quiet that followed, punctuated by the subtle sounds of Sae moving in his suite, he realized he was replaying their conversation. Word for word. Intonation for intonation.

The redhead wanted them to meet.

Not to talk football.

Not to analyze pressing or compare match stats.

But for something else.

Another test?

Yes.

Very likely.

The prodigy seemed intent on mapping every fragment of him. His play, his patience, his weaknesses. Even his routines. As if he had decided to dissect him, centimeter by centimeter, until reaching that precise point everyone avoided: what he found of himself through Blue Lock.

Maybe Sae genuinely wanted to start a conversation. Or simply to probe his reactions, like deciphering an opponent’s play through footage. Just like he had done the night before, watching clips of that… new enemy.

The blue-eyed player unconsciously licked his teeth. Feeling that visceral urge to attack, to do the same as the elder.

He was usually the one studying his targets. Never the other way around. Yet, it wasn’t unpleasant. That sensation of being dissected in return, by someone so alike…

Uncomfortable, yes. But not unwelcome.

“Yoichi.”

He looked up, not realizing how far his mind had wandered. He muttered “yes?” while resuming his breakfast. But this time, the voice at the other end carried a deeper nuance. More… bare.

“I quite like you, you know.”

He nearly choked. Agitated, he grabbed his glass of water and took a sip to mask the warmth rising to his cheeks.

“I know,” he replied, deliberately aloof. Just enough to hide his turmoil.

Sae, aware of the effect he’d just caused, laughed delightedly. The laughter echoed in the kitchen, and he couldn’t help but compare it to Bachira’s wild one.

God protect him from the torment those two would cause if they ever crossed paths.

Worse, if they got along…

“You’re getting arrogant,” the older said.

He shrugged and began eating his rice, ready to move on to the fruit bowl:

“Look who’s talking.”

A quiet chuckle escaped. Then Sae’s tone softened:

“Well, I have to go. I’ll message you later. Have a good day, Yoichi.”

Without giving him time to answer, the call abruptly ended. A typically Itoshi gesture, he couldn’t help but think. The brothers had more in common than he imagined.

Amused, Yoichi glanced at the wall clock. Already 9:50 AM. Without noticing, they’d talked longer than usual. His gaze drifted toward the window. Birdsong filled the air pleasantly.

Tranquility surrounded him. Yet, he felt something more aggressive awakening. Slowly. Within him.

A calm before the storm?

Or a shifting field?

A movement stirred. Not a sprint, no — just a subtle shift in footing. Enough to alter the entire upcoming game. He couldn’t say what exactly. Yet this morning, with that sun, and Sae’s voice still fresh in his mind… he didn’t want to ask too many questions.

Biting into a strawberry, his eyes finally returned to what he’d been avoiding since Rin’s brother call: the still-lit screen of his PC.

Michael Kaiser, on screen and in a corner of his mind. Sae, in the other.

And he himself was somewhere in between, with no answers to this unusual feeling.

🧩🧩

The next morning, Yoichi slipped quietly into the bathroom. Just past 9:20 AM, the house was still wrapped in a peaceful fog. His father had already left for work, and his mother — starting her shift in an hour — waited downstairs to welcome Sae while he finished getting ready.

He’d locked himself in the bathroom far longer than necessary. Moving on autopilot: hot shower, precise motions, green tea and lemon soap, moisturizer. Not to impress anyone — simply refusing to look sloppy.

Even that was a strategic choice.

Sighing with mild annoyance, he wiped his face slowly, scanning for the slightest redness, the faintest wrinkle in his freshly ironed shirt. He always dressed as if putting on armor — never too much to avoid attracting the wrong kind of attention, but never carelessly either.

This wasn’t a date.

Well… not exactly.

He wasn’t even sure he could call it that, knowing Sae rarely extended invitations without reason — and Yoichi never accepted just out of politeness.

Straightening up, he stared into the fogged-up mirror. No smile. No flicker in his eyes. He searched for confirmation. An unspoken agreement with himself.

Yet, something was off.

They’d texted all day yesterday. And despite the frequency, despite the words, the oldest hadn’t clarified anything: no exact place, no clear purpose for the invitation. Everything felt deliberately vague — not an oversight.

A tactic. A way to keep the upper hand. To stay in control. And Yoichi hated it. He needed to read the game, not walk blindly through it. He disliked moving without knowing the terrain.

The striker and the midfielder were getting closer — that much was obvious. Their tone sometimes playful, sometimes more open.

Maybe a budding friendship? He couldn’t quite name it. Unlike his teammates — now friends — there was something else here. Something too similar to be coincidence.

Yoichi had never met anyone so close mentally. 

Would he ever again?

As if to shake off the thought, another name surfaced: Kaiser. That damn name, always showing up uninvited. A mental disruption, like static noise. When talking tactics with the prodigy, it slipped between the lines. Like a rumor you couldn’t ignore. Too bright. Too confident.

A chess piece moved without his consent.

He wanted to strangle Rin’s brother for bringing it up. For daring to mention that guy. For comparing their playing styles. Sae was helping him — yes, helping him improve — but definitely not helping him forget.

After all, Yoichi hated surprises. Especially when he wasn’t the one making the move.

He slipped his shirt back on, buttoning it all the way to the collar. Then hesitated. Undid one button. Then two. Not to seduce. Just… a way to feel ready. Presentable. Armed.

He checked his hair one last time, then, resolute, opened the bathroom door — only to find Sae leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed. His damp red hair suggested a recent shower, and his simple yet elegant dark shirt contrasted with the pale morning light.

Yoichi raised a brow.

“Since when do you just walk into people’s houses like that?”

Sae shrugged, unfazed, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Since their mom says I’m allowed,” he said, pausing, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Very kind, by the way. She offered me tea.”

He sighed, amused, secretly pleased his mother liked him.

“Keep it up and she’ll invite you for dinner one night,” he warned.

“You’ll survive.”

Sae’s gaze drifted to the sink, where some neatly arranged products sat. He stepped closer and picked up a small tube of lip balm, turning it between his fingers.

“We use the same lip balm, huh?”

Yoichi shrugged, slightly caught off guard.

“It works.”

The other nodded and placed the tube back, then turned and walked over.

“Hm. Basic, but it hydrates well, especially in winter,” he admitted. “One day, I’ll get you one that suits you better.”

Yoichi scoffed, amused, heading toward his room, knowing that the other player would remember this conversation.

“I don’t need overpriced stuff.”

“Maybe not. But I’ll get you something you’ll like anyway.”

Sae was, much to his quiet amusement, stubborn as hell. 

He stared for a moment before stepping into his room. Then grabbed a jacket and his watch, passed the mirror — to stop, unsure.

“Should I dress differently?” he asked.

The redhead seemed to consider it, then shook his head and waved a hand.

“You can stay like that.”

Yoichi watched carefully and asked:

“Where are we going exactly?”

“Surprise,” Sae said, guarding the most important secret of the year.

He gave himself one last look in the mirror: white shirt, dark fitted jeans, hair in place — as usual. The kind of outfit that fit most places, but definitely not a fast-food joint. The striker doubted he was taking him anywhere like that.

“Is it fancy?” he asked, stepping out of his room.

“It’s a quiet place I like a lot. You’ll see,” replied Rin’s brother.

“That’s not an answer, Itoshi,” Yoichi teased.

“Better than nothing.”

He pressed his lips tight, holding back a smile, as they moved down the stairs, silence wrapping around them like the gentle ebb of the tide.

“You’re lucky I’m adaptable.”

“I know.”

In the kitchen, his mother — already dressed for work — greeted them with a gentle smile.

“Have a good day, Yoichi, Itoshi-kun,” she said, then turned to Sae, “Thank you for coming by. Feel free to visit anytime.”

“The pleasure’s mine, Isagi-sama.”

Yoichi blinked, a little surprised. He’d never really brought friends home before — maybe once or twice in kindergarten, but not since.

His mother smiled again, pleased, and added:

“No need to be so formal. Just Isagi is fine. Or even Iyo. Don’t tire him out too much — he’s supposed to be resting.”

So impressed that now they’re talking like I’m not even here… Yoichi thought, half amused.

“Of course, Mrs. Isagi. I’ll return him in one piece, I promise.”

A year ago, Yoichi had come out to his parents. He was lucky to have a supportive family. Even though the topic had become more common in Japan, traditional parents still struggled with the idea.

He’d never introduced anyone to his parents — even if he’d dated a few guys. His mother, clearly, had interpreted the situation her way. She seemed to see Sae as a decent candidate, especially since they’d talked a lot since Blue Lock started, and his parents must’ve noticed.

Slightly unsettled, Yoichi blushed. He stepped outside before their little bond grew more embarrassing. He grabbed his keys by the door, just to keep his hands busy.

His mother, still smiling, waved one last time before heading back to the coffee machine.

“Have a nice day, Mom.”

“You too, sweetheart. And behave,” she added, clearly aware of what she implied.

Yoichi tensed, fully aware of the subtext behind that “behave.” He mumbled something incoherent toward the floor — wishing it would swallow him whole — then closed the door, cheeks redder than before.

Sae followed casually, hands in his pockets. As they walked down the porch steps, the older one teased:

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m sweating.”

“Hm. Cute.”

The striker shot him a glare.

“If you plan on embarrassing me in front of my mom again, no more tea for you.”

“Too late,” the older one smiled wickedly. “Your mom already adores me.”

Yoichi sighed, amused despite himself. He’d always been discreet, invisible by choice. Now this guy — quiet and sharp — smiled like it was the most natural thing, saying things with a voice calm and soft, for someone who could be so infuriating.

They reached the black car parked in front of the house. The same as last time. A sleek vehicle, discreet, perfectly air-conditioned. The back door opened smoothly, and inside, Tachibana was already waiting, eyes glued to his tablet, fingers dancing over the screen without sparing them a glance.

As soon as they sat down, the doors closed with a soft hiss. The cool air wrapped around them — a pleasant contrast to the summer heat outside. And the assistant’s voice dropped, neutral yet laced with measured irony:

“Just saying: if any journalists ask whether you two are together, I’ll say I saw looks.”

Yoichi turned his head toward him, brow furrowed. His expression wavered between genuine exasperation and barely contained amusement.

“Seriously?”

“I’m just doing my duty as a witness, Isagi-san.”

Sae didn’t flinch. Arms resting on his thighs, gaze half-turned toward the window, he replied, perfectly composed:

“You’re fired.”

Tachibana shrugged, unbothered.

“So be it. I’ll write a book.” He glanced at Yoichi with fake inspiration. “Itoshi and his flawless-skinned rising star. Bestseller guaranteed.”

The youngest quickly turned away to hide the smile threatening to surface. He forced himself to stare at the road outside. He wasn’t about to give them that satisfaction.

Next to him, the redhead shook his head with feigned weariness, lips curled into the ghost of a smile.

“And here I thought I was paying you enough.”

“Oh, certainly, Itoshi-sama,” Tachibana replied without missing a beat. “But the press would pay me in royalties.”

The red-haired crossed his arms slowly, almost looking pleased — like he was conducting the conversation without really participating.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve already got his mother’s blessing.”

Yoichi turned to him, clearly offended.

“That wasn’t a job interview.”

“It was worse. A review. And I think I passed with flying colors.”

A soft laugh escaped the assistant, now focused on the road.

Yoichi slumped into the seat, crossing his arms in theatrical defeat.

“I hate both of you.”

“Oh, stop,” Sae replied, feigning indifference. “You were happy she liked me.”

He didn’t respond. He stared at the scenery rushing by through the tinted window, expression once again unreadable. But the silence he imposed this time was less sharp than usual.

The car kept moving toward Tokyo. The conversation faded little by little, replaced by the hum of the engine, the muffled clicks of lane changes, and a quiet — almost conspiratorial — atmosphere that lingered between the three of them.

Yoichi sneaked a glance at Sae. The older player had closed his eyes, head slightly tilted against the headrest. As if he belonged there. As if everything around them — the highway, the stillness, the city drawing near — only confirmed it.

And for some reason he couldn’t quite name, that steadied him. Just a little.

Bit by bit, the greenery gave way to gray. Tall buildings lined the sides of the highway. The concrete slowly warmed with golden morning light filtering between the buildings. Hurrying pedestrians, zipping bikes, konbini signs blinking on — a typical Tokyo morning.

He caught his own reflection in the window, distorted by the motion. Then Sae spoke, drawing his gaze:

“Have you always been this quiet?”

Yoichi blinked, hesitated.

“Most of the time,” he admitted. “I watch before I speak.”

“Makes sense. No wonder Rin hates you.”

The Blue Lock player narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

“You think that’s funny?”

“A little. He probably wanted to be the first to figure you out.”

Yoichi looked away. He didn’t reply immediately — but his faint smile betrayed him.

“Your brother’s a nightmare. And you overanalyze everything.”

“That’s why I’m good at what I do.”

“How humble.”

“I’ve never claimed to be.”

He leaned against the window, eyes half-closed, asking: 

“So… where are we going? You’ve avoided telling me. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Sae sighed and muttered something about “brains that think too much for their own good,” then finally answered:

“Hanagiri.”

Recognizing the name, he straightened up, curious.

“The tea salon?”

Rin's brother nodded once.

“They have an exceptional sencha blend. And chilled wagashi. I want you to try them.”

Yoichi raised an eyebrow. Definitely not what he’d expected. Although… In hindsight, it did feel like a place that would suit the prodigy perfectly.

A little teasing, but with no bite, he said:

“So traditional. Should I start calling you Itoshi-sama and walk three steps behind?”

Sae let out a low, amused chuckle.

“I’m going to educate you, Yoichi. Show you the good things.”

He sighed dramatically.

“You’ve got a lot of work.”

“I’m patient,” replied the other. Then, just to tease: “And I bet you’d look stunning in a kimono.”

He paused.

“Next time.”

Yoichi opened his mouth to snap back — but nothing came out. He knew he was blushing again — third time, damn it — and looked away, pretending to focus on a speeding motorbike.

He should’ve pushed back. Rolled his eyes. Said something sharp. But instead, he just shrugged, vaguely.

Because a part of him — one he preferred to ignore — kind of liked the idea.

Without even looking up from the road, Tachibana muttered:

“I’m putting that quote in the book.”

“You’re fired,” Sae and Yoichi said in unison.

They laughed, and the quiet settled in again — soft, comfortable.

Sae had that strange ability to leave space open without filling it.

And Yoichi, without realizing it, let himself drift into it.

His shoulders lowered. His thoughts slowed down. Like, for once, he didn’t need to control everything.

Tokyo’s scenery slipped past the tinted windows. Soon, they reached an older street lined with houses from a bygone era, nestled near a small local temple. The contrast with the bustling city they’d just left was striking. Here, everything seemed to slow down — time, footsteps, even the air felt clearer.

The car came to a stop in front of a beautiful, traditional house — discreet, built from dark wood with a red roof. White curtains swayed gently in the morning breeze, visible through large windows on the facade. The tea house’s name was proudly displayed in traditional black calligraphy adorned with delicate cherry blossoms: Hanagiri — 茶と季節.

“Floral mist.”

A beautiful name for an even more beautiful place. Yoichi recognized it immediately — one of those very exclusive Tokyo tea houses whose entrance felt like an unspoken invitation. A haven for insiders, for those who knew how to remain discreet. A place where one could disappear from the world… or reveal oneself beneath a carefully controlled light.

He’d heard the rumors. This wasn’t somewhere people wandered into. You came here because you meant to.

Tachibana got out and silently opened the door for them. They thanked him with a nod, and the man told them that he would return in two hours, as planned.

Two hours.

Yoichi held back a sigh. 

Sae never did anything halfway.

The ground, paved with ancient stones, led to a small sliding door. A soft, floral incense scent drifted out from inside. A woman in her thirties, wearing a linen and plum-colored kimono, greeted them with a graceful bow.

“Welcome to Hanagiri. Do you have a reservation?”

They bowed in return.

“Yes. Itoshi, for two,” Sae replied as calmly as a mountain stream.

The lady smiled warmly and invited them to follow. They walked through quiet corridors bathed in soft light. The polished wood, muffled sounds — everything here breathed balance and chosen silence. She led them to a small private room, enclosed by openwork screens decorated with ancient landscapes, misty mountains, and protective dragons. 

The place seemed frozen in time.

Two wide-open doors revealed an indoor garden bathed in light. A huge cherry tree with a gnarled trunk and branches heavy with blossoms stood at the center. At its base, a fountain sang softly, clear water winding among mossy stones to an ornamental basin. Between polished rocks and still water lilies, koi carp glided slowly, their gold and ivory scales shimmering like fragments of memory.

Yoichi stood still, making no effort to hide that he was taking it all in. He wasn’t used to places like this — the quiet elegance, the subdued beauty, the deliberate slowness of it all. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

His eyes moved across the room, trying to make sense of its quiet refinement.

A low black lacquer table gleamed softly. Cream cushions embroidered with floral motifs awaited them. A carafe of lemon water already sat in the center.

The lady wished them an enjoyable tasting and added that the matron of the house would serve them. Then she left them alone.

Yoichi followed the older player and sat facing him, crossing his legs with some hesitation. He tried to hide his unease. He wasn’t here to lose his footing. But… he wasn’t exactly in his element.

Sae’s gaze weighed on him, calm, almost amused. A calmness settled — not heavy, just... muffled. Like the tatami beneath their feet. Then the redhead gently poured the liquid into two glasses.

“This isn’t a date,” he said, a smile in his voice. “In case your brain doesn’t know what to do anymore.”

Yoichi raised an eyebrow, surprised at how much that simple remark eased his embarrassment. He let out a short, dry laugh, but not a cold one.

“A little late to say that, isn’t it? My mom’s already thinking about a wedding at this hour.”

Sae didn’t answer immediately. He raised his glass and took a slow sip. But he caught the raw amusement in his beautiful green eyes.

“I’d sign any contract she hands me.”

He grinned and took a sip himself. He was, in some way, quietly delighted to be growing this close to Rin’s brother.

He hadn’t imagined, not for a second, that their training would lead to this. At first, he’d been sure the Re Al player was only interested in his game — nothing more.

But now… now they talked openly. Shared things they probably never had with anyone else.

Contrary to what many believed, Yoichi had actually grown close to a few Blue Lock players.

Bachira and Chigiri — though too loud and energetic for his taste — were the first. They’d been on the same starting team, Team Z, and had gone through most of the project’s initial qualifiers together.

Then came Nagi. And surprisingly, Reo. After their match, they’d met for lunch — once, then again, and it quickly became a routine.

Rin had arrived like a cold tide, chaotic and quiet. More complicated, more distant, more uptight than anyone Yoichi had met so far.

Hiori and Nanase had started talking to him too, gradually, and without fanfare.

It went without saying — that was already a lot of people, for someone like Yoichi. He’d never sought company.

Especially not that of other players.

He’d always believed moving forward meant staying alone — focused, sharp. Because that was the only thing he knew. But now he realized that some bonds didn’t slow you down. On the contrary. They sharpened your edges too. Made you human.

It wasn’t loud, easy, or burdensome friendship. Just quiet links. Shared glances. Invisible passes — on the field and off.

Familiar presences. Not too close, but grounding.

And Sae...

Sae was becoming something else entirely. Something quieter. Vague.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the silent entrance of an older woman, her steps measured, her expression as peaceful as the place itself. With a single glance, Yoichi understood: this was the matron mentioned earlier.

She carried a tray of light wood, delicately held as if it contained something sacred. On it, two steaming cups of sencha, deep green and luminous, exhaled a subtle scent of fresh leaves. Next to them, a small plate of frozen wagashi: almost translucent sweets shaped like seasonal flowers — delicate, balanced, almost too beautiful to eat. She bowed slightly as she set them down, her movements full of calm and ancient respect.

“The first round, Itoshi-kun,” she said in an almost ceremonial whisper. “You have the room for two hours, as usual. Please don’t hesitate if you’d like to try another blend.”

Sae smiled at her.

“Thank you, Ayame-sama.”

Yoichi nodded and softly thanked her in return, then glanced at Sae, who seemed perfectly at ease here — serene, almost still, as if he had been coming to this tea house for years.

They were just getting started. Two hours, he thought, was long. But maybe not long enough.

Ayame-sama left with a final bow. He took the opportunity:

“You come here often.”

It wasn’t a question. Just an observation.

Although they had been brought here together, the redhead hadn’t observed the place the way he had. He already knew it — that had been clear in the car. Yet their exchange showed a familiarity that said more than any words: it wasn’t a discovery for him, but a habit.

"Yes, that’s true," Sae confirmed, taking a sip of tea. He blew on it before continuing.

"Ayame-sama is an old friend of my grandmother’s. They grew up together."

Ah. That explained it, Yoichi thought.

The midfielder hadn’t finished speaking, so he mirrored his gestures in silence. The warm fragrance of herbs hung between them, soothing in its simplicity.

“When Ayame-sama opened this place three years ago, she invited me to come by and check it out,” Sae continued, sipping again. He hummed with pleasure before gently setting down his cup. “She knew I had a hard time adjusting to Japan during my rare visits.”

Yoichi nodded, sensing what Sae left unspoken. Perhaps this place, with its ancient scents and gentle silences, held remnants of all that the older had fled — and all that he had never truly left behind.

"You don’t eat sweets very often, do you?" Sae asked, shifting the topic as his sharp gaze studied him.

"Not really," he admitted.

"You’ll like these. They’re handmade every morning."

He quietly accepted the invitation and picked one up. Its texture felt almost crystalline beneath his fingers before he brought it to his lips. The taste was subtler than expected — not sweet, not bitter, just… balanced. Like the place. Like this morning.

It melted on his tongue — light, yet present enough to leave something behind. Like a dream that lingers.

A sip of tea, followed by a soft hum of satisfaction. The taste confirmed it — the older boy had been right. 

Almost divine.

A quick glance was stolen toward his companion, still watching, calm and unreadable.

"You didn’t bring me here just for this, did you?" Yoichi eventually asked, his voice quiet to match the stillness around them.

Outside, the soft murmur of the fountain added a surreal layer to the moment. He could see why traditionalists clung to places like this.

Sae shrugged, hiding a pleased smile as he bit into a wagashi.

"I wanted to see how you are off the field."

He blinked, not really surprised.

"You’re testing me? Again ? "

"Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to talk somewhere other than between two passes."

He watched the steam curl up from his teacup. Then, calmly:

"What did you see, exactly? That first time?"

The Japanese prodigy set down his second wagashi, wiped his fingertips on a linen napkin, and replied:

"The void."

Yoichi looked up, startled.

Sae clarified, without a hint of mockery:

"The kind of void that draws the ball in. A break in the system. A player no one sees, but who’s always in the right place. At the right time."

He paused, then added:

"You didn’t force yourself into view. You let yourself be found. That’s rarer than people think."

The striker froze for a moment, not thrilled by how easily he’d been read, then quietly exhaled:

"It’s because I’m scared."

He instantly regretted how blunt it sounded, but the other didn’t flinch.

"You hide yourself. Not just on the pitch."

It wasn’t a judgment. Just a clinical observation — cold and precise, as always.

A dry chuckle escaped him.

"You talk like you’re my therapist."

"You could use one." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "But that’s not what I meant."

Sae rotated the porcelain cup slowly between his fingers, eyes steady.

"You’re beautiful, Yoichi. Really beautiful."

His head snapped up, caught off guard. Green eyes met his — steady, calm, unwavering.

"And you hide it."

His mouth opened, but nothing came. His cheeks flushed, yet he didn’t look away.

He'd heard it before, in passing. Meaningless words, easy to discard. But this… wasn’t that.

"I don’t get why," Sae added, voice lower now. "I’m sure you have your reasons. But you should use it. As a weapon."

It didn’t sound like seduction. It sounded like strategy. A general handing down advice.

"Why?"

"Because you want to dominate the field. And every weapon counts."

A pause. The corner of his mouth lifted — something between a smirk and something softer.

"Kaiser knows. Yukimiya too, right? Or me. Looks can open doors. Distract. Disarm. Control."

Yoichi leaned back slightly, the heat in his face still present. He reached for his cup once again, almost absently — more to ground himself than anything else. The ceramic was warm against his skin.

He took a long sip.

Let the silence stretch.

The taste was rich, lingering — hard to describe.

He’d never thought of his appearance as anything but irrelevant. A background detail. He’d fought to be seen for his vision, his instincts, his goals. But maybe that too was a shield. A mask worn so tightly he forgot it was even there.

Across from him, Rin’s brother didn’t look away.

"Why did you disappear for six months?" he asked, voice direct but gentle.

Yoichi stilled, eyes lowering to the wooden table.

"You’re not gonna let that slide, huh?" he asked.

Sae didn’t reply. Waiting. Patiently. No pressure — just impossible to ignore.

So he breathed in and answered the question:

"I wasn’t… surrounded enough." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I started to really understand how to read the game. Truly read it. To see things no one else around me saw."

He shook his head slowly, eyes drifting into memory.

"At first, it felt amazing," he admitted.

"You know I’ve never been close to others. Too quiet, too different. I thought this would bring me closer to them. But actually... it pushed me further away."

He went on without bitterness — just honesty.

"They stopped passing to me. I was too fast, or offering plays they didn’t get. So they benched me."

A joyless laugh slipped out.

"I was sidelined. Like a forgotten toy."

Sae didn’t move, though his eyes had dropped to his cup.

Yoichi’s voice fell lower:

"I became that player people avoid — the one who scares them. And after two weeks of that, I just stopped going to training. Went back to the old parks. Training alone. Like I always did."

He looked up — for the first time in this whole conversation.

"And I think... that kind of killed something in me," he confessed.

Sae said nothing. Just listened, intently. Then, gently, he reached out and took Yoichi’s hand in his.

A soft, protective gesture — one that said: I believe you. I see you.

And maybe... it said something about him, too.

The midfielder spoke simply:

"You weren’t too much for them. You were just alone. That’s different."

Yoichi blinked.

Before he could reply, Sae added:

"And now? Do you still want to play for others?"

He looked down at their joined hands, his fingers tightening around Sae’s.

The redhead responded instantly.

When Yoichi raised his head again, something sharper had lit behind his gaze.

"No. Now I want them to play for me."

A smile — small, almost invisible — tugged at Sae’s lips.

After that, their voices barely rose above whispers.

The midfielder spoke of Madrid — early morning runs through forgotten neighborhoods that reminded him of the places Yoichi used to train alone.

In return, Yoichi shared memories of one of his first coaches, who had nicknamed him “the silent player” for how little he spoke on the field.

They laughed softly. Not loudly, but with sincerity — like two conspirators sharing a secret.

Just as Sae reached for the teapot to pour another cup, his phone vibrated.

Once.

Then again.

And again.

The sharp buzzing cut through the stillness, shattering the moment —

Reality calling them back, faster and more insistently with every pulse.

“Hmm. That’s not normal,” he muttered as he unlocked the screen.

His eyes scanned the display while the younger returned his gaze to the now-empty plate, considering whether to call Ayame-sama for another round.

A brief laugh, tinged with surprise, escaped the older boy’s lips. Curious, the younger glanced toward him.

Noticing the look, Sae swiped the screen and silently showed the photo.

The image was sharp — the two of them standing side by side in the narrow alley by the tea house entrance. Yoichi adjusted his sleeve, a rare smile lighting his face. The older one glanced sideways, wearing a similarly rare — almost pleased — smile. The shot was perfectly framed, the background softly blurred, the tones warm and gentle. But what grabbed all attention was the bold headline at the top:

“Sae Itoshi seen by a fan with Yoichi Isagi, rising star of Blue Lock, recently named ‘heart of Blue Lock,’ spotted at a hidden Tokyo date spot. Intimacy or scouting? [...]”

His eyes widened.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he whispered.

“Apparently, you’re my ‘unknown boy.’ Congrats, Yo-chan,” Sae said, far too pleased with himself.

The younger shot a sideways glance, refusing to laugh. Instead, he pointed at the photo. That... incriminating image?

“Who even takes pictures in places like that?”

“People who know exactly what they’re doing.”

Then his own phone vibrated — three messages from Rin, one from Bachira. But it was Reo’s that caught his eye:

----

    > Reo 🟣 (10:45 AM)

Bro. Seriously? He’s hot, but… I was joking when I asked if he’d offered you dinner too. 💀

    > Reo 🟣 (10:47 AM)

I mean, it’s not dinner, but pretty close…

So, when’s the villa in Spain? 👀

----

Yoichi nearly choked on air. Catching Sae’s curious look, he—against all logic—handed him his phone to read.

This time, the prodigy laughed out loud.

“We’ve only been here for thirty minutes,” Yoichi tried to reason. “This is insane. And we weren’t even doing anything suspicious!”

“That’s exactly what makes it suspicious, Yoichi. Two quiet guys in a traditional tea house at 9:30 a.m.? Of course, they thought we were hiding something.”

Sae handed back the phone, picked up his cup, and looked up with that crooked smile of his.

One that suited him far too well.

“Now that we’ve been caught…”

Yoichi knew what was coming.

“How about we keep pretending we’re on a date? Maybe take a picture? Feed the delusion a bit more.”

The striker shook his head, stifling a laugh:

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yes, yes, but I’m paying the bill,” came the instant reply. “And I promise the rest of the desserts here are just as delicious.”

“You’re unbearable, Sae-kun.”

“But photogenic. And so are you, apparently,” he added with a charming grin. “I see where your mom was coming from — we do look pretty good together.”

Yoichi hid his face in his hands, cheeks ablaze. Then looked up, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

“Fine… for the food. Some yokan and fruit?”

“Good,” Sae nodded. “More tea?”

They exchanged a knowing glance and nodded in sync. The silence that followed felt like a small world built between two people — quiet and safe, sheltered from flashbulbs and rumors.

🌹 Kaiser POV

That same morning

The Bastard München locker room buzzed with familiar energy: voices blended with laughter and the short breaths of those just back from the pitch. Morning training had ended, leaving behind a mix of sweat, soap, and synthetic turf in the air.

Shirtless, Mensah tapped away on his phone while chewing a protein bar, looking vaguely distracted. Next to him, Alexis was—once again—trying to convince Grim to come out tonight, but the latter barely nodded, already focused on the rest of his day’s schedule.

Michael had just finished his shower. A towel hanging loosely over his shoulder, he opened his locker slowly. He knew the rest of his day was free — except for a meeting with Haus Weltenbrandt, the German luxury brand he was partnered with.

He planned to enjoy a few quiet hours until then.

Until —

A sharp laugh cut through the air—brief, unexpected. A dissonance in the locker room’s usual chaos.

“Didn’t know Sae Itoshi had a type… or that he was actually dating another player!” Mensah called out, holding up his phone. “Check this out.”

Curiosity stirred instantly. The guys leaned in. The laughter faded at the sight of the image.

Grim whistled, clearly impressed by whoever it was.

“He’s got taste. Look at that face.”

Theo Sachs let out a low hum, equally intrigued.

“It’s been trending nonstop the past few hours. The picture and the rumors are everywhere. Top story across sports news.”

Alexis, who was zipping up his gym bag, blinked in surprise when Mensah turned the phone toward him.

“Oh...” he murmured—half cautious, half reverent. “That’s Yoichi Isagi.”

The name, calmly spoken, landed like an ice needle.

Michael, who had just bent down to grab his black tee, froze.

Then, before he could even think, he straightened up—his silence too deliberate.

The emperor let his shirt fall onto the bench and took a step forward, as if it were instinct.

“Show me.”

His voice was low. Not hostile.

But it was undeniably a command.

Mensah, puzzled by the sudden interest, handed him the phone without question.

There was something in Michael’s eyes—too calm, too blue, too… focused.

Everyone knew by now: when the emperor's gaze turned that sharp, it meant trouble.

Michael looked at the screen.

There. Clear as day.

Sae Itoshi and Yoichi Isagi, just as Alexis had said. Their posture—natural, too familiar. Especially by Japan’s rigid social standards.

Sae’s gaze on the younger boy.

And Yoichi’s smile.

That smile.

Rare. Real.

Almost intimate.

He stood still. Just for a few seconds. Long enough for something—barely—to tighten in his chest.

Silence fell strange around him. Electric.

No one spoke, as if even the air was waiting.

He handed the phone back to Mensah without a word. But his fingers had gone pale—gripping the device a second too long.

Michael turned away, pulled on his shirt slowly, then zipped his bag with precision.

Every move was measured.

As if each one carried the weight of choosing not to explode.

One beat. Then another.

He finally muttered, like drawing a curtain over the moment:

“So he’s into boring players. Interesting.”

Alexis glanced up, reading between the lines, but said nothing.

The blond grabbed his watch, slipped on his matte black Haus Weltenbrandt jacket, and pushed a hand through his damp hair, brushing it back.

Before leaving the locker room, he threw over his shoulder:

“I’ve got a meeting. Send me today’s stats.”

And with that, he left—without looking at anyone. The door clicked shut behind him.

Michael pulled out his phone and searched for the article—finding more than ten in less than a second. In each one, that same picture popped up again, like a neon sign flashing above his thoughts.

Yoichi, eyes soft, slightly lowered.

Sae, leaning in just a little.

The background blurred. The closeness unsettling.

The German stared at the Blue Lock player again. His finger brushed the screen without meaning to. Then he locked the phone, jaw tense.

A tightness lodged between his shoulder blades refused to fade.

Uncontrollable.

He knew Sae Itoshi had a certain… taste. The man was quiet most of the time, withdrawn.

So Michael didn’t really know what the Japanese prodigy wanted from the “heart of Blue Lock.”

Truthfully, Michael could admit Yoichi was attractive. Maybe too attractive...

A gentle face. Clear gaze. A honed body.

But that wasn’t the issue.

Someone had seen what he chose not to see.

And wanted it.

Too early. Too freely.

What really got to him was how the photo looked.

Too natural.

Too intimate.

Too easy.

As if they were already… something.

A quiet “Tch” slipped through his teeth. His steps sped up without thinking.

The upper corridor outside the locker room was empty at this hour. A faint scent of linen lingered in the air.

He pushed open the double doors, headed down the raw concrete stairs to the private parking level.

The neon light above the entrance flickered once before stabilizing. The floor, dark and polished, echoed under his steps.

His car waited—a sleek black luxury sedan, courtesy of a sponsor. Doors locked, paint flawless.

A sharp contrast to the fog building in his mind.

Michael stopped halfway there and inhaled. The air was dry, slightly cold, tinged with rubber and gasoline.

He closed his eyes for a second, trying to clear his head.

But all he could see was Yoichi.

Not on the field this time.

His mind was already inventing a scene he didn’t like:

His target, seated in that quiet tea house.

His hand near Sae’s.

His smile—private.

And lately, it all came back to Blue Lock.

Michael had watched him.

Studied his moves. Searched for weaknesses—what to throw at him when finally—

No.

Not “when.”

Soon.

He hadn’t checked social media. He didn’t want bias. Just the game. Just the structure.

And yet...

Someone else had seen him.

Touched him.

Not like a player.

Not like he would’ve done.

Scheiße...

He should’ve known.

Mein kleiner Liebling wasn’t meant to be approached so casually.

Especially not by someone so… replaceable.

Let Sae offer him tea and stolen smiles.

Michael would offer something better: a goal, a kingdom—

Then destroy it all.

And Yoichi would turn his gaze toward him.

Of course he would. Inevitably.

Because he belonged to no one.

And no one else would be allowed to devour him.

Except Michael.

He locked eyes with the black headlights of his car.

The German striker had a meeting in an hour. He was supposed to smile, perform, embody a brand.

Michael straightened.

He could do that. He was made for it.

But he made himself a silent promise: Once this day was done, he’d set eyes on Yoichi again.

And next time, he wouldn’t just stand beside Yoichi — he’d own the frame. Burn his place into it. Into him. Close enough to make the whole world feel the heat.

Note: 

Scheiße — a common German curse word, roughly “shit,” used to express frustration or sharp surprise.

Mein kleiner Liebling — literally “my little darling,” an affectionate yet possessive term.

Both words reveal the complexity beneath Michael’s cool exterior: a mix of intensity, care, and control.

What is a ryokan?

A ryokan is a traditional Japanese inn, often located in the countryside or near hot springs (onsen). Guests sleep on tatami mats, enjoy kaiseki meals (refined Japanese cuisine), and everything is designed for calm, rest, and harmony with nature.

The idea of a wellness-focused ryokan evokes a peaceful, intimate place where one comes to recharge… and in this context, perhaps even more. 🌸

Chapter Text

🌹 Kaiser pov

Munich never truly slept.

It dozed beneath layers of fine rain, turned its back on tourist noise, and wrapped itself in old stone and aristocratic courtyards. But in the district where the secondary headquarters of Haus Weltenbrandt stood, it seemed to have fallen into a slumber of glass and steel.

Nestled on a sprawling estate, somewhat removed from the city, the gothic manor emerged between rows of beech trees on the edge of a private park. Former residence of the founder, it had since been reconfigured into a sanctuary for creation.

Now, it served as the luxury brand’s secondary headquarters — the place where all new artistic projects for the "KAISER" line were presented and approved.

From the main office window, Michael watched the private gardens as he waited for the new project team to arrive.

After last week’s meeting covering initial presentations and early feedback, today was meant to finalize ideas before sending everything off to the director for approval.

In this room sealed off from the world, everything seemed calibrated to the millisecond: precise temperature, engineered silence.

The armchairs were a deep midnight blue, the round table a smooth matte black, and along the wall stood a locked glass cabinet displaying oddly shaped sample bottles — prototypes of the house’s now-iconic fragrances, each a monument to the pursuit of the absolute.

At the center stood KAISER N°1, his personal bottle, instantly recognizable by its flawless silhouette. It was simpler, colder, and carried a finality the others lacked.

On the desk lay a black binder, decorated with stylized roses in deep navy blue, closed with deliberate precision. At its right corner, etched in white ink, one title: Variety of Time.

All his project folders followed the same aesthetic — a personal code adopted by the luxury house for side ventures.

Controlled. Distinctive.

Michael moved slowly, letting go of his contemplation to brush his fingers lightly over the name of his new project.

They had started it just over three months ago.

The idea had come to him during a training session, unannounced and uninvited, but it had clung to him like an elegant thorn, impossible to ignore. It had grown sharper and heavier until it became inevitable.

As always, he had begun his research alone and never spoke of his ideas until they were ready to take form.

He knew this project could shift everything, redefine the way he approached his game, maybe even the way football itself was perceived.

But he wasn’t the type to get carried away by excitement. Every detail had to be weighed, every risk measured.

A solemn kind of calm lingered around him, abruptly broken by a discreet knock on the door.

"Herein."

His voice carried through the room, an invitation or a command; it was hard to tell. However, the person seemed to understand, because they opened the door and left it slightly ajar.

It was one of the employees, security detail if he remembered correctly.

“Guten Morgen, Herr Kaiser,” the man greeted with a small nod. “The team’s here.”

Michael nodded once. That was all it took for the man to open the door fully.

The group entered the room, each carrying the quiet confidence of an expert. There were five: the creative director, the watchmaker, the designer, the head of marketing, and the materials engineer.

A small team, sure, but flawlessly efficient.

Basic greetings were exchanged as everyone took their seats, ready to dive into reflection and creation.

Seated at the head of the table, the German player waited for the room to settle before speaking.

“As mentioned earlier this week, this project isn’t just about building a watch,” he began, his tone polite but cold, commanding attention without effort. “We’re here to create something that speaks of inner time, perception, personal rhythm.”

The watchmaker nodded, fingers twirling a pen, a spark of excitement lighting her light-brown eyes.

“After our last meeting, the prototypes were validated,” she confirmed. “The thermo-reactive alloys work perfectly. We can modulate the strap’s texture based on body heat, and the shifting light can reveal embedded patterns.”

A pleased murmur rippled through the team.

The alloy phase had been one of the most problematic so far. Knowing it was finally cleared felt like scoring a goal already on the scoreboard.

The graphic designer raised a sketch.

“The engraved patterns, nearly invisible depending on the angle, were approved by my team as well. Each layer allows for a multi-dimensional reading of time.”

A quiet exhale escaped him, almost amused. He set his hands calmly on the table.

“Exactly. The point isn’t to read the time. It’s to feel it. Not a blunt display but a subtle understanding. I want this watch to be an extension of the self.”

The marketing director frowned slightly at the statement. He was the oldest in the room and a close friend of the brand’s current director. If there was ever a disagreement…

Michael already knew his decision would raise concerns. That suspicion only grew stronger as the man spoke:

“The challenge is that this product won’t be accessible to the general public — the cost would be too high, and the usage is specific. So how exactly do we plan to target it?”

Already prepared for the question, the blond striker allowed a faint smile to pull at the corner of his lips.

“An elite clientele,” he replied plainly. “People whose lives follow precise cycles, whether they’re professionals, creators, or athletes. A demographic that doesn’t want a watch but a companion.”

Silence settled in as the others took a moment to consider his words. Michael used it to open the folder that had remained closed until then. Finished plans greeted him, perfectly aligned, silent proof of his obsession.

With a quick glance through the stack, he pulled out detailed brainstorming documents outlining the target audience. Passing them around, he then leaned back, observing their reactions.

After a thoughtful pause, it was the materials engineer who spoke up:

“We’ll need to consider the long-term durability of the thermo-reactive mechanism. With this type of clientele, the watch will be under constant stress.”

Pleased, Michael nodded. He liked it when everything unfolded exactly as planned.

“Yes. The technical challenge is considerable. But the heart of the matter remains the poetry of time made tangible.”

He paused, letting his gaze move slowly across each face.

“But everything is ready for approval. I’m counting on you to polish the final details.”

The software engineer nodded and then spoke up:

“For the personalized interpretation of time, we could offer a companion app. Nothing too complex — not for displaying the time but for configuring transition types: focus, activity, recovery phases… The user could define their own shift thresholds.”

The emperor of Bastard München crossed his arms thoughtfully. It was a solid idea but he feared it might grow too prominent, diverting attention from the watch itself.

“As long as the app never overshadows the object,” he finally said, “it can guide but not dictate. The watch remains, and must remain, the sole sovereign.”

General approval rippled through the room. The head of marketing jotted something down, then looked up.

“And for the final name? Are we sticking with Variety of Time, or should we consider something more symbolic?”

Michael closed the folder slowly.

“We’ll think about it once the director signs off on the piece. A name means nothing if it doesn’t resonate.”

The meeting ended in dense quiet, without a single wasted word. What they’d just brushed against wasn’t a mere object nor a luxury. It was a blind spot — a fracture in the very structure of time perception.

The project was moving forward, already bearing the mark of the German prodigy: glacial, radical, imperial.

🌹🌹

A warm breath still lingered in the bathroom, saturated with steam scented of grey amber and oud wood — mysterious, intoxicating. The shower gel, a remnant from a former sponsor he'd once liked, left a dense and ambiguous trail on his skin: a salty heat of amber, softened by the dark depth of black oud.

Something warm and opaque, almost animalistic, like burning skin beneath luxury fabric.

A scent one didn’t forget. The kind that crept into your thoughts before you even noticed.

Michael turned off the light with a brush against the wall sensor, then made his way to the adjoining bedroom, hair still damp, the towel knotted around his hips.

His master suite opened into a deliberate darkness, crafted shadows and clean lines.

The floor, an old pinewood parquet darkened with oil, creaked barely beneath his steps. To the right, a monumental low bed, covered in slate-gray sheets, perfectly folded. Two matte black brass sconces hung on either side, and the headboard was upholstered in full-grain leather, hand-stitched.

No personal objects were visible — except for a notebook on the nightstand and a glass bottle labeled KAISER – prototype 4, now empty.

He didn’t even bother getting dressed. He settled onto the bed, back against the pristine pillows, and turned on his phone.

The screen lit up, reflecting the droplets suspended on his collarbones in a slow, almost obscene dance. With a single glance, his eyes scanned the notifications.

He cleared two, ignored four, and kept going until he landed on something new.

An email. Followed by an unusual design that caught his attention: a matte blue interface, no frills. At the center, a discreet logo — a sharp-lined black pentagon enclosing a stylized fingerprint shaped like a labyrinth.

Blue Lock.

Sender: J. Ego

Subject: Next Phase Project / Exclusive Participation

Confidentiality Level: Absolute

Michael froze. Not from surprise. Just that internal shiver, the dull beat deep in his solar plexus.

Mechanical.

Almost sexual.

Under the muted light of the room, his tattoo pulsed in rhythm with the rising adrenaline.

He opened the message.

Three lines. No explanation.

A date.

A location.

And one command: Request for confirmation.

It was an invitation.

And Michael Kaiser never refused one — especially not when he already knew who awaited him at the end.

A smile slowly formed on his lips.

No amusement. No softness.

A dry, wild smirk.

That of a predator.

He had been waiting for this moment.

He knew it would come.

His target would soon be his.

His.

To destroy.

And he intended to savor every second.

🧩 Isagi pov

Yoichi closed the door behind him with quiet care. Instantly, the scent of rice, grilled fish, and a faint trace of soy sauce still lingering in the air greeted him.

The windows had been left ajar to let in the breeze, and the muffled sound of the news floated in from the living room — a clear sign his parents had just finished lunch.

Yet a subtler fragrance remained: green tea and cedarwood. Along with it, the fresh memory of the teahouse lingered — pink petals swirling around them, Sae wearing that sideways smile, casually swinging the same little bag like a discreet trophy.

The older player had even snapped a photo from outside — their silhouettes barely visible behind the glass, the focus squarely on their hands holding the bag.

A minimalist shot, posted to his professional account, already spreading, attracting comments.

“Oh, you’re back, Yoichi!” his mother called from the living room.

Catching the hopeful note in her voice, he slipped off his shoes and replied:

“Yeah. I brought something for you.”

Bare feet on warm wood, he walked toward the main room, noting the small signs of daily life.

Stepping inside, he immediately picked up on the usual traces of an afternoon in motion. a steaming cup of tea in his mother’s hands, a coffee thermos on the low table — probably for his father, ready to grab before heading back to work.

“Did Sae-kun already leave?” she asked, clearly curious.

She sat on the couch, right beside her husband. Both were beaming at him.

Ah… They must’ve seen that photo a fan took earlier, when they were spotted entering the teahouse. 

Amused by their lack of subtlety, Yoichi sat down on the small corner sofa. A faint smile touched his lips as he nodded.

"Yeah. He had an appointment this afternoon. He said he was sorry he couldn’t greet you," he said, setting the bag down on the coffee table. "But he really wanted to get you some treats."

The soft surprise on his parents’ faces made him smile.

"That’s very kind of him," his mother murmured, already leaning in toward the package. "He didn’t have to."

"We saw the photo," his father added with a faint, crooked smile, glancing away from the TV. "It’s blurry, but your hair’s unmistakable."

Anyone who assumed Isagi Issei, his father, to be a naïve man because of his perpetually gentle expression was seriously mistaken. He was as sharp as his wife and, much to Yoichi’s dismay, he also loved to tease.

The striker rolled his eyes — not out of malice, just enough to mask how well he knew his own luck.

"Great..." he muttered.

"You’re becoming famous, Yo-chan," his mother teased, laughter light in her voice. "Next time, warn us before the paparazzi tail you."

He sank deeper into the couch. 

"Sae thought it’d be discreet enough."

Iyo passed a strawberry mochi to her husband, who took a bite with a pleased hum.

"He doesn’t mind the attention?" Issei asked. "He’s an international player, after all."

Yoichi shook his head, watching his mother sample the sweets in turn.

"No. He thought it was funny."

"And the lounge?" she asked, curious. "Was it as beautiful as people say?"

Yoichi pulled his phone from his pocket, ignoring the notifications piling up since morning, and set it on the table.

"I took a few pictures," he admitted.

His parents leaned in, intrigued, and began scrolling.

"The decor was beautiful," he added. "It was peaceful. And the desserts were good."

"Oh, how lovely," his mother murmured. "So traditional..."

He let the comment hang in the air a little longer as they kept scrolling through the photos. Then, casually, he added:

“Sae mentioned a marriage contract.’”

The blue-eyed player barely held back a laugh when his father choked on his second mochi.

His parents stared at him for a few seconds… before bursting into laughter together. Honest, startled — almost relieved laughter.

“Young people these days,” Issei chuckled.

“It wasn’t a real proposal, I hope?” Iyo added, hiding her smile behind her teacup.

Yoichi shrugged, indifferent.

“He does like to make a scene, apparently.”

His mother exchanged a knowing glance with her husband before turning back to him.

“And you? Do you like this dramatic young man?”

He held her gaze for a moment, then replied calmly:

“Sae is a friend. Maybe… more than anyone else so far.”

A soft, almost respectful silence settled between them, before his father spoke again, lower:

“That’s good, son. You need more friends.”

His mother set down her cup. Her gaze had softened, but it still held that familiar clarity.

“You’ve always been so alone, sweetheart.”

It wasn’t a reproach. Not even a question. Just a fact — spoken with all the love in the world.

Yoichi didn’t answer right away. For once, no one rushed to fill the silence. It wasn’t heavy or sad — just filled with the quiet understanding that he’d never need to explain.

Not to them.

Issei resumed, as if he’d guessed: 

“We saw you’d made friends… over there. At Blue Lock. We saw you smile. We thought maybe… things were getting better.”

Yoichi breathed in slowly.

It was true. Even if things were still blurry. Even if it was scary sometimes.

“I think so. Yeah.”

A small sigh of agreement answered him, and then Iyo offered him another mochi.

“Well, that dramatic young man can keep bringing you some, then. As long as he makes you want to smile a little.”

He took the pastry without a word, though a smile had already begun to form.

They spent a little while longer talking about everything and nothing.

A training session he’d had with Bachira and Nagi.

A recipe his mother wanted to try.

A new overly “eager” colleague at his father’s office.

Nothing important.

Exactly what they all needed.

Eventually, his parents stood.

Issei picked up his thermos. Iyo placed her empty cup by the sink and slipped her shoes back on with a quiet sigh, tired.

“We’ll be home late tonight. Leave a light on, okay?”

Yoichi nodded.

They kissed him the same way they always had — a hand on his cheek, a squeeze on his shoulder.

A habit too deeply rooted to ever disappear.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Silence followed.

The real kind. Heavy and familiar. The one he knew far too well.

Only the TV kept murmuring about the weather.

Soft daylight crept lazily through the half-open windows.

Still, he didn’t move.

As if some part of him already knew: letting his thoughts wander now would send him spiraling back into places he wasn’t ready to revisit.

Almost reluctantly, he turned off the TV and sat at the edge of the couch.

His gaze landed on the notebook he’d left there the night before. He picked it up with care, as though any sudden motion might shatter the fragile balance of the moment.

Inside:

A detailed breakdown of Sae’s latest match.

Quick notes on a few of Rin’s movements, mostly the ones that had allowed them to sync so well during the U-20 game.

Observations on Nagi’s fluid style.

Chigiri’s surgical precision.

Scribbled margins filled with thoughts on the other Blue Lock players.

He had even created a comparison diagram between Chigiri’s speed and Loki's, the French prodigy.

But, what truly held his attention were the two full pages devoted entirely to Michael Kaiser.

The German’s name was framed at the top, centered, written in Western order — Michael Kaiser, not Kaiser Michael. He’d ended up writing it that way without even thinking about it.

The striker had collected clips from several matches, focusing on Kaiser’s movements during Bastard München’s defensive phases.

He noticed how the whole team seemed to orbit around the blond player — his calm, efficient style dictating both attack and defense, with teammates constantly adjusting to his rhythm.

Everything looked fluid, controlled.

Almost too perfect.

Clean football — far too aesthetic.

Brutal in its precision.

Yoichi had scribbled between lines:

“Anti-chaos style. Superior precision.

Compared to Sae? Inflexible. Narrative control.”

And lower, nearly off the page:

 “Unreadable. Too readable. Unpredictable.

Maybe the real problem.”

However, in that sea of information, beyond the movements and gameplay, he’d uncovered something that didn’t show up on the pitch.

After stumbling upon the Haus Weltenbrandt ad again he decided to give it another look.

Sometimes it was the smallest, most trivial things that revealed the most about someone.

So, digging a little deeper, just before the brand’s contact details, printed in elegant, neutral italics, he had found one discreet line in an annual report:

“Funds recovered via the KAISER line.”

Regular donations made to several orphanages in Germany’s most disadvantaged areas.

Not millions.

Just a modest sum, sent each year.

Consistent.

Present.

For a second, the young striker had frozen.

Something was off.

It didn’t add up.

Kaiser was arrogant. He carried himself like he was above everyone else — with that smug look in his eye and a smile far too cruel.

The kind of player who pointed at you after scoring.

Who broke a match’s balance just for the thrill of reshaping it to his own advantage.

And yet… behind the media armor, the taunts, the obsession with perfection — there was that.

That unexpected softness. The kind he’d seen in other players, but never in those who played to be worshipped. Never in those who needed to be the only one shining.

A crack in the surface. A difference that maybe disguised something darker.

Yoichi straightened up slowly, his mind still caught on the details. He reread one of his latest notes, written in delicate handwriting at the bottom of the page:

“Kaiser plays like he doesn’t need anyone.

He acts like he wants to be seen.

Yet never truly reveals himself.”

A little too familiar.

A little too close to what he himself had been running from for far too long.

Deciding now wasn’t the time to dwell on it, he stood up and reached for his mat, driven more by instinct than by will. 

Maybe some meditation would help clear his mind. After a few weeks on the same team, he’d gotten into the habit of meditating with Rin, often in the early afternoon, after practice or during quieter days.

But the universe seemed to disagree.

His phone, silent for the past few minutes, suddenly buzzed with renewed intensity.

Maybe he’d ignored it too long?

He hesitated for a moment, but when the fourth notification came in back-to-back, Yoichi turned the device over.

The oldest alert that popped up — likely the one causing all the chaos — immediately caught his attention:

📱 Itoshi Sae posted to his story, 1 hour ago

  @itoshi_sae_official ⚽️🧊, 1.3M views

📍Tokyo, Hanagiri — 茶と季節, traditional tea house

He recognized the photo Sae had taken — and he had to admit, it was eye-catching.

Seeing it again on a professional account, stirred something in him.

It was like watching a film he’d already seen ten times, but now it was being screened in a packed theater. It wasn’t just a frozen moment anymore — it was a message, an amplified narrative, ready to be shared and scrutinized.

Still, what really caught his eye was the video.

A video — of him, from behind, head slightly turned to the side as he walked toward the car — that he hadn’t even known existed.

No tag. No direct mention.

However, anyone who had seen the match between Blue Lock and Japan U-20 would recognize him instantly.

And even if the Re Al player didn’t reveal anything outright, the message was clear:

He had seen him.

And now, the entire world could see him too.

Sensing the storm brewing, Blue Lock’s number 11 opened the app, his heart steady but his mind alert.

The likes were climbing by the second. Comments were flooding in beneath the reposted story, shared by multiple fan accounts:

----

“Is that Isagi Yoichi?!”

“OMG their hands—”

“Okay but… they don’t even have that big a height difference but… you know what, never mind.”

“Is this a teaser for a collab or are they actually together?”

“Sae has never posted something like this before, wtf???”

“Oh. Oh… why does this feel so weirdly right? Cameras did catch their final look on the field.”

----

Yoichi sighed.

Well, he had expected this. Sae had clearly chosen the photo carefully to get this exact reaction.

Still, part of him had still hoped it would stay subtle.

What a mess.

Maybe after this morning’s headlines, people had already been expecting something?

As if summoned by demons — or like some divine signal of catastrophe — the Blue Lock group chat kept blowing up, to his absolute dismay.

----

🔵⛓️⚽️ Blue Lock Shit [37+]

[...]

Bachira: @ISAGI !! ARE YOU DROPPING A SCOOP ON US??? 😲

Chigiri: That video… have you ever thought about acting?

Karasu: @Chigiri that’s actually a great idea.

Nanase: @Isagi… You’re so pretty?! 🫣

Kurona: @Nanase He is, right? Right? 👀

Reo: I knew Sae was intense, but this... are you like, his personal PR campaign now??

Nagi: Oh... @Isagi that was unexpected...

Hiori: Is it for a sponsor or are you two actually... I mean… together?

Yukimiya: He smiled... @Isagi, you can smile?

Rin: What the fuck— ?!

----

Determined to ignore all of them, he went to set his phone down face first, ready to detach completely, when the screen vibrated one last time.

Longer.

A call.

From Shidou fucking Ryusei.

Yoichi hesitated.

Half a second.

Then answered knowing full well that if he didn’t, Blue Lock’s Demon would just keep calling all day until he got his attention.

He was immediately greeted by that dragging, explosive voice, impossible to forget:

“Isagi-chaaaan~! Two Japanese beauties outside a tearoom, in that soft light… It’s almost drama-worthy, what you two pulled off.”

His tone had that rough, drawn-out texture — like sea glass scraped along the edge of your lips. Packed with barely restrained excitement.

It wasn’t even speaking anymore. It was more like a growl, twisted into a grin that you could hear in every word.

“You have any idea what those kinds of videos do to me?” he went on, a low chuckle sliding into his tone — almost obscene.

Yoichi closed his eyes for a second, counting to ten to keep the headache at bay.

Shidou Ryusei was… a bomb. A creature wired with chaos, raw energy, adrenaline so sharp it seemed to bleed from every syllable.

An invisible pressure — volatile, violent — always on the edge of detonation.

“Shidou-san…”

“No, seriously. The framing, your cute little hair dancing in the breeze, that confident walk... Damn, it was so clean it fried two of my brain cells.”

Classic Shidou. Despite himself, a shadow of a smile tugged at Yoichi’s lips.

“We’re getting to know each other,” he said honestly, knowing just how obsessed the other was with Sae. “He helped me after the U-20 match. But we’re not dating, if that’s what you’re really asking.”

A pause. Then a low, revving laugh on the other end of the line.

“Oooh. So he’s available. And you’re not in the way. So sweet of you, Isagi-chan.”

Yoichi rolled his eyes, but the smile was already stuck to his lips, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

“Don’t you want to get to know him before talking like that?” he asked as he stood to get some water.

All these emotions were bound to dry him out.

Would Ego-san punish him if he gave up because of dehydration?

Probably...

“Nah. I liked Sae-chan from the start,” Shidou admitted, calmer and clearer now. “That arrogant coldness, the way he looks at you like you don’t exist… It’s sexy, you know? Totally my style.”

Yoichi nodded, amused.

Yeah. Sae was attractive.

Handsome. Intimidating.

Undeniable.

Impossible to ignore.

He took a sip of water and returned to his mat, waiting for the Demon to continue.

Unexpectedly, Shidou paused.

Not long. Just... odd.

A warning of what was coming.

Then Shidou spoke again, softer, like a whisper through the screen:

“But you? You’re different.”

The blue-eyed player froze immediately. A cold breeze seemed to sweep through the room. 

It felt like the balance he’d built around himself had tilted. Just enough to make him notice.

Something Yoichi hadn’t planned for.

Something dangerous.

The Demon continued, slower now:

“You might not wear his mask, but instead you carry a nice armor. Something that sticks to your skin. You locked yourself in, right? I think Sae-chan saw that too... and he’s trying to get you out.”

A heavy, dense quiet settled over the room.

“I barely paid attention to you, Isagi-chan. At first, it was Sae who interested me. Meanwhile you… you make yourself known. Quietly. Fiercely. You take up space without shouting. I like that.”

Yoichi sighed. He wanted to brush off the other striker’s words with a wave of his hand.

The worst part was, he understood. 

Maybe even... he’d felt it too.

Shidou lowered his voice, barely hiding a whisper:

“Isagi-chan seems just as perfect~.”

“Oh my god. Now you’re gonna follow me too? Wasn’t one complicated, uptight Itoshi enough for you?”

A dry sound exploded on the other end. A chaotic, sincere bark of pleasure.

“You pretended for too long like you had nothing to offer, number 11. And now that it’s spilling out? You’re scared someone will see it.”

He straightened up. Back straight, jaw clenched.

Touché.

The other continued, calmer but just as cutting.

“I know exactly what kind you are. The type who needs to control everything. Who endures. Who stays standing even when it bleeds.”

He paused, then added:

“But you forget one thing, Isagi. Even the coldest puzzle pieces end up fitting somewhere.”

The silence that followed stretched out. And this time, Yoichi didn’t break it right away.

“What do you want, Shidou?” he finally asked, whispering, like a secret slipping between heartbeats.

“For now? Just your voice, Usagi-chan,” Shidou replied, his voice deeper, rougher, almost… intimate. “ Soon… I might want more.”

The call ended.

The Demon had hung up.

Yoichi stood there, unmoving, the phone still warm in his hand. The space around him felt larger somehow, as if the living room had stretched to make room for something unseen.

Shidou’s words still lingered, a truth dropped like a blade.

He should have hated it.

That kind of voice, too close.

That kind of sharp insight, thrown like a challenge.

But deep down, it wasn’t so different from what he sometimes felt… around Sae.

Maybe those two… were made to slip into his cracks.

Or break them clean open.

Yoichi noted the thought.

It deserved to be explored.

He rolled out his mat and sat down. Back straight. Hands resting on his thighs. Inhale. Exhale.

He needed to cut through the noise echoing in his mind… a dark silhouette, and two pairs of eyes he could no longer ignore.

The striker was about to close his eyes, to pick up the rhythm of his breath again, when another vibration rattled the coffee table.

Not a message. Not a team group notification.

Just a random alert tied to one of Sae’s posts:

@_michael_kaiser_official 💠🌹 liked a post from

@itoshi_sae_official ⚽️🧊

Yoichi paused, caught off guard.

It wasn’t like Kaiser to like anything. He’d seen it himself — the account, locked down by an army of community managers, only served to broadcast ice-cold portraits and sponsored posts.

Still, the German had seen Sae’s post… and he’d liked it.

A single like — in that world, it was a door left ajar, a veiled threat.

A piece moved with no warning.

Sae had told him. More than once, since they started talking: Be careful.

As if he was expecting something.

As if he knew.

Yoichi had found it overblown. He hadn’t reached the top yet.

Not visible enough to draw that kind of attention.

Especially not from a foreign player.

The message was clear: he was watching.

He was waiting.

A quiet chill climbed the back of his neck.

Kaiser.

The man clearly didn’t need words to make his presence known.

To be felt.

And now that his gaze had landed on him… Yoichi knew, deep in his core, that it wouldn’t leave.

🧩🧩

The next day

Voices overlapped, bursts of laughter flew, napkins fluttered to the floor, and glasses clinked a little too loudly. Even the pale wood of the two large tables, hastily pushed together by the staff, wasn’t enough to contain the group’s overflowing energy.

They conquered half the room in less than twenty minutes.

Amid the chaos, Yoichi sat upright in his chair, one hand resting on his clear plastic cup. He sipped slowly, savoring the gentle bitterness of a blend of mint, peach, and green tea — the kind of drink he probably wouldn’t have noticed if Sae hadn’t praised it in a message, accompanied by a photo.

He wasn’t the loudest, nor the most expressive. He never had been.

That afternoon, something had shifted. In his silence. In the way he looked around. As if the pieces had shifted just slightly.

He no longer avoided eyes. Though his smile remained faint, it was there — sincere and fragile. Waving towards something brighter.

Chigiri was just recounting the worst possible anecdote about Barou, from their second elimination phase, with Nagi acting out the scene with questionable flair. Bachira laughed loudly, legs folded against his chest on the bench, as if watching the comedy of the century.

In front of them, Reo and Karasu exchanged knowing looks, their chuckles entwined in a new… somewhat unsettling complicity.

At the far end of the table, Gagamaru quietly sipped a purple smoothie, while Raichi tried to draw him into the heated debate he was having with Aryu about the best way to manage stress during matches.

Shidou, of course, ignored everyone — busy doodling strange sketches on a napkin, chewing his gum with deliberate menace.

A little further off, Barou was loudly explaining his latest goal in a friendly against a university club, his gestures punctuated with fierce onomatopoeia.

Otoya, half slumped in his chair, mockingly repeated, “That was just luck, king,” to rile him up.

Tokimitsu nodded nervously, caught between admiration and panic at the thought that Barou might actually explode.

A debate had spontaneously started about the new cleats provided by one of the sponsors — Kurona found them too stiff while Nanase praised their futuristic design.

All of it formed a sweet, disorderly, living tumult. A suspended moment of respite somewhere between noise and warmth.

Yoichi listened half-heartedly. Answered occasionally. A word. A glance. His humor — drier, rarer — always landed just right, like a surgical strike amid the racket.

He knew he was being watched.

Not only by curious customers at the neighboring tables, but also by the staff — one of whom had discreetly murmured their names to a colleague, phone already in hand.

Mostly by Hiori, sitting across the table, whose calm gaze had the sharpness of a chess player assessing a new move. And Yukimiya, right beside him, whose overly polite smile barely concealed the tension in his shoulders.

Then there was Rin. 

Silent, seated just opposite in the shadow cast by a parasol, barely lit by the café’s warm light. His green eyes, as wild as a hawk searching for prey, never left him.

He said nothing. 

He didn’t need to. 

Yoichi knew exactly what the other wanted: Sae.

Youngest Itoshi waited for the topic to come up. For number 11 to let slip a word, a hint. As if he too was trying to fill in the blanks of a missing piece, hunting the shadow of his brother in his silences.

Their willpower duel was far from neutral — it was charged. Like a page turned too quickly.

The blue-eyed striker therefore chose to ignore their attention, content to adjust his cup between his hands.

Rumors had been swirling since morning. Since yesterday’s articles and the posts that followed, the football world was swimming in speculation on a scale beyond anything he had ever seen. 

Enough to set all social networks on fire.

Yoichi had chosen to say nothing. 

Not a word, not a comment, not a denial.

He hadn’t answered any calls — except Shidou’s, who wouldn’t have given up anyway — and ignored most messages. 

Except Sae’s.

Instead, he had withdrawn to the essentials: his meditation, some music, the dinner prepared for him and his parents.

A slight movement, almost imperceptible, caught his attention.

From where he sat, Shidou dropped his napkin and lifted his eyes toward him. He watched Rin, then Yoichi… then Rin again. Following an invisible thread between them.

His gaze — pink, wild, with slit pupils — settled back on him. The gleam shining in them left no doubt: Blue Lock’s Demon had just solved a puzzle.

However, nothing in his posture betrayed any particular interest. Just enough to be seen… without ever being suspected.

In response to the blond interest, Yoichi simply crossed his arms more firmly over his chest and leaned back slightly, pretending to be absorbed in thought. He averted his gaze, jaw relaxed, but his thumb tapped gently against his forearm — but his thumb tapped gently against his forearm — a tiny tic, hard to notice.

Of course, that ridiculous hair was still in the corner of his eye — gold clashing with pink like a warning sign with no off switch.

A waiter passed by at that moment, setting down a fresh carafe of water and two forgotten pastries in front of Nagi and Bachira, who glanced up without even slowing their conversation. They thanked him politely, and the bustle around them resumed like a breath.

Then his phone vibrated.

A banal, familiar ringtone. One of those you hear a thousand times a day… This time, however, the screen lighting up froze him for a moment.

A video call. A name displayed: Sae-kun ♟️🧊.

After their outing the day before, the suffix “Sae-kun” had come naturally — almost without thinking, as if their dynamic had gently settled into a new shape. 

The same way it had a few days earlier when Itoshi became Sae.

Now, he himself had become Yo-chan 🧩🌊 in the redhead’s phone.

He couldn’t have left it as before. 

Just Sae felt too dry. 

Too functional. 

Not when the Re Al player had become something else entirely — a quiet anchor, a personal whisper kept just for him. 

A soft weakness he allowed himself.

Yoichi hesitated, a heartbeat or two. Then answered, fully aware that any hint of voice, any soft inflection, would stir the unspoken curiosity of his teammates.

The image opened on Sae, hair still damp, bare-chested, draped in a white towel. Carefully framed to tease without revealing too much. His green gaze, half-languid, half-glinting with irony, betrayed no embarrassment.

“Darling, I already miss you,” he declared in a lingering tone, deliberately loud enough.

So the Re Al player was in a good mood…

His greeting hung in the air and a surprised silence enveloped the table. Until Rin choked on his tea, triggering a chain reaction. 

Like a slap on the water, the uproar was instantaneous.

Reactions flew. 

Laughter, exclamations, indignation.

At the neighboring table, a young woman in a suit nearly spilled her latte, eyes fixed on the screen. A waiter stopped short, blinked, then resumed walking as if nothing had happened — too late, his grimace betrayed his embarrassment.

Somewhere at the back of the café, someone let out a “huh?!” far too loud to be discreet.

Around him, the world wavered between hilarity and astonishment.

At the center, Yoichi remained an island of calm. 

He could have sighed. 

Telepathically smacked him. 

Instead, he simply stared at the screen. The camera angle made everything feel even more deliberate.

The striker didn’t react. The screen, held at face height, perfectly captured his eyes raised to Sae’s — calm, unfathomable.

No grimace. 

No word.

Only that silence, sharp as a pinpoint pass in the middle of chaos.

“Sae-kun,” he greeted, voice low, almost tender.

The whisper was enough to make Yukimiya raise his eyes, surprised. Almost as though he’d just discovered a new facet of Yoichi, one he’d never suspected.

Not in his voice.

Not with that look.

On the other side of the screen, Sae smiled — that slow, deliberate smirk, as if savoring it. Pleased that Yoichi had joined his game.

Just for him, he breathed:

“See? They’re all biting the bait.”

A sidelong glance to the camera. Then louder, with a slightly lingering voice:

“Hope you slept well, Yo-chan. You looked exhausted last night.”

It was an explosion.

“WHAT??!” Choked Karasu.

“No, please…” whimpered Tokimitsu, clearly distressed.

“Excuse me? YO-CHAN?” shouted Bachira, between laughter and existential shock.

Nagi slowly lifted his eyes from his pastry, as if gravity itself had just shifted.

Reo, arms crossed, suddenly looked ready to dissect that statement from every angle, while Chigiri declared:

“It’s illegal to be that calm after that.”

Kurona just muttered, “I knew it, I knew it…” and tapped his thigh like he’d won an inside bet.

Yoichi didn’t smile.

But his eyes shone with a quiet gleam. A gleam they hadn’t seen from him yet.

“Go get dressed, instead. We don't want the others to see it.”

The phrase fell, measured, almost too gentle. 

He ended the call and casually set his phone back on the table.

A hush fell over the room.

Then a loud burst of noise seemed to take over the entire café.

And at the center of the commotion, Yoichi lifted his cup and took a sip.

As if nothing had happened.

Bachira was doubled over with laughter on the bench, hands pressed over his mouth to keep from shouting. He struggled to breathe, barely able to say, between bursts of laughter, “Yo-chan… YO-CHAN??”

“You planned to drop that on us just like that, without warning?!” Reo asked, clearly offended on a personal level. “You could’ve at least told us, I don’t know, confirmed the rumors, so we could be mentally prepared?”

Yukimiya took another sip from his glass, eyes still fixed on him.

“You know you’re going to be tagged in every gossip thread by tomorrow morning?” he muttered. “Even more than yesterday, if that’s even possible…”

“Oh yeah. I’m already drafting a dramatic post,” Otoya sneered, typing furiously on his phone, eyes sparkling. Karasu loomed over his shoulder, feeding him ideas.

The others were already whispering, dissecting every word, every look — like vultures circling a fresh headline.

Rin, meanwhile, was frozen. Back straight, jaw clenched, fingers tight around his cup.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

His eyes stayed locked on him.

It was Shidou, of course, who broke the balance. He let out a low, mocking whistle.

“You act like it doesn’t bother you, yet your ears are burning, Isagi-chan.” A grin stretched his lips. “So cute~.”

A long, deliberately mocking cute.

Still, there was something else beneath it — a softness, quiet and fleeting, as if he were picking up on something no one else could see.

Yoichi didn’t respond. He simply took another controlled, calculated sip of his drink.

As if none of this had anything to do with him.

Only his ears betrayed him — flushed a faint pink. Exactly as the Demon had said.

He caught the moment Rin shifted, tense, on the verge of speaking. But before a single word left his lips… the phone vibrated again. 

A new message from Sae.

Yoichi opened it immediately, almost by instinct.

----

  > Sae-kun ♟️🧊 (14:23)

“Missing me already? Say yes, Yoichi. I love gossip.”

----

Without hesitation, he typed his reply, fully aware that every Blue Lock player was watching.

----

  > Me (14:24)

“You’re unbearable.”

----

Three seconds later, the screen lit up.

A new video call.

He answered. Sae’s image appeared again — dressed this time, but with the same half-smirk.

His voice, casual, lingered a bit over the speaker:

“Tell me, Yoichi… isn’t that my sweater you’re wearing?”

Yoichi blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t thought about it this morning. Just grabbed what was warm, not realizing Sae had tucked it in with the mochis, folded with care. 

Like a silent offering.

The garment smelled nice and felt soft. 

Too soft to be his own.

Too Sae.

Oh…

Around him, conversations froze.

“Oh, damn,” whispered Nanase.

Yoichi stayed still, but his flushed cheeks betrayed him. He ran a hand through his hair, as if to compose himself.

Sae, on screen, stretched a slow smile.

He was playing with him.

They both knew it.

“It suits you,” he added. “Almost better than me.”

Chirigi chuckled. Shidou slapped the table, laughing loudly, devouring the chaos offered to him. Yukimiya and Hiori turned toward him like two cameras pointed at a target on full display.

Rin… The tension in his jaw was a clear sign: his patience was wearing thin.

“And by the way,” Sae continued, more innocent than ever, “you still haven’t told me if you think I look good today.”

Yoichi took a slow breath.

He wouldn’t give in.

Not in front of them.

Not completely.

The younger lifted his eyes to the camera and answered in a calm tone, so dry yet so soft at the same time, that it immediately cut through the commotion:

“You’re wearing your shirt inside out, Itoshi.”

Silence fell.

It lasted.

Then Sae looked down, genuinely surprised.

He’d probably rushed. Happy to tease him and Rin.

“…Shit,” was his only reply.

And the screen went black.

This time, the burst of laughter shook the entire room.

Even Rin, who seemed to have just won a contest only he and his brother knew about, gave a subtle smirk.

Yoichi, still slightly flushed, couldn’t help but let a smile slip out. He set down his phone, crossed his arms, finally breathing out.

The café buzzed with echoes of laughter.

Some customers tried to return to their conversations. Others stared — discreetly or not — in their direction.

One of the waiters nearly tripped on the carpet while bringing over a water carafe, too focused on the scene unfolding.

The blue-eyed player calmly retrieved his cup, as though nothing had happened.

“Did we just witness a live romantic drama?” Reo exclaimed, arms wide as if invoking divine intervention.

“That was… iconic,” murmured Chigiri, still stunned, though clearly impressed.

“You got roasted in real time,” Nagi added, his tone lazy. “And somehow, you're still ahead. That’s what makes it terrifying.”

Yoichi remained composed, although his ears didn’t follow his lead.

“This isn’t real, right?” Reo pressed. “You’re faking it? Part of some psychological strategy?”

“Totally an Ego-style plan,” Bachira chimed in, wiping away a tear. “Step one: emotional sabotage.”

Yukimiya sipped his tea, utterly unfazed.

“It has Itoshi’s fingerprints all over it. Flashy. Shameless. Made to stir gossip.”

“And Isagi?” Hiori asked quietly, eyes locked on him. “What’s your angle?”

Yoichi didn’t answer right away.

Just a faint shrug — poised, unreadable. Never yielding.

Then, cutting through the quiet:

“I gotta say,” Shidou drawled, “I get where Sae’s coming from.”

Heads turned.

The Demon was smiling lazily, half-lidded eyes fixed on his cup where his spoon spun idly in a swirl of milk.

“That sweater really does suit him,” he murmured. “A little too well, honestly.”

“You were right,” Nagi whispered to Reo. “The pink one’s plotting something.”

Shidou didn’t look their way. His attention was locked elsewhere.

“I’m not into sharing. But this? This makes me curious. Really curious.”

Yoichi held his stare, unflinching.

“I’m not a toy, Demon.”

Shidou shrugged, lips curled in a blurred smirk.

“Didn’t say you were. Just that you look fun to break. And even more fun to piece back together.”

Rin shot to his feet.

The chair scraped sharply against the floor, slicing through the tension.

“You planning to keep spewing that crap?” he growled.

“Relax, Itoshi junior,” Shidou replied, stretching lazily. “Didn’t even cross the line. Not yet.”

He chuckled, eyes lit with something close to delirium.

“Feels like we’re all part of a little game. Some of you just haven’t noticed you’re already two moves from checkmate.”

His gaze returned to Yoichi.

“Isn’t that right?”

Yoichi didn’t blink. He set his cup down and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

Rin’s watchful, protective gaze followed him — ready to take his place if needed.

Yoichi stored that detail for later, something to throw back at Rin when the time came.

Then he said:

“I choose my games. And my opponents.”

A slow smile spread across his face. Razor-sharp. One of the rare ones he only revealed on the field.

“You can stay on the sidelines if that helps you hold up.” He finished, satisfied.

A collective “ohhh” rose from the tables.

Shidou didn’t move. But his gaze grew… hungry. Burning. A pure, dangerous spark.

He leaned forward too, palms flat on the table.

“You’re even sexier when you bite. Seriously, Isagi-chan… was I the one you belonged to before Sae came to stir things up, huh?”

Yoichi held his gaze without flinching.

“That’s you.”

A laugh escaped Demon's throat. 

Short. Genuine.

“Damn. I love it when you lie.”

He fell back against his chair.

The silence that followed was heavy. Electric. Full of unspoken things.

Slowly, Bachira raised his arms to the sky: 

“There. That’s enough. I’m surrendering my brain. Someone wake me up when this telenovela has a winner.”

“It’s not a triangle, it’s a ticking time bomb,” muttered Niko.

“And it’s not even dessert time yet,” sighed Reo.

Only Rin, as always, kept his eyes fixed on him, fully aware that none of this was a game.

Amid all the chaos, Yoichi leaned back in his chair and picked up his phone again.

----

  > Sae-kun ♟️🧊 (14:38)

“Having fun?”

  > Me (14:40)

“You just added another player to the board. Nice. He’s crazy.”

----

Three dots appeared. Then a reply:

----

  > Sae-kun ♟️🧊 (14:41)

“Perfect. The bigger the chaos, the more you show yourself.”

And right after:

  > Sae-kun ♟️🧊 (14:42)

“I’ll come get you tomorrow. We’re training. I want to try something.”

----

A brief laugh escaped him, quiet, almost silent, but very real. He shook his head gently, shoulders finally relaxed.

----

  > Me (14:43)

“I’m bringing a bulletproof vest.”

----

The midfielder replied with a single emoji: 🔥

Yoichi set his phone down on the table, screen facing down. Around him, conversations resumed as if the chaos had evaporated. 

A deceptive calm. 

Dropping his observation, he looked up at the window just opposite.

In that distorted mirror, he saw no confusion, no hesitation.

Only a cold gleam — that of someone who moves his pieces with care.

Yoichi wouldn’t turn back.

Not yet.

Because the game had only just begun.

And this time…

He fully intended to win.

Note : 

Herein — A German word used to invite someone in, meaning “come in.” Polite, slightly formal, and fitting in a context of discipline or hierarchy.

Guten Morgen, Herr Kaiser — German for “Good morning, Mr. Kaiser.” A formal and respectful greeting, often used in professional or hierarchical contexts.

Touché — A French word literally meaning "touched". In conversation, it’s used to acknowledge a good or clever point made by someone else.

Like saying, "You got me there," or "Well played." It’s a quick, witty way to admit that the other person’s comment hit its mark.

Usagi — A Japanese word meaning “rabbit.” It can be used as a nickname, either affectionately or teasingly, for someone seen as soft, innocent, or quick — depending on the context.

Telenovela — A Spanish term for a dramatic television series, often overflowing with emotional twists and turns. Used by Bachira here to mock the theatrical flair of the scene.

Chapter Text

♟️ Sae Pov 

Itoshi Sae wasn't sure when it all started. When his gaze, usually analytical, focused only on what he wanted, had been drawn to something other than football.

As if pulled by a cold, wild current, which had diverted him from a trajectory that he had believed, until then, to be unshakeable.

A path he had followed for years, indifferent to the consequences — for him, as for his family.

No... to say he didn't know was a lie.

He was too logical, too rational to pretend such nonsense. It would be an offense to his own nature.

To his very being.

Sae remembered perfectly the moment Isagi Yoichi had captured his attention, drawing him away from the obsession with the game, like light attracting darkness.

It was a flash of lightning, followed by a dull roar. And, in its wake, the shadow of something burning.

An ache that lingered.

Like a goal never scored.

The very moment their eyes met, on this field where the future was being played out, the evidence struck him: he had to act.

Because that deep blue, of a maddening beauty, had faced without fear, delighted, his own cold emerald eyes.

Like no one ever had before.

Those eyes seemed to call to him, waiting to be seen. 

Chosen.

Beneath that gaze, beneath the spark of that connection, the Japanese prodigy knew he couldn’t let him go.

He had to test him.

To see how far the other could go.

The weight exchanged in that moment — it wasn’t innocent.

No.

Just like him, he had wanted it.

Already devouring everything.

Isagi Yoichi was like him.

A being apart.

A master of control.

For the U-20 match against Blue Lock, the midfielder had chosen Shidou Ryusei.

A will that had imposed itself.

The Demon was perfect. 

For the role he envisioned: unpredictable, brutal, useful.

Interesting, certainly.

Clingy, a little too crazy. But that wild, uncontrollable style... he had found it fascinating, at the time.

Yet, in that suspended moment — disarmingly simple — Sae understood that he might have missed an opportunity. Ignored someone even more savage than Shidou himself.

And for him, it was unthinkable.

Almost insulting.

There was no way Japan was going to stifle, or worse, appropriate, such a brain. Especially after seeing the control Blue Lock's number 11 exerted: this discreet, but constant, manipulation over his teammates.

And on his opponents.

Isagi had held back then.

He was still holding back. It was visible in the way the young player with the striking eyes was afraid of giving up. As if he were a prisoner of an invisible force, prevented from revealing his true potential.

Sae had never felt anything like it.

At least, not consciously.

It seemed like the world stopped, suspended, as this still unknown player passed by.

Somewhere in that furtive exchange, that damned restraint both fascinated and annoyed him. He knew, all too well, that this apparent control was only a mask — a flimsy armor that Number 11 wore to protect himself.

So as not to get lost in the chaos of the game, nor in that of others’ gazes.

The Re Al midfielder wanted to break this barrier. To be the one who, instead of coercing, would let Isagi reveal himself.

Surrender to who he really was.

But to do that, he would first have to gain his trust. Convince him that he was not a threat, but an ally.

Sae was ready for anything. Because in Isagi, he saw a version of himself he had never dared to be.

In ancient Greece, people believed in doppelgangers: a murky mirror of who you are, and what you will become.

In just one game, he understood that Isagi Yoichi was that parallel.

A version unlike his own.

The redhead guessed that this path of mutual trust would not be easy.

Number 11 was still too cautious. Almost afraid to reveal himself completely.

A fact that didn't really surprise him.

Japanese football was stifling.

An insult to the sport itself.

So he had observed him throughout the match. Torn apart every layer of this restraint, whose core burned with a wild flame—ready to set everything ablaze, if it were well guided.

Sae… He would be the one to reach out.

Who would tear the veils, break the invisible chains. So that Isagi finally dares to abandon himself to the game, to the madness of the field, to his true nature.

That was why he approached him, as soon as the match ended. Ignoring the stares and whispers, he let himself be guided by an unprecedented need: to help.

Not out of kindness.

Not out of duty.

In that striker, he had seen it — something unacceptable. A potential, sleeping just beneath the surface

After giving him his number, he swore to himself that it would be temporary.

A simple way to sharpen your game. To reveal his blind spots, so that later on – perhaps – the teenager could become what he was looking for in a striker.

Someone who can keep up with him.

Nothing more.

Yet, the younger one had turned out to be… surprisingly easygoing.

Not in the ordinary sense of the word. He had nothing in common with those docile, bland, featureless players.

The other possessed that fascinating calm — a cold, polite serenity, never submissive — that intrigued him.

A sharp intelligence.

An almost instinctive ability to adapt.

And beneath this layer of control?

A discreet, rare sweetness. Something Sae had never been able to recognize in himself.

Even less so in others.

Except maybe Rin, in their childhood.

So he stayed.

Not because he was forced to. In reality, without realizing, he had started to want it.

Take him under his wing.

Make it shine.

And maybe… keep it.

Never to shape it.

Just to see what Isagi was really like.

Their rapprochement had been inevitable.

As if it were written somewhere, in a silent trajectory, just waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.

They were too similar.

Too lucid.

Too alone in their way of analyzing the game, of abandoning themselves to it as if to a silent faith.

To Sae, they were two separate brains that, once on the field, merged with such harmony that might have made the Gods tremble.

Sometimes the prodigy wondered if these divine forces — if they really existed — did not thank their lucky stars every day.

He and Yoichi would have ruled the world... if they weren't irrevocably tied to football, and the adrenaline it injected into them.

Over the course of the messages exchanged, the striker with the navy irises had appeared different from the others. Yes, he was younger than most of the professional players the redhead had encountered.

But above all, he was less broken. Underneath that armor of ice lay something pure, invisible to the gaze of others.

The prodigy knew that this facade was there, deliberately, so that number 11 could fit into a mold of banality. A banality that deeply irritated the competitive being in him.

Damn it!

What right did such a tempting, intriguing being have to hide himself?

Yoichi had a different kind of light — subtle, deceptive. A beauty one might mistake for ordinary at first glance.

He kept people at arm’s length, wrapped in a cool, distant presence. However, no matter how deeply buried, his magnetism refused to stay quiet.

What if he stopped holding back…?

The very thought was enough to steal his breath.

Maybe that was why the nickname had slipped out.

Yo-chan.

Spontaneous.

Uncalculated.

It became a habit. A mark of something else. Proof, without words, that the striker had crossed a threshold.

That he’d stepped into a space Sae thought long since sealed.

A friend?

A brother?

No.

Something else.

More visceral. More elusive.

Like a fragment of who he once was — before turning into the man he had to become.

That was the real reason the Re Al player had warned him about Kaiser from the start.

Not out of kindness. But out of recognition.

He knew that type of player.

That type of man.

He’d faced them.

Lived alongside them.

Hated them.

Men who saw a different kind of light and knew only one response: extinguish it. Not out of fear — driven by what they couldn’t understand.

And if even he, Sae, someone who had grown used to solitude, had been pulled in by Yo-chan…

Then Kaiser, with that collapsing-star ego of his, would either try to possess him.

Or ruin him.

He would allow neither.

That thought alone — the idea of letting another prodigy near the one he had personally chosen — made him want to take the younger one and hide him somewhere the blue rose would never find.

Unfortunately, Yoichi loved soccer too much to run away.

Sae did too.

So, for now, they could enjoy this calm, as long as the self-proclaimed emperor had not yet arrived.

He kept the idea in a corner of his mind, though.

Just in case.

Still, the midfielder couldn’t help but smile as he thought back over the past few days: the words exchanged, the mutual understanding, the calls that had become routines of trust and gentle teasing. Then the photos and videos of him and Yo-chan, in one of his favorite haunts.

He had taken the risk of bringing the youngest there, and was delighted to see that the striker liked it just as much.

That day, the older man felt, looking at the fruit of his own choices, the precious fragility of the moment — and the irresistible urge to protect it, to keep it for themselves.

Little by little, he helped Yoichi gain confidence and enjoyed every moment of it.

Yet what surprised him most was Kaiser’s like slipped under his latest posts.

A simple click carrying an invisible threat.

Sae remembered frowning. The German was — as expected — already there, lurking in the shadows, watching, ready to strike at the slightest sign of a threat to his territory.

Like a thorn in the side: a born destroyer who gorged himself on the pain of his victims.

He also appreciated beauty more than anything.

Naturally, Yo-chan was the type of person who attracted even the straightest of guys.

So Kaiser?

Yes, he knew that blond German would be no exception.

The game was just beginning and the redhead was ready to keep Blue Lock's number 11 under his watch. Away from any unwanted vultures.

And now that Ryusei and Yo-chan were starting to get closer too…

Sae hummed in delight at the thought alone.

That afternoon, as sunlight spilled gently across the hotel’s private soccer field, he was already there. The familiar scent of grass greeted him—almost like home.

Waiting patiently for his guest.

More than a simple training session, today was about something else entirely.

A first attempt at real synchronization.

A pass he had crafted.

A movement he’d never been able to share with anyone.

Naturally, he wanted to try it with the younger one. After all, only Yo-chan had shown that rare adaptability so far.

A gift not even the Demon of Blue Lock, with all his wild brilliance, could imitate.

There was urgency. A restless anticipation.

Sae needed it to be him.

The faint sound of cleats brushing the ground pulled him out of his thoughts.

Still, he didn’t look up.

He didn’t have to. He always could sense when Yo-chan entered a room, a field—any space he chose to occupy.

As usual, his body responded instinctively.

Breathing adjusted, just so.

Fingers curled slightly tighter around his phone.

He had asked for this session. Sent Tachibana to bring him and Yoichi had come. Without question.

More importantly, the younger man had never left him hanging. 

Unlike so many others.

Blue Lock's striker approached in silence, slipping through the quiet like it belonged to him — never demanding attention.

However, Sae turned to look.

What he saw struck him.

Those familiar blue irises caught more light under the field's white glow. That face — serene, almost angelic — was focused. 

Shut off.

Still, something in it softened, just from being near him. As if the older player deserved such gentleness.

Re Al midfielder didn’t speak. He simply smiled. Something quiet, honest. A smile he didn’t give to anyone else.

Then he nodded. 

An invitation. 

Not an order. Never an order.

Not for someone who felt like another part of him.

Yoichi dropped his bag at the edge, warmed up without a word, then joined him — movements slow, feline, with a newfound ease that hadn’t been there days ago.

Proof that Sae was getting through where others had failed.

And he was proud of it.

How could he not be ? 

That precious guy was stunning when he broke free of his own restraints.

The redhead wished time would freeze right then. That nothing else would exist beyond that white line.

That silent pull between them.

But then his phone vibrated softly in his back pocket. Once. Twice.

He ignored it. Until the third time.

And the message that briefly appeared on the lock screen — just long enough for his eyes to catch it:

----

         > Horny Devil 😈 (16:00)

Isagi-chan told me you’re gonna have fun without me today?

Bad boys~ 😘

----

Sae stayed still.

Not because he was surprised—he’d long grown used to Shidou Ryusei’s peculiar phrasing.

This was something else.

Something far more mundane.

More dangerous.

It was satisfaction. 

Raw and sharp, with a heady aftertaste.

After all, the one he had chosen understood. The Demon was starting to get it, in his own twisted way.

What Yo-chan really was.

What he meant.

If Kaiser ever decided to show his face again…

Maybe Ryusei would help keep him at bay.

Help clean house.

For good.

He put his phone away, his breath a little shorter than before, knowing the real game was only just beginning. Ultimately, he was sure of it: with Yoichi, they would achieve a synchronization that no one had ever known.

The Japanese prodigy let his thoughts fall away.  There was no longer time for such trivialities.

When his attention returned solely to his surroundings, he felt his muscles immediately align with Yoichi's — even without contact. A muted, instinctive coordination, where each step of one found its echo in the other.

They didn't need any signal.

On this ground, far from attention, they were made to read each other silently. 

To respond to each other in the chaos to come.

So, they began.

Blue Lock's heart didn't ask him anything about training. He simply followed Sae, just as lively, just as methodical as their first meeting.

Quickly, ten minutes turned into twenty, until he lost count, falling into a rhythm that was both familiar and new. Sinking into the depths of knowledge that only those with brains like theirs could reach.

Like their previous training session, this wasn't a real match. There was no opposing team, nor a goalkeeper.

In reality, it was all a kind of free, raw duel, more like a language than any kind of routine.

And between them, the ball now circulating at increasing speed, each pass slapping against the leather like an exclamation point.

The controls are clean, surgically sharp, without overplay or frills.

Sae tests, alternating heights, spin, and speeds. He lets balls linger that are too short, sends others slightly off, and cuts into awkward angles.

Because today he wanted to see how far Yoichi can keep up.

How far he would adapt.

How far he would anticipate.

And he wasn't disappointed.

In just a few days of analyzing and exchanging ideas together, the young striker was no longer content to follow him – they were totally in sync. 

Maybe at 97%. 

It was as if they had known each other for years, been playing together for months.

Twice the striker touches the ball before Sae finishes kicking.

Not by reflex. Nor by something as trivial as luck.

It was through reading.

Tactical anticipation.

Above all, a more lively muscular response than it was just a few days ago. The body followed the brain, making its responses on the ground faster, without wasting its energy in a frantic race, which would exhaust its entire being.

Re Al midfielder barely raises an eyebrow, his heart pounding a little too fast.

It wasn't perfect yet.

Far from it.

However, it was a real improvement. One that showed genius, a frightening self-control, bordering on obsession.

He hadn't planned on trying it. Not anytime soon. Yet the moment quickly became precise, the alignment perfect. 

The terrain itself had leaned toward this possibility.

So he takes the ball. 

A control, a feint. 

Immediately, Yoichi moves away, shifts to his right, and the angle opens up.

To him. To them. 

To the possibility of more…

Sae adjusted his stride. The inside of his foot struck the ball with a reverse spin, a move he developed on his own, in the shadows, one that others always considered useless.

Too unstable. 

Too uncertain.

A floating, long, twisting pass through the air—not a bell, not a cross, something in between. A spiral that twists in imbalance, destined to land there, in an improbable interval, in full flight, blindly.

Something improbable, something that even cameras would struggle to capture.

No one has ever been able to read it.

Or even had managed to follow his own tempo.

Until now.

Like a gift falling from the sky, Yo-chan accepted his challenge and accelerated.

Without any hesitation.

He charged diagonally down the trajectory, eyes raised toward the quivering sphere. Muscles tensed, ready. Breath quickened, dancing in an echo mirroring his own.

Mouth slightly open, in a silent prayer. 

Eyes focused solely on the movement.

Then the ball descends again, slowed by its own curvature. And the second striker he had chosen, the one he wanted by his side on the world stage, caught him in a chest-to-thigh check, letting the leather fall back on his foot and striking in the next second.

Flying at a dizzying speed, the ball skims the ground, and hits the small training goal planted at the edge of the field.

It was a perfect, breathtaking goal.

A moment suspended between reality and a dream that, perhaps, was finally coming true before his eyes.

Sae stood still. Frozen by possibility, by choice — by success.

Yoichi saw him. Read it correctly.

Understanding his game view, as only he could do.

The Japanese prodigy watched as he landed smoothly, the t-shirt lifting slightly, his bluish-black locks blown by a breeze that didn't even exist.

Feeling deep in his bones the magnetism that connected them.

A wild smile spread across his lips, and when the striker raised his head towards him, euphoria radiating from every part of his body, Sae blurted out:

"Perfect."

Yo-chan moved towards him, drawn by the invisible thread that connected them. The older one let it invade his personal space — enjoying every second of it.

"Shall we start again?" the blue-eyed player finally asked.

And who was he to refuse, when everything inside him screamed to do it again. To see it, to provoke the other, pushing his own limits, until he gasped in the hollow of their shared space. 

Breathing the same breath as the striker.

A shiver runs down his spine.

Of pleasure.

With a possessiveness so pure, so primal, that it was almost animal.

Painful as it devoured each part of him.

A short laugh escapes. 

Derailed. Savage.

Sae catches the ball with a clean, mechanical gesture, as if to regain his footing. However, his thoughts wander elsewhere.

The redhead won't say out loud that he has finally found the player capable of receiving the impossible. To decipher the language that no one else understands.

Answering to him without fear.

Nor will he say it terrifies him.

Or that it intoxicates him. 

Obsessing his thoughts to the point of sleeplessness.

Nor does it make him hot like it did with Ryusei the other night — back pressed against warm skin, lips burning his throat.

But this fire is different.

Raw.

This isn’t that. Not at all.

Because with Yoichi, it's no longer about sex.

It's about control.

Of what he thought he would never find.

Sae raises his head. He stares at the horizon of the field, already seeing that wonderful striker in his sights.

All of this wasn’t about just training anymore.

It's a revelation.

And he already wants to do it again.

Again and again.

Until exhaustion.

To the point of ecstasy.

Until there is nothing left but them, on the corpses of those who dare to stand in their way.

🧩 Isagi Pov 

The sound of running water echoed faintly behind the half-open bathroom door.

Yoichi had already finished his shower. Quicker and quieter than usual. He’d dried off in a rush, almost absently, aware that Sae was waiting just on the other side. It was always like that with the redhead.

So he adapted.

Now, behind the fogged glass, it was Sae’s silhouette who began to take shape. Broad back. Calm movements. A kind of serenity that felt almost strange in a moment like this.

He was really taking his time.

A small smile ghosted across the striker’s lips at this thought. That really was the older type: surgical on the field, surprisingly composed off of it. Water rolled down his body, rinsing the day from his skin. For a second, Yoichi wondered what it felt like — to be that sure of yourself in such an ordinary moment.

With his hair still damp, he ran a hand through the strands, tousled them without thinking, then reached for a black t-shirt left on the bed. Slightly too big to be his own.

The scent that lingered on the fabric was subtle, clean.

Green tea, mint, pine. Something he could now only ever associate with Sae-kun.

The cotton slid over his skin, brushed it like a lover’s touch. He didn’t fuss with the collar, which kept slipping off his shoulder — knowing the older one wouldn’t care.

Still, in this moment of calm, something in him hadn’t quite settled.

That invitation — thrown so casually after training — kept playing in the back of his mind:

“Stay over tonight.”

With no explanation. No context.

Like it was nothing.

As if Sae did this sort of thing all the time.

But Yoichi knew that wasn’t true. The midfielder didn’t plan evenings. And he certainly didn’t share his space.

Not really.

Ah, the older Itoshi had shared intimate moments with others, yes. Lately, with Shidou — if he had truly grasped the tension floating between the two players.

Those comments, dropped now and then, about the "Demon of Blue Lock." A Demon who, in turn, did nothing to hide his interest or his intentions toward Sae during their last exchanges.

Messages that had become strangely frequent since their first call. The one where Shidou had asked him, not quite asking, if he and Itoshi were more than friends.

Yoichi had only seen it as an adult game between the two of them.

Just sex, probably. Which, in his opinion, wouldn’t stay just that if they let it continue.

But hey, it wasn't up to him to say anything.

What had surprised him most was the moment of doubt that lingered between him and the Japanese prodigy just before his request. Because, unlike their first meeting, Sae-kun hadn’t picked up his phone to ask Tachibana-san to take him home.

Instead, he opened a different door. 

Even more personal.

And without realizing it, the blue-eyed striker had said yes before thought could catch up. Maybe because he understood that it was a unique invitation.

A serious one, without being so.

It wasn’t a game, but a silent pact.

A sleepover that had nothing childish about it — only that suspended something neither of them dared name.

A sleepover, huh.

The very idea of sleeping here, in his space, was almost more intimate than a kiss.

Riskier, too.

Around him, the room was steeped in a quiet stillness, bathed in soft dusk, lit only by the golden glimmers of the setting sun filtering through the curtains.

The dark wooden floor, perfectly polished, gleamed under that gentle light. Every piece of furniture was sleek and modern — luxurious without being ostentatious.

Just like the rest of the hotel.

Just like Sae himself.

A gentle calm lingered in the air, almost tangible, suspended in every corner.

No personal items were in sight. No photos. No clutter. Just a jacket draped over a chair, a closed book resting on the nightstand.

A pair of cleats tossed by the entrance, where he had left his own as well, and their duffel bags placed neatly in the main room’s corner.

On the coffee table in front of the wall-mounted screen, a few folders — some open, others closed — shared the space with a handful of magazines and a half-empty glass of water.

Clear signs that this suite was only a temporary stop, yet one that had been lived in all the same.

He stepped closer to the large bay window and watched Tokyo buzzing below. Despite the city’s noise humming beneath his feet, Yoichi felt at peace.

Somehow, being here felt obvious.

Natural, even.

It was as if this version of the prodigy — quieter, off the pitch, wrapped in stillness — had long been waiting to be truly seen.

The pride of having managed to accomplish the move the redhead had hoped for still hovered over him. In his body, like a forbidden caress. And the memory played distractedly in the background, like silent proof that he could do something others hadn't achieved before.

Finally, the striker turned away from the view and walked barefoot to the kitchen, his light step betraying a pleasant fatigue.

He hadn't planned on cooking, knowing that the professional player was entitled to room service. However, his body was acting on its own. Looking for an anchor, a routine.

Something simple.

Controllable.

Opening the fridge, his eyes immediately drifted to the shelves.

Sae had this annoying habit of having everything delivered, but Yoichi was relieved to see that he still kept some fresh food on hand. There was enough to make a simple and nutritious dinner.

Maybe noodles… or rice, with homemade sauce?

Digging deeper, he found some tomatoes, a remnant of basil, a piece of Parmesan cheese, and a few almost forgotten vegetables.

Delighted with his finds, the young player immediately set to work, taking out everything he needed with the ease of a regular.

He liked it.

This calm, which he only achieved when he felt safe enough to release control.

In just a few minutes, Yoichi was lost in a kind of peace. Absently humming the first letters of Shinunoga E-Wa, he picked up a pot for the rice and started cooking. Then he set down the cutting board.

Tomatoes, carrots, onions, and even some slightly soft mushrooms were added one by one.

His gestures were precise, orderly. Each cut was thought out for cooking, for texture, for the ingredients.

A little warmth, and the bittersweet scent of onions began to float in the air, lifted by the rising steam. It curled around the room like a light veil. Soon, the crackling of oil in the pan added a sonic texture — regular, hypnotic. A background noise that seemed to bring the place back to life, reassuring, like the beating of a heart.

Blue Lock's striker slid the translucent onion slices into the pan, watching them slowly absorb the golden heat. He added a pinch of salt and a hint of curry. Not too much, just enough to enhance the flavors.

A few minutes later, something in the air shifted — the way it always did, letting him know he was no longer alone.

He felt it in the depths of his soul. That familiar, almost suffocating attention. The one Sae gave to the people he wanted to understand. 

Whose the older player wanted to keep.

Yoichi didn't turn around. Not when the onions were in danger of burning.

He just stirred the mixture gently, with a smooth movement, adding the vegetables little by little.

Then arms wrapped around him in a slow, confident embrace. Warm palms pressed against the cotton of Sae's t-shirt, a bare torso resting against his back.

He had seen that body on video calls—often. Rin's brother only ever slept in shorts. So when the older player suggested a sleepover, the striker had expected this.

Still, the contact stole his breath for a moment. A shiver ran through him, but he stayed still, accepting the moment.

Despite a loving family, Yoichi had rarely experienced gestures like this. Not from friends, nor from the few lovers he’d had.

To feel the prodigy lean against him, somewhere between affection and something more visceral, like it meant nothing...

Was strange — and yet, oddly refreshing.

For a few moments, they simply stayed like that. Only kitchen sounds and a soft humming filled the air.

It was when he started preparing tofu that, unexpectedly, a raspier voice joined his own.

Yoichi couldn’t help but smile.

There it was the Japanese prodigy, alienated from his own country, singing one of the most popular songs of the moment.

Suspended in a quiet bubble, their voices mingled. A private language of gestures and shared breaths.

Two pieces of a scattered puzzle, finally fitting into place again.

Finally, when the melody faded, it was Sae who broke the silence.

“You smell like me, you cook, and you hum like this is your space,” he murmured against the back of Yoichi’s neck. “I like it.”

Yoichi turned his head slightly, just enough for a damp lock of hair to brush his cheek.

“Planning on sniffing me all night? Did I make dinner for nothing, Itoshi-sama?”

A low laugh answered, and fingers slid higher, resting lightly on his stomach.

“I’m not sure, Yo-chan. Your food looks almost as good as what I order.”

Then, more softly:

“Should I get you the same perfume? Mine suits you.”

The tone had shifted — the joke vanished.

Sae wasn’t hiding his intent.

To claim. To possess.

A proposal designed to ward off every predator. Or perhaps all of them... except Shidou.

Yoichi would bet the prodigy only tolerated the Demon to stay by their side.

He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he turned off the stove, letting the scent of vegetables fill the silence. Once finished, his focus returned to the player behind him.

Tilting his head until it brushed Sae’s shoulder, he murmured — just loud enough:

“Shidou would go crazy.”

A raspy laugh followed, vibrating straight through his bones.

“Oh, he really would.”

Sae grabbed the plates they needed and set the table near the large bay window. Then he returned to the kitchen to fetch water and tea.

Yoichi, for his part, served dinner.

Each dish held a scoop of rice, still-steaming vegetables, a bit of tofu, and some fresh herbs they’d found in a forgotten bag.

Nothing particularly fancy — but under the warm glow of the wall lamps, everything looked… alive.

Like another kind of home.

While he was momentarily distracted, the professional player had returned. He placed the drinks down, phone in hand, without a word — just a sound: the soft click of a camera shutter.

Used to that teasing side by now, the younger didn’t react. He simply finished serving, focused on the balance of each portion.

When he finally looked up, Rin’s brother was already seated at the table, just as calm as always.

Far too quiet.

The striker raised an eyebrow, not even trying to hide his suspicion.

“Did you take another picture?”

Sae shrugged — nonchalant, like a cat content after a full day.

“I captured a masterpiece.”

Yoichi rolled his eyes slightly, half-exasperated, half-amused.

But a quiet laugh slipped out.

No other question followed.

Still, a thought began to bloom.

He had always seen himself as someone efficient. Quiet. Someone people noticed for what he did, not for who he was.

However, here, under the soft light, he could feel the redhead’s attention on him like a revelation.

A discreet, precise camera.

Enough to stir doubt — and that annoying insecurity still clinging somewhere deep inside.

The clink of a fork against porcelain pulled him back.

“It’s good.”

Sae’s voice had that kind of assurance that swept away hesitation in an instant.

Yoichi looked up.

The Re Al player was chewing slowly, focused, like analyzing a phase of play.

Then came a small nod, just as sincere.

“Really good,” he added at last, his emerald gaze meeting his own.

At that, Yoichi’s shoulders relaxed. A smile tugged at his lips.

He took a bite as well, letting the flavor settle.

Yes, it was simple and balanced.

Nourishing enough.

Just what the body needed — and maybe, a little something for the soul, too.

The moment held. A quiet kind of sharing, with nothing to prove. And for him, that was worth more than any praise.

Dinner continued gently. They exchanged a few words here and there — football, old middle school memories, Rin’s obsession with horror movies, his love for matcha tea.

Small talk. But heavy with meaning, for players like them.

When it was over, Sae gathered the dishes without a word.

Yoichi offered to help — a mistake. The look he got in return silenced him instantly.

Re Al’s midfielder smirked, unmistakably smug, and pulled out a dessert box. He placed it on the coffee table like a treasure discovered at the last minute.

They lingered there for a while, speaking in hushed voices, like they were sharing forbidden secrets. Their fingers occasionally brushed the porcelain of their cups, stretching out the peace between them.

Night eventually fell, and the quiet need to freshen up guided them to the bathroom. The two players stood almost in sync and walked side by side down the hall.

Before the shared mirror, they brushed their teeth, the scent of mint floating pleasantly between them. It slowly replaced the last traces of dinner, restoring a forgotten sense of cleanliness between bites.

To his right, Sae unconsciously followed the same rhythm.

A detail he could no longer ignore.

The closer they grew, the more their gestures fell into that same pattern — a synchrony that went beyond the pitch.

Even in routine.

Almost as if they were living for one another.

Without saying it aloud, Yoichi found a strange peace in this quiet merging, without drama or demands. A shared space, where movements turned into a silent dance.

Where their hands brushed reaching for the same object.

Where footsteps echoed in unison down the corridor.

A world apart.

Lit by thoughts and strategies pulsing on the same wavelength.

Sae finished first, but didn’t leave. He lingered, watching him with quiet intensity — the kind that memorized rather than judged.

When Yoichi finally straightened, their eyes met in the mirror. Reflections stood close, breaths slow and warm, refusing to drift apart.

In a low voice, almost a whisper, the older player said:

“Look… Look how you are,” His fingers brushed against Yoichi’s neck, leaving behind a light, electric trace. “Perfect by my side.”

A wry smile followed, soft but tinged with quiet possession.

“If I hadn’t found Ryusei first… you would already be mine.”

His whisper vibrated, charged by a desire held in check. A power play waiting to bloom.

Yoichi slowly turned his head, meeting a gaze that scorched rather than touched.

Respectfully.

He didn’t pull away.

Because that hand was an anchor, steady, reassuring, and he’d be damned to deny himself that comfort.

Heat radiated gently from where Sae's fingers still brushed against it. In response, the striker didn't move, his breath barely deepening.

But his smile became mischievous, tinged with a delicious ambiguity:

“Aren’t I already, a little?” he breathed, his words a hidden invitation. “That’s what the Demon seems to believe.”

The nickname slipped between them, both a challenge and a tender secret, an invisible thread woven between their silences.

“Ryusei wants you as much as I want to keep you,” the midfielder affirmed. “And given the attention you’re attracting... maybe I could ask for his help in keeping some vultures away.”

Their laughter echoed through the room.

Light, sincere, almost juvenile.

A laugh that sought neither to seduce nor to mask anything. Just two breaths released in unison, as if, for a moment, nothing external existed.

Yoichi gave in without thinking, his forehead slightly bowed, eyes shining.

Sae looked at him like that, quiet and captivated, as if gazing at something he wanted to shield from the world.

“Vultures?” the striker asked, leaning against the prodigy’s arm. “The only vulture I can think of isn’t even in Japan.”

The redhead snorted disdainfully and lightly squeezed the back of his neck, moving closer until his lips brushed his cheek.

"Then it'll take two of us, the Demon and me," he breathed, his mouth inches from the younger man's skin. "You at the center, and us to scare the world away. The other extras will only have your shadows."

Yoichi lost his breath. Heat rushed to his ears, and he knew — without even glancing — that a blush was already blooming, soft and slow, spreading over his skin like warm water.

Breathless by the other's audacity, he replied:

"Shidou has a hold on you, Sae-kun. This looks like an invitation for a threesome."

He provoked him, already knowing that the heat in his throat wasn't just from humor.

The elder laughed once more. A low sound, so dangerous it seemed to stir up a storm.

He grabbed his chin with calculated delicacy and gently turned his face toward the mirror.

A calm, assured gesture.

Which allowed him to get closer, until he found the same posture they had earlier in the kitchen - like a timeless reflection.

“You’d be delighted,” Sae murmured “We’ll take care of you.”

However, nothing in his gesture burned.

It wasn't a threat, or even a promise. Just his way of saying: I finally see what you are, and I won't look away.

The embrace, at first charged with a disturbing magnetism, softens — slowly sliding into a form of protection.

As if he wanted to make sure that no one else could hurt him where he, once upon a time, had been hurt.

Yoichi felt it. And, far from being afraid, he responded to it.

By a slight breath. 

With the simple absence of leakage.

He didn't need words.

Not here, not with him.

Blue Lock's striker closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting their mingled breathing fill the space. The fog still on the mirror filtered the light, blurring the contours, preserving this timeless intimacy.

When he opened them again, their reflections were still there — blurred, but whole.

Aligned.

They were no longer just two friends. They were two forces that sought each other, challenged each other, desired each other without ever crossing the line.

Time held its breath. The world beyond slipped into quiet. Only their reflections remained, watching over them — quiet witnesses to a bond unspoken yet sure.

Whatever came, they would find each other.

After all, isn’t it said that breaking the red thread between two fated souls… is to challenge the gods?

And in that misty mirror, their reflections already seemed to know this truth.

🌹 Kaiser Pov

Only the impact of the ball echoed against the artificial grass, muffled but clear. Closely followed by the sharp snap of nets, then the brief squeak of soles.

And nothing else.

No music.

No shouting.

Just him, alone in the silence he had chosen. That he had imposed.

Michael had been training for a long time already. Bare-chested, hair tied up in a bun, breath controlled. His gestures were as clean as ever. Impassive in their perfection. There wasn't a single goal that missed its target.

Not even a shaky shot.

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, tracing light furrows across the black ink of his tattoos. His gaze was fixed, disembodied — extremely focused, somewhere between physical exhaustion and ecstasy.

He was enjoying the peace and quiet the place offered him. Far from the common training room, where the others were constantly gloating, shouting about trivialities he had no desire to linger over today.

The German striker had left all intrusive thoughts at home when he woke up. No research on Isagi Yoichi, nor any project approval for Haus Weltenbrandt.

Today was a day dedicated to self-improvement. At his own pace, at his own endurance.

A day that wouldn't let him think about the excitement he'd felt the night before at the sight of that damned email sent by Ego Jinpachi. The madman who'd created Blue Lock.

And he was on a roll.

The other members of the Bastard knew better than to disturb him when he headed toward this wing, further away than the others. So they had gone about their own business, much to his delight.

He liked this form of silent authority.

Say nothing, but be understood.

To be left alone, without having to justify your choices.

This, too, was the mark of respect he demanded.

Until a voice, clear, deep, rises in the silence:

"All players to the central room. Now."

The voice of Noël Noa.

No hesitation.

No justification.

Only the order of a king.

Michael stopped mid-shot, the ball hitting the crossbar with a metallic clang.

He sighed, annoyed.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

A simple breath, exasperated, mocking.

As if the world had dared to waste his time again.

The German prodigy ran a hand through his damp hair. His fingers slid through the blond strands, tugging a little, as if to bring himself back to reality.

He picked up his t-shirt and quickly put it on, trying to ignore the feeling of his sweat against the fabric. His cleats clicked on the smooth floor as he crossed the room, leaving it in relative calm.

The familiar corridor, long, white, and too clean greeted him. He crossed it without lingering, entering the common aisle

And a little further on, one of the doors to the weight room slammed open against the wall. Other players were leaving in turn, drawn by Noa's voice.

The hubbub immediately filled the place.

Voices mingled, doors slammed. Cleats scraped the floor, and a few misplaced bursts of laughter broke the balance.

Michael barely frowned. He had no patience for this kind of cacophony. And yet, he knew it always preceded the most interesting moments.

Alexis was, as usual, the first to join him.

Erik, still looking sleepy, followed them like a shadow.

A few others, sweating, just as unhappy as he was at being interrupted, were the next to join in the dynamic.

No one really spoke. They just walked behind him, like a united front.

Or an army that protected their sovereign.

Because they knew he was the one leading the way, as always, even in the corridors.

Michael doesn't slow down.

He turned left, then right, knowing the way by heart.

Arriving at the end of the main corridor, the dark wooden door was already open.

And Noa was waiting for them, as nonchalant as usual.

Standing with arms crossed.

The gaze, feline, fixed.

The blond walked past the French player, entering first, without paying much attention to the greetings.

Without asking for anything.

He had an idea about the topic of this emergency meeting. And a part of him, hidden beneath all the annoyance at being ripped from his own world, was delighted to see the chaos the topic would cause.

The emperor simply stared into his mentor's eyes, waiting patiently — as patiently as he could — for calm to return.

Around him, the room was vast, uncluttered, almost cold. The gray walls displayed a few trophies, the curtains were half-closed, and the silence was broken only by the determined footsteps of the group entering.

Once everyone is settled and the door is closed, he speaks.

"You could have waited until we finished our training," he growled, gaining the attention of everyone in the room.

Noa, sitting at the head of the table, in front of a white file and his open PC, barely looked up from his screen.

"And you could have informed me, or the club, of your recent decision."

Unimpressed by the remark, Michael raised an eyebrow, a mocking smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"I confirmed my participation. I didn't think I needed anyone's validation."

Attentive to the exchange, the other players slowly settled in. Alexis, tense. Erik, still leaning against his chair, arms crossed. The muffled sound of Grim's soles on the parquet floor. One or two nervous laughs in the background — probably Theo and Mensah, who hadn't yet grasped the gravity of the upcoming announcement.

The world's number one striker stood up, commanding everyone's attention. Immediately, the room bent to the silent command.

He took the projector's remote control and turned it on. The contents of his computer were displayed to them. An email on one of the open pages and a PDF file on another.

"All right," he began. "Since you've already taken the lead, Kaiser, then let's go. Listen up, everyone."

He paused, flipping to one of the PDF pages. It greeted them with the now all-too-familiar Blue Lock logo.

"From now on," Noa continued, "Bastard München will join the Neo Egoist League. An interclub competition organized in Japan by Ego Jinpachi, as part of his project: Blue Lock."

The news came as a wake-up call to those who hadn't expected it. A murmur ran through the room.

“Wait…” Mensah began. “You’re talking about that show with the crazy teenagers?”

" Exactly. "

"But what's the point for us?" Alexis asked, frowning.

Noa didn't answer right away. He simply rested his elbows on the table. 

"This isn't just any invitation for fun. This is an ideological war," he paused and scrolled through the PDF until he came across a bulletin board with the names of several clubs. Some in green, others in red.

"Blue Lock is looking to produce the best striker in the world. And for that, they're going to use us," the man explained.

"Use how?" Grim asked, frowning. "Do we play against them?"

Number One shook his head and took the time to explain it to them properly.

“Not exactly. We’ll join them as they settle in. And the Blue Lock players will be sent to various European clubs. They’ll have to choose which team they want to join, and prove they deserve their place. It’s up to us — or rather, me — to decide whether or not they’ll be accepted.”

Exclamations arose.

" What ?! "

"So they can just show up like that?!"

“And what do we become in this story?!”

Michael sighed, for what felt like the umpteenth time today.

Noa looked at him for a moment, to see if he would say anything, but when he was silent, the older man raised his hand to silence them.

“Each player integrated will play within the club’s tactical system. If he doesn’t adapt, he will automatically be rejected. But if he excels, he will be highlighted, observed by scouts from all over the world.”

“A showcase,” Alexis murmured.

"A trap," Erik immediately corrected.

The blond prodigy, who had been silent until then, clicked his tongue.

"You're being dramatic. It's just another war to be won."

The murmurs quieted and attention returned to him. Noa, her yellow eyes shining with suppressed annoyance, challenged him on the spot.

“A war you decided to participate in without my consent.”

"The project sounds interesting enough. At least, to bring a few of them to their knees," Michael replied with a provocative smile. "Why waste time when their fall is inevitable?"

A tense silence ensued. The Frenchman continued:

"You could have told me about it."

"And you would have told me no?"

The other's gaze darkened.

“I would have told you to wait. To observe. To understand what it means before diving in headfirst.”

"I've already observed enough to know what their game looks like," Michael retorted sharply.

Noa closed his eyes for a moment. Then he raised his head.

"Very well. You've made your choice. The others, you still have yours to make."

Scanning the room, he took some forms out of a folder and gestured for them to pass around. He continued:

“But know one thing: those who decide to come will have to fight. Not only for their place... but to prove that their ego is up to the task of this league.”

He paused, drawing attention once again.

"The project's players are young. Hungry. Crazy. And they have nothing to lose."

A thin smile crossed Number One's lips.

"You do."

🌹🌹

The sharp sound of the door closing behind him seemed to cut through the tumult of the room. Outside, the silent corridor greeted him — a stark contrast to the chaos the announcement had just orchestrated.

Michael continued his walk back to his private room, his back straight. Like a king stepping away from his throne, already certain that the game was his.

He didn’t look back. There was no need to see their faces to sense the panic rising among the weak, the irritation simmering within the proud, and the quiet excitement in those still believing they had a chance.

Like dogs unleashed on a bone too big to handle.

The Bastard München striker smiled to himself.

“They’ll all show up…” he murmurs, almost amused. “And they’ll pray to be chosen.”

He knows exactly what this "league" was going to bring about.

Clashes.

Competition.

Hate and beauty, too.

New blood to break, to savor.

Promises to be demolished.

Egos to crush.

And maybe... maybe something rare to observe. A look that wouldn't break. A voice that didn't tremble. A way of playing that would force him to look up.

He stops for a moment near a bay window, observes the stadium pitch in the distance.

A light sigh. Then he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Show me what you've got, Blue Lock.”

He walks away, already elsewhere knowing perfectly well who he wanted to bring to his knees.

Chapter Text

🧩 Isagi Pov

It was the bitterness of the coffee that roused him from his sleep, long before the noise. Light filtered through the half-open curtains, rippling in the breeze of a still-timid spring.

Yoichi emerged slowly from a dream too dense to hold onto. His muscles seemed to float in a warm warmth, numbed by the sweetness of sleep.

Outside, Tokyo was waking up to a murmur of horns and hurried footsteps. An annoying hubbub that unsettled him for a few moments.

He was glad that here, in Sae-kun's private space, everything seemed out of sync. As if time stretched out, softer, offering him the luxury of savoring this hushed lethargy.

His eyelids fluttered without urgency. He placed his arm over his eyes, feeling the silk of the sheet slide gently against his skin—a material of such freshness that it revealed nothing of its luxurious origins.

A sheet that hadn't been there the day before.

The striker paused, frowning slightly. He remembered the movie. An action film, chosen by the midfielder, far too fast-paced for such an obscene hour. The kind of choice one accepts with the detachment of people who have never had to negotiate sleep with fatigue.

Yoichi had dozed off before the halfway mark, mindlessly curled up on the large sofa that had already been transformed into a bed. The familiar scent of the redhead like an anchor, and the ghostly feel of a hand gently stroking his hair.

The older Itoshi hadn't woken him. Instead, he'd simply placed a pillow on the bed, the sheet, and probably turned the volume down slightly so as not to disturb him.

It was discreet.

Yet so addictively sweet that he shuddered.

He remembered the teasing between two overly violent scenes, the comfortable silences, and the fatigue that had swept everything away.

This touch of protection, of acceptance…

It was pure Sae.

Discreet.

Perfectly measured.

Too easy to love, he thought, softened.

Yoichi stirred slightly, without leaving his temporary cocoon. The hotel room smelled of calm. And that coffee — overly rich, with woody, slightly burnt notes — that he hadn't made himself.

An almost heady smell, enhanced with spices he couldn't name, which he wouldn't soon forget.

Sitting up slowly, the striker stretched his arms with a quiet sigh of pleasure.

The coffee table had been cleared, the cups of tea from the day before vanished without a trace. A large blanket was still lying there, the only discreet witness to the evening.

He let this moment of peaceful landscape stretch out, as if floating in a bubble. Enjoying it until the routine, discreet but tenacious, hit him in the temple — a habit he had never lost, even when waking amidst screams and alarms in the cold dormitories of Blue Lock.

Brushing away a stray lock of hair, the striker bent down to pick up his cell phone, abandoned on the far edge of the sofa, the silk sheet falling over his belt.

The screen lit up, and with it, a flood of notifications.

It had, unfortunately, become a routine this past week. Between Blue Lock's rising popularity, chatting with his teammates, and the latest rumors surrounding his "relationship" with Sae, the device worked harder than ever before.

He hesitated to put it back down when he noticed that the only message from his parents was to have fun and greet the eldest, with a memo from his mother that read:

“...And don't forget to invite him to come eat. He and your teammates are welcome to join you if you'd like, Yo-chan.”

He smiled, touched by his parents' thoughtfulness. Yet something in the notifications caught his attention.

Someone had tagged him in an Instagram post. Curious, he tapped it and came face to face with Sae's account.

----

  📱 Itoshi Sae posted in his story 7 hours ago.

@itoshi_sae_official ⚽️🧊, 1.6M views

With @Isagi_Yo_11 🧩⚽️

----

The comments flowed beneath the photo that the redhead had posted the day before.

He recognized the famous “masterpiece” which the other had boasted about when he asked him the question.

It was a good catch, he had to admit.

The photo showed him, from behind, serving their dinner. Sae's baggy T-shirt seemed to hang loosely over his bare thighs — a discreet but obvious invitation.

And the caption was like the Re Al player: succinct, provocative:

“Find someone like Yo-chan.”

Yoichi let out a sigh of mixed amusement and apprehension.

Sae's habit of exposing himself on social media was not insignificant. He felt seen, intensely, yet paradoxically protected, as if the older man was weaving an invisible net around him, gently preparing him for a light he had never truly known.

The blue-eyed player stared at the screen like a mirror he didn't yet recognize. It wasn't just a photo: it was a version of himself that others were discovering without his permission.

A controlled image, but not his own.

He was beginning to understand, little by little, that this world — the world of fame, of scrutiny, of judgment — wasn't a threat to be fled, but an arena in which he would have to evolve.

And Sae, in a way, was offering him the keys.

The comments under the photo poured in, between admiration and teasing:

“Isagi-san is truly irresistible 😍”

“Itoshi knows how to make everyone crack, huh?”

“T-shirt too big or seduction tactic?”

“A man who knows how to cook is a man to marry. Sae is absolutely right!”

The striker swiped through a few notifications, accepting requests from the other Blue Lock players — Rin, Bachira, Chigiri, Reo, Nagi, Hiori, Nanase, and a few others he'd kept off his profile so far.

He even accepted Aiku, the captain of the Japanese U-20 team, and, unexpectedly, verified accounts like Luna and Loki, who were there to test them during the third phase.

Both had commented on the photo. Luna had written an "oh~" as outrageous as his image. Loki, more measured, had settled for a simple "👀."

It wasn't much. Yet, just like the like Kaiser left a few days earlier, it was enough. A sign that world players saw it, that they knew, either intrigued by his association with Sae or out of personal interest.

And that was enough to make his heart beat a little faster.

Yoichi found himself staring at those names, feeling a strange mix of pressure and pride. They were there, silent witnesses. A reminder that the path would be anything but simple.

He memorized their active hours, recurring hashtags, enigmatic bios — his brain dissecting the algorithm like a line of defense.

His mind oscillated between excitement and nervousness. He was no longer alone in the shadows. Sae-kun stood by his side in this new adventure.

Now he just had to learn to walk in the footsteps of a path he had never taken before.

Fan messages were already piling up under his first post — a snapshot from a few months before Blue Lock, a Saitama field at sunset. Some still nicknamed him the "heart of Blue Lock," others debated his association with the Japanese prodigy.

Yoichi hadn't done anything yet, hadn't reacted to Sae's publications, and yet expectations were already being projected onto his shoulders.

Should he lock everything?

Put his account in professional mode?

Ask the oldest Itoshi for advice?

The sudden visibility felt dizzying.

He sighed, setting his phone down, eyes fixed on the ceiling, ready to close the app — when a new message slid across the top of the screen like a cold blade.

----

   > Rin (08:24 am)

I thought I warned you.

----

He rolled his eyes, a quiet sigh on his lips. Of course, the younger Itoshi would eventually say something.

----

   > Me (08:27 am)

You did it. Several times, in fact. I listened to you. I just chose differently.

----

   > Rin (08:29 am)

I didn't know you had such bad taste, lukewarm. You even saw his face, at least?

----

Yoichi smiled at the ridiculousness of such a statement. The two Itoshis looked very similar physically, if you ignored their hair color and respective heights.

----

    > Me (08:31 am)

Rin… you are brothers.

    > Rin (08:33 am)

Exactly. I know what he looks like at his worst.

----

He smiled, appreciating the evidence of their rivalry.

----

   > Rin (08:35 am)

I hope you didn't do what my brain refuses to imagine. And what is suggested in this damn photo.

----

Yoichi narrowed his eyes, half amused, half exasperated. He answered unhurriedly.

----

   > Me (08:36 am)

You want to know if I slept with your brother?

    > Rin (08:38 am)

Thanks for this unwanted image. I appreciate it, idiot. I never want to know anything about your “special bond” again.

----

He stifled a laugh, his gaze still fixed on the screen, ignoring the silk sheet as it slid further down his hips.

Somewhere beneath the irony — he remembered that first evening, shortly after the younger striker had chosen him as a player to steal. On one of the fields, after finishing his meditation, Rin had approached, out of breath, and looked at him without saying a word.

He patiently waited, giving the other time, and once Rin decided, the number 1 of Blue Lock simply said:

"Yoga, lukewarm. How about that?"

At that moment, something rare passed through Itoshi's gaze: esteem. A fragile fear. That of losing, perhaps. Or worse — the realization that he wasn't the only one who saw the game that way anymore.

It was the beginning of their friendship: reluctant, full of barbs and competition, but present.

The blue-eyed striker stood for a moment, phone on his leg, listening to the apartment's silence—until the screen vibrated again.

----

   > Rin (08:43 am)

Just… take care, Isagi. Sae likes to burn what he takes for granted.

----

This time, Yoichi didn't answer immediately. Not because he didn't know what to say, but because a part of him secretly wanted to see what it felt like to be consumed.

The discreet clinking of metal disturbed the calm. A watch being fastened to a wrist. Soft, precise footsteps brushed against the dark wood of the adjacent bedroom, separated from the living room by a doorless archway.

Surprised, he shifted slightly. Sae appeared, already ready for the day. Dark, impeccably tailored trousers and a white shirt revealing the lean structure of his shoulders.

Nothing flashy. Everything carefully calculated.

A slight smile betrayed that he'd already had a sip — or two — of coffee. A calm expression that disarmed more than reassured.

Emerald eyes followed the line of Yoichi's back as he leaned forward, one hand still on the phone. Sae’s gaze moved deliberately toward the curve of his shoulder blades and the hollow of his waist, resting on the silk sheet that had slipped too low, revealing pale, unmarked skin.

A suspended moment, as if the world held its breath.

Each of Sae’s steps echoed with unsettling precision. Even the sun, behind drawn curtains, did not dare to break this tension.

It was a movement, a calculated breath.

Yoichi sensed it before he saw him. As Sae approached, the striker froze — not out of fear, but anticipation of what was inevitable. Everything around them seemed drowned in Itoshi Sae's warmth.

The room vibrated under the weight of his presence.

Yoichi inhaled softly, a calculated breath echoing between them like a beacon. Then, without hurrying, he turned his head slightly — just enough to meet the other's intense gaze.

And what he read there… it wasn't raw desire.

It was worse.

It was a storm of unspoken words. The kind that precedes actions we don't want to regret, but can no longer prevent.

The kind of catastrophe that was inevitable, yet so sweet that it became addictive.

Sae approached with a learned slowness. That of a sated predator, whose greed only demanded more.

Ready to devour him, to burn him — just as Rin had warned.

Still, maybe he would let him. Because he no longer knew very well where doubt began and desire ended. There was a kind of surrender in his silent submission.

The sheet slid another millimeter. A movement that caught the midfielder's full attention.

He stopped right in front of him. At such a close distance, Yoichi swore he could only smell him, the scent of coffee extinguished by his own.

The silence between them grew thicker until, with his fingertips, the older player grasped the corner of the silk sheet that barely covered him.

An innocent gesture.

However, the young man with blue eyes felt the caress of this hand, at the precise moment when it deliberately brushed against his skin.

Almost religiously.

Respectful.

Yoichi felt a shiver run up his spine. A visceral response to the gesture, which, though subtle, was undeniably possessive.

It had been a long time since he had been touched like this.

It had been a while, in fact, since he had let anyone get close enough.

He had a fleeting thought: a certainty that this gesture wouldn't bother Shidou so much. It was possible that, eventually, the Demon would join them somewhere between desire and dependence.

Somewhere where the boundaries blurred.

A beat passed. Charged with a tension of possessiveness impossible to avoid.

Not when selfish people like them used to take what they wanted.

Whenever they wanted.

Then a whisper sounded, a soft, grave confession:

“I almost brought you back to my bed last night.”

Sae paused, the sheet shifting gently under his hand.

“You looked detestably cute, wrapped around me.”

Yoichi didn't answer him immediately. He let Itoshi’s hand linger on him. Stretched slowly, like a cat basking in the attention. The gesture pushed back what remained of the sheet, revealing—at last—his bare legs.

His muscles protested.

Yet his gaze had sharpened.

On Sae.

On the kitchen table across the room, set with surgical precision.

He wasn't at home. But that didn't mean the place was still completely foreign to him.

And, as if regaining possession of the silence between them, he breathed — in a voice still raspy with sleep:

"Hello, Sae-kun. Yes, I slept well, thanks for asking."

The man in question gave a smirk, almost imperceptible, but his thumb firmed on Yoichi's bare skin, tracing a slow, deliberate circle.

With such intense possessiveness and sensuality, he felt it in his bones.

He couldn't help the delighted sigh that brushed his lips.

Visibly satisfied with the effect, the Re Al player extended a hand and helped him up.

Their bodies brushed.

Not enough to make it an accident. Just enough to remind them that no distance between them was truly neutral.

Already on his way to the kitchen, Yoichi murmured, without turning around:

“You’re throwing me to the sharks. If you keep posting pictures like this, we’ll be attacked by the press… or worse, by fans."

It was not an accusation.

Not quite.

It was rather the shaky formulation of an old doubt. A doubt that followed him like a shadow stuck to his heels: that of being seen, exhibited, offered to something that would end up devouring him.

He didn't have to turn around to hear the smile — and the quiet certainty — in the reply:

"I will protect you."

A simple sentence, spoken like a promise.

Or as a threat to anyone who dares to approach them too closely.

Yoichi blinked.

A reminder arose. Fleeting, disturbing.

That of a name. Of a look.

Kaiser.

A flash of artificial light in a filmed interview, a predatory smile, an insolence that didn't seem feigned.

He still didn't know what to think of this player. But he did know one thing: not all sharks had their teeth bared.

Not yet.

The thought faded as quickly as it had arisen, swallowed up by the rich, controlled scents of the already prepared breakfast.

Yoichi approached the table.

There was a perfect balance between clinical care and quiet luxury: a pot of 0% natural yogurt, a few carefully aligned banana slices, cut strawberries, whole kiwis, a handful of raw almonds, broken walnuts, a plate of perfectly toasted toast, clarified butter in a small glass container, and two poached eggs, still warm.

All without extravagance. Nothing that weighs down, everything that supports.

A breakfast designed for a toned body — as if ordered by a personal nutritionist, or an overly attentive lover.

The striker sat down slowly, his muscles still sore from the day before. He didn't ask any questions. Details like these always spoke for themselves with Sae-kun.

As if to confirm this, a cup of coffee was placed in front of him, the precise clinking of the porcelain breaking the calm.

The midfielder, without looking at him, poured an exact dose of dark liquid into his own cup, then asked, with studied nonchalance:

“Do you have any plans today?”

It took Yoichi a moment to answer.

His eyelids were far too heavy, his hair still a mess, gently caressing the nape of his his neck.

He didn't bother to readjust the t-shirt that had slipped a little lower on his shoulder, revealing just enough to disturb a glance.

It was a deliberate gesture, captivating the older player, his gaze lingering a little too long to be innocent.

He began to understand. Slowly, but surely.

What his body was causing.

What his presence inspired.

And now that he's become aware of it, maybe he'll learn to play it.

As Sae had whispered to him one day, between two truths.

"Rest day," Yoichi finally replied. "Why?"

The redhead shrugged imperceptibly, taking a bowl of fruit and another with almonds and walnuts.

"I have a photoshoot this afternoon. You could come, if you’d like — see what the sponsors look like," he offered, drizzling maple syrup over his mix. "I heard Ego plans to put you through something like that soon. Might as well get used to it now."

He took a sip of his coffee. Then, as if he were mentioning an unimportant detail:

"If you agree, we’ll make a detour this morning," the redhead said, a teasing smile playing on his lips. "Though you look far too tempting in my clothes, you still need something other than that T-shirt."

Yoichi stopped at his own fruit selection. He didn't have any money on him. And he'd never liked the idea of being kept.

To depend on someone.

However, this curiosity returned.

The one that precedes instinct.

The one that pushes you to dive deeper, without having a clear trajectory.

And then… there was that look.

Who didn't ask.

Not really.

So he gave in. Knowing that sooner or later he would have to choose between losing himself or giving himself up entirely to the fire.

🧩🧩

The tall windows reflected a pale, almost metallic sky, contrasting with the surprisingly quiet alleyway for a Saturday morning. Too quiet for a neighborhood supposed to exude luxury and activity.

Omotesandō, however, was never completely empty. But this morning, there was a kind of domesticated silence, as if the street had been prepared to make itself beautiful for them.

As they approached, the few passing cars seemed to slow down, as if drawn in spite of themselves to Sae's figure. Or rather, to that quiet confidence that gave the impression that he already possessed everything he was looking at — and that the rest was just a formality.

Yoichi walked beside him, close enough to feel, at times, the calculated brush of the redhead's arm against his own.

They weren't clinging. They didn't need to be. Not when the older man's hand came, at irregular intervals, to brush against the small of his back, a gesture possessive enough to dissuade anyone who recognized them from approaching.

Each contact was brief, almost innocuous… but strong enough to remind them that it was not an accident.

The red sweatshirt he'd finally put on — almost reluctantly, upon discovering the discreet Saint Laurent logo inside the seam — was warm in the spring air, but not enough to mask the slight chill that crept up his spine.

He attributed it to the situation more than the temperature.

The striker still didn’t know whether to feel ridiculous… or privileged.

Maybe a bit of both.

The ambivalence had a strange taste — a blend that kept him on his guard, as if a single misstep could shatter their fragile balance.

They had left the hotel just after breakfast in the black, tinted sedan driven by none other than Tachibana. The car had quickly slipped into this neighborhood where the facades vied with each other in marble and polished glass, and where silence seemed to be included in the price per square meter.

Now the assistant walked a few steps behind, at a measured distance, phone in hand. His presence was discreet but constant. His dark chocolate eyes regularly slid from the surroundings to Yoichi, then to Sae, as if he were taking mental notes.

Knowing he was watching them made Yoichi strangely aware of his own actions.

Thanks to Tachibana's arrangements, the street was almost empty. Private for two hours. A blessing for Yoichi, who preferred the quiet to the crowds. And, apparently, for Sae as well.

A finding that didn't surprise him. Itoshi seemed to avoid not only crowds… but also banality.

From the outside, they looked like opposing poles, challenging each other at a constant distance. Sae's calculated calm, his own feigned detachment… and Tachibana, an intermediary figure, the invisible interpreter of a tension he would never name aloud.

Yoichi had to admit: the assistant possessed a clean, balanced Japanese beauty, one that could rival Yukimiya’s. A detail that had probably not escaped Sae — nothing ever did.

It took only a few minutes of walking before the midfielder stopped dead in front of a minimalist storefront.

Pure glass, a satin-black frame, a discreet handle almost hidden in the line. No posters, no mannequins in the window. Just a lacquered white podium on which rested a single black trench coat, lit like a museum piece. Beyond the door, the Calvin Klein logo stood out against a light stone wall, without a single word being superfluous.

Facing him, Yoichi recoiled.

"Sae-kun… this is too much."

He received no response. Just a crooked, predatory smile. Then the redhead stepped forward to enter without waiting.

The door opened of its own accord with an imperceptible sigh, releasing a delicate scent — light wood and lavender — measured to catch each breath without ever imposing itself.

Inside, the charcoal carpet swallowed every sound. The racks, spaced a good meter apart, held fewer than ten pieces each. Matte black walls, punctuated by one-way mirrors, played with the directional light, wrapping each item in a halo.

A host in a black suit greeted them with a precise gesture, discreet enough to blend into the background.

The hushed elegance of the place made each movement more measured.

Through the glass doors, he saw Sae already in motion, provocative to the extreme, gliding between the racks as if he owned the place, brushing the fabrics with his fingertips. His gestures were slow, almost studied, as though he were gauging the worth of the clothes as much as the reactions they might provoke.

Yoichi, however, lingered on the threshold, watching the scene with a mix of suspicion and resignation.

For a brief moment, he seriously considered slipping away unnoticed.

But Tachibana’s low voice stopped him:

"You know, Isagi… with him, it always ends the same."

The striker looked away from the man for a moment, before returning to Sae, who was lifting a t-shirt as if evaluating a piece of art and adding it to a basket that appeared out of nowhere.

"And how?" he asked, even though he already had an idea of the answer.

"With a thick paper bag in your hands," replied the assistant, clearly delighted by the whole thing. "And a price you won't want to know."

Yoichi sighed, trying — in vain — to hide a hint of amusement behind an annoyed pout, then finally stepped through the door. Tachibana's almost inaudible laughter brushed against his ear, following him like a prediction that would sooner or later come true.

What followed was a veritable fitting marathon. Three clean-cut shirts, a pair of straight-legged Italian-cut trousers, two understated T-shirts whose impeccable fit betrayed their quality.

Nothing garish.

Nothing that screamed luxury, and yet… every seam, every button exuded precision.

In some pieces, the cotton glided over his skin like cool water. Others, made of linen, rested with an almost insolent lightness.

Itoshi had clearly decided on the style he wanted to impose that morning: refined, precise, almost clinical.

Just like his.

"Turn around a bit," Sae demanded, standing outside the dressing room, crossing his arms.

Yoichi reluctantly obeyed.

"Are you planning on dressing me for a funeral?" the younger man asked, earning a discreet snort from Tachibana, who stood at the threshold of the changing rooms.

Emerald eyes slid slowly over his figure, a gesture identical to the one that morning in the hotel suite.

"Only if it's your current style," Sae finally replied, impassive.

Thanks to the reflection in the large mirror dominating the separate room, he saw the assistant glance up from his phone just long enough to stifle a laugh.

Not mocking — rather, delighted by the intense duo the two players formed.

"It suits him well. I can see why you like him so much."

"You see. He agrees with me," the prodigy said, nodding his chin at Tachibana.

"He's paid to agree with you," Yoichi retorted immediately.

An amused silence followed, broken only by the discreet rustling of some high-end fabric as the saleswoman adjusted it on a hanger somewhere in the shop.

Sighing, Sae moved closer and leaned in, his lips lightly brushing the skin of his ear. A shiver ran through Yoichi's body at the sudden proximity, and he couldn't help but pull back a little. His movement brought them closer, and the older man seemed pleased, running one of his hands over his belt.

Then, as if the remark did not deserve to be addressed directly, he confirmed his doubts that had been growing since their arrival:

“Calvin Klein is one of my sponsors.”

A sentence thrown out as if it were obvious, which explained everything… and justified nothing.

He handed him a pair of pants identical to his own, along with a navy blue t-shirt made of cotton so soft that Yoichi felt like it was wrinkling just looking at it.

"Try this."

It was an order. Not a request.

Itoshi had finally found what appeared to be his outfit for the day, if the satisfied look on his face was any indication.

The cabin was spacious, carpeted in pearl gray, scented with that indefinable freshness that belongs only to luxury boutiques. Beyond the partition, he could hear the saleswoman's soft footsteps, the dry rustle of hangers being moved… and, lower down, the murmur of Sae and Tachibana, as if they were discussing him.

When he came out, he came to stand in front of the mirror, right next to Sae.

Their silhouettes were sober. Impeccable.

Strangely harmonious.

Yet, in the reflection, he felt that familiar gaze.

Fixed and a little too attentive.

Like a collector faced with a rare piece that he plans to keep for himself.

The striker held that gaze for a few seconds too long, feeling a dull heat rise from his chest to his throat. It wasn't exactly discomfort… nor exactly pride.

But rather a taste of a strange tension, half warning, half needed.

"You look at me like I'm a museum piece..." he murmured, unable to stop himself, having ended their exchange.

"Not a work of art. You're far too precious to be left out in the open," Sae retorted, his voice a little hoarser than it had been before.

Yoichi looked away, unable to decide whether to be flattered, annoyed… or suspicious.

And behind them, Tachibana was still watching, his gaze half amused, half cautious. As if he knew that this kind of exchange was never innocent.

They continued in this rhythm, going from shop to shop.

Beneath their feet, luxury became fluid: silky fabrics, shiny hangers, labels full of zeros.

Yoichi touched little, looked a lot.

Sae also received little. But he chose everything.

"I should film you like this," Yoichi said a little later, sitting on the arm of a matte leather chair in the Dior boutique, while Sae examined a pair of jeans.

The redhead raised an eyebrow, interested in the idea, without turning around.

"What then?"

"You. Picking out my clothes," he explained. "Bachira was right: you almost look like an old sugar daddy."

A quiet laugh shook Sae's shoulders. He looked up, not denying it.

"If I am your sugar daddy, you should at least tag me on Instagram."

The striker hummed, considering the request, before remembering what had already made him hesitate this morning.

He stood up, avoiding sighing again when Sae stepped out of a baggy jeans suit.

That would teach him to say no to the older one next time...

"Do you think I should make my account public now?" he asked, accepting the garment to try on.

"You're famous now," Sae replied, turning around. "Now's a good time to do it."

He paused. His gaze met his with calculated malice — sweet, yet dangerous.

"It would only confirm that you belong to me."

Yoichi looked away, his cheeks warming despite the air conditioning.

🧩🧩

It was past noon when they stopped in front of a perfume shop, tucked into the perfect alignment of the facades like an address that only regulars would notice.

The sign had a facade encompassed by glass, a discreet logo, engraved in the main window, like a whispered signature.

Yoichi felt like his legs had already run a marathon, even though the Omotesandō district was nothing like athletic.

The shops had been lining up since morning, each one quieter, more selective than the last. Even here, in the heart of a busy neighborhood, Sae seemed to have a knack for finding places where time slowed down and the outside world faded away.

Tachibana, unperturbed, had retrieved the heaviest bags and placed them in the car parked further away, always returning in time for the next leg.

At one point, Yoichi took out his phone and filmed Sae, from behind, adjusting the sleeve of a blazer he had just had him try on.

Perfect light caught them in the mirror, their silhouettes side by side.

After their conversation that morning, Sae had helped him switch his account to professional. So he decided to follow the midfielder’s advice, posting the video to his story without comment, just a 🤍 — before slipping the phone back into his pocket as if it were nothing.

As if he hadn't just crossed a line.

As if Itoshi Sae wasn't a small flaw in the image he was trying to control.

Because deep down, there was a part of him he tried to keep quiet — the part that found it… pleasant.

To let someone choose for him.

To be taken care of.

To be seen as something worth adorning, shaping, presenting to the world.

A thought he immediately shook off, focusing on the glass door in front of them.

Through it, the interior of the perfumery appeared like a studied painting.

Sand-colored carpet that absorbed the sound of footsteps, light measured to the millimeter, as if each ray had been tested before being approved.

The dark wooden shelves held isolated bottles, spaced like sculptures in a gallery.

No overload. No noisy temptation. Here, we didn't seduce: we waited to be chosen.

As soon as he walked through the door, a dark-suited employee bowed slightly.

“いらっしゃいませ” he whispered, before retreating discreetly.

Sae stepped forward confidently, his fingers barely brushing the edge of a display stand.

Then, without hesitation, he grabbed a bottle with clean lines, without a visible logo — a simple, almost anonymous object, but one that seemed to have been created to be there.

He turned towards him with a slow, almost distracted gesture... and yet precise, as if the scene was already written in his head.

“Tilt your head a little, Yo-chan.”

Yoichi blinked.

He hesitated for a split second. Then he obeyed.

By reflex. By habit.

Because he knew Sae wasn't pushing: Sae was getting it.

The elder's hand came to rest against the back of his neck.

Warm. Grounded. Not rushed, not gentle, just… certain.

A silent, almost natural taking possession, as if this place, this moment and himself were part of the same already conquered territory.

The cold blast of the spray caused a sharp, sharp shiver behind his ear. The smell burst forth immediately, clean and deep: sweet mint, green tea, dry wood, a hint of light spices.

Nothing invasive. More like an invisible caress, a whisper that seeped into his skin and never let go.

Something elegant, shadowy... almost cold at first contact, but warming as it clung to him.

This perfume did not belong to him.

And yet, it suited him.

Too good.

As if Sae had chosen him before even knowing him.

The elder took a step back, his gaze calm, almost satisfied.

“It’s mine,” he said simply.

Like a signature.

Like an invisible border.

Like a seal.

Yoichi stood frozen, his fingers clenched around the edge of Sae's sweater. His heart dancing at a pace unavoidable for a simple scent.

He wanted to respond. To protest.

Or at least joke, to break the tension.

However, he still felt his skin tingle where the warmth of the hand and the freshness of the perfume had overlapped.

And in the air now, there was no longer only his own smell.

He was wearing Sae's.

As proof.

As a claim.

A reminder he knew would remain long after they left the shop.

🦖 Shidou POV

If hell had a mascot, it might have its smile. But it would never have its look—the one that, even here, made it seem as if anyone could make a good meal.

Ryusei looked at himself in the salon mirror, his platinum and pink locks still damp, brushing against his face, slightly shorter than before.

He hadn't cut much, didn't see the need to: his usual style suited him like a glove. He'd simply opted to get rid of his damaged ends — his time at Blue Lock had prevented him from taking proper care of them — had had a few treatments done, and had his dye job refreshed.

Now that the work was almost complete, the living room's fluorescent lights accentuated every drop of water still present. And beneath these warm reflections, the pink of his irises shone like two pieces of flaming metal, ready to attack.

The striker, known for his savagery, pinched a piece of gum between his teeth, tongue lazy, looking satisfied. He hadn't asked for anything special, and yet, as usual, it was perfect.

Though more expensive than other salons, Re:VOLT Omotesandō was worth every yen. There was no forced small talk or bland politeness here. The polished concrete walls and frameless mirrors cast a polished, almost unreal image, as if he were posing for a photoshoot rather than getting a haircut.

Mizuhara Renji, his regular hairstylist for the past two years, stood behind him, silver rings catching the light as he began to gently dry his unruly locks.

His pure black hair, slicked back with emerald green highlights, shone in the fluorescent lights. The older man's narrow jaw and high cheekbones gave him a look that was both precise and sharp — the kind of face you remember for a long time, even if you pass him on the street.

“You scored again, didn’t you?” Renji asked, his tone nonchalant, as if the answer was beyond doubt.

Ryusei gave a carnivorous smile in the reflection, enjoying the warmth against the back of his neck.

“Twice. But you don’t watch the games.”

“I saw a clip,” Renji replied. “You still looked like you were going to eat the ball and the defender with it.”

The player snorted, his jaw tightening on his gum. He liked it, the way Renji remained unfazed. Most people around him became more polite, more cautious. Here, he wasn't "Shidou Ryusei, the referee's nightmare", but just one customer — a customer who, today, had chosen to enter through the front door, as if to say that the salon and he had the same allure: impossible to ignore.

The air smelled of black coffee and icy mint, the scent left behind by the barber's signature shampoo. In the distance, the muffled bass of an R&B song vibrated through the walls, punctuating the precise hiss of the scissors and the steady blast of the hairdryer.

Here, everything was designed to make the customer leave feeling more than human. Ryusei, for his part, felt ready to bite the whole world.

“So… how’s this Blue Lock project going for you so far?” Renji asked, lightly tapping his brush on the counter.

The pink striker pinched his gum between his teeth, his eyes still fixed on the mirror.

“Intense. Boring at first. But… it’s teaching me a lot,” he admitted, a hint of a smile — one devoid of any usual malice — forming. “The matches, the practices… everything is full-throttle, all the time.”

“And… play with Itoshi Sae?” Renji said, a smirk on his face, as if trying to read between the lines.

Ryusei raised an eyebrow, not really embarrassed, but intrigued by the way the other asked it.

“It’s… special. Very talented. Always focused, but… I’d say we complement each other well. And you’ve noticed that too, haven’t you?” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Renji snickered, patting the leather of the chair.

“Hm… yes. Too close to be completely innocent, perhaps? You seem a little wary of it, don’t you?”

The Blue Lock Demon grinned in the reflection, images of their encounters flashing before his eyes.

“We’ll see… But he’s intense, that’s for sure. And good. I like that.”

A knowing silence fell, just long enough for Renji to finish drying the unruly strands.

“I have another idea,” Ryusei murmured, his eyes sparkling in the mirror. “Something discreet, but noticeable. Maybe a piercing.”

The older man arched an eyebrow, amused.

“I could see you on the cartilage, or just above the ear. Subtle enough to keep it stylish, but not so subtle that it goes unnoticed.”

Ryusei nodded, a half-smile on his lips.

“Perfect. I'll let you choose exactly where and send it to me. You have a good eye for these kinds of places.”

Renji smiled, patting his shoulder complicitly, accepting the money held out by the younger man.

“Deal done. And watch out, if you ever bring a player back here… I'll make you pay double for the stress.”

The pink-eyed burst out laughing lightly and left the living room, ready to face the world, a little bolder than when he entered, with the idea of a new piercing already running through his mind.

He adjusted his midnight blue T-shirt and slipped on his sunglasses, braving the midday bustle. Tokyo shone around him like an overly lit aquarium. The air smelled of warm asphalt, still-dormant neon lights, and the subtle scent of hot coffee wafting from the terraces, a perfect blend with the understated luxury of neighborhoods that never sleep.

The young man wandered aimlessly, his footsteps echoing on the hot pavement, while the polished shop windows reflected his thoughts like a kaleidoscope. The rhythmic clink of his chain, clipped to his baggy jeans, vibrated with its own pulse, attracting the attention of a few passersby who saw him as just another young man in the city.

His reflection smiled at him in every bay window. He saw the player who had just scored twice for the U-20s, the one who had felt the pressure mounting until the very end, his heart beating in unison with the pitch.

And he also saw… the silent power play between him and Itoshi Sae.

Too close to be just a coincidence, he thought, a thrill of excitement running through him.

A rival, whose proximity had become as sweet as poison.

The feel of the prodigy’s skin lingered in his mind, like an echo of the few moments they had shared in those last days together. The warmth of his lips seeped into his thoughts, a tactical reminder of what he had and what he perhaps wanted to keep in his clutches.

From their exchanges, agitated with wildness, with a desire so deep that he lost his breath.

Ryusei knew it wasn't love.

Not yet.

It was purely carnal, a detour.

Yet he wanted to.

All in all.

And then there was Isagi Yoichi. A name he barely knew. This young man, silent but precise, always on the lookout for the slightest opening...

The Demon had sensed a keen curiosity growing from their first encounter, which intensified during their confrontation, like a predator that had found potential prey.

Worthy of his attention.

And just like Sae… breathtaking.

The redhead had asked him to keep an eye on Isagi.

Something Ryusei would gladly do.

Maybe one day this guy would have something to show him.

Or to take it from him.

He huffed a light laugh, tugging casually at his chain, and continued his stroll.

Every reflection, every step, every sound of the city resonated with his thoughts, a silent ballet between what he had been on the ground and what he would become. Tokyo wasn't just a backdrop: it was a mirror, a playground, an observatory... and he, Shidou Ryusei, was ready to sink his teeth into this world.

As he strolled around, Shidou was captivated by the understated luxury of Omotesandō: wide avenues lined with perfectly cut zelkova trees, sparkling windows of international designers, minimalist cafes and pastry shops with sleek facades, gold signs and subtle neon lights playing with daylight, and an impeccably dressed clientele that looked straight out of a fashion magazine.

Every detail, from polished marble to glittering glass, exuded elegance, and he felt strangely at home.

Then something caught his eye. Or rather, someone.

Two figures, moving confidently, as if oblivious to the milling crowd.

Ryusei felt his heart rate spike.

Curiosity. Challenge.

The desire to know who dared cross his path without realizing they were being watched.

Emerging from what appeared to be a perfume shop, they drew attention effortlessly.

Sae.

And Isagi.

Close enough to awaken an instinct he couldn’t ignore.

He stopped, biting harder into his gum.

The red sweatshirt draped over the blue-eyed striker’s shoulders — too big, too clean, too expensive — didn’t belong to him. It hung over his silhouette like a silent confession, much like the one he had worn on their date with the Blue Lock members.

As for Sae, he was handing Isagi a bag from the shop.

A bottle? Creams, like the ones Sae used?

Too hard to say, but the attention in his gaze was unmistakable. As if he were sculpting a tool perfectly tailored to him.

Ryusei let out a low, almost inaudible laugh.

Seeing these two faces, so present in his thoughts, materialize a few meters away had the appearance of an offering.

The Demon of Blue Lock was not one to refuse such gifts.

He split the crowd, slipping between them without warning, deliberately brushing shoulders like a blade slicing through fabric. Sae’s assistant—Tachibana, if memory served—barely had time to react.

Ryusei’s smile widened, predatory.

“Well… look at this. Are you still having fun without me?”

His voice was a caress, too gentle to be innocent. He positioned himself close enough for Isagi to feel the warmth of his breath. One hand brushed Isagi’s back, the other slid over Sae’s shoulder with the ease of someone familiar with their bodies from other angles.

Isagi flinched, visibly surprised by the sudden intrusion.

Sae barely lifted his eyes, calm, unreadable.

“So this is where you pretty ones hang out,” Ryusei said, amusement curling his lips.

His gaze met Isagi’s.

“Not bad, the makeover. Sae really pampers you, I must say.”

Then he turned to the elder, noticing the slight dilation of his pupils, like a cat’s.

“You weren’t that possessive, in my memory.”

It wasn’t reproach. Just observation. Provocation.

Itoshi responded with a tiny smirk, neither denied nor confirmed.

Ryusei observed everything: the subtle synchronicity in their movements, the way Isagi fell into step with Sae like a warped, complementary mirror.

Body language that was never accidental.

He didn’t yet know what he wanted from the prodigy considered the heart of Blue Lock… but he knew what he didn’t want: for anyone else to have him. Especially not someone uninteresting.

It was fortunate that it was Sae. Otherwise, he would have dismembered everyone else.

His gaze drifted to the collar of the sweatshirt, the scent lingering in the air.

A familiar scent — the one that had stayed on his sheets, during the most restless nights. Mixed with a clean, slightly lemony aroma he had already noticed on the blue-eyed striker.

Something stirred inside him. Intrigued, delighted by this exotic, alluring blend.

“Is that the one you’re carrying?” he asked, tilting his head toward Isagi like a curious predator.

He inhaled, nostrils flaring, and had to stop himself from moaning softly.

“Hmm… mineral, dry wood… with a minty undertone. Very Sae. If I were you, I’d avoid carrying someone else’s signature scent.”

His smile sharpened. He didn’t let them answer yet. His hands moved until they were nearly one.

Ryusei began moving forward, beckoning the assistant to follow, ignoring the resigned sigh.

“It’s like signing a contract without reading the clauses,” he continued.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Isagi frown. The younger opted to stay silent but allowed himself to be dragged along — a victory in itself.

Leaning toward Sae until his shoulder brushed the older man’s, Ryusei whispered, barely audible:

“He looks even prettier in this light. Don’t you think so, Sae? Isagi would be almost perfect… under us.”

A shiver ran through Sae, who laughed quietly, dangerously. Itoshi’s possessive, icy desire was so intense it felt almost tangible.

Perhaps he already belonged to him.

Beneath Sae’s calculated coldness, Ryusei saw everything.

He saw how the prodigy shaped Isagi, not just on the field but in the way he carried himself, lifted his chin, held a gaze longer than before.

Noticed how Sae gave him space, like an invisible wall — a protection, but also a gilded cage.

At the center, blinking in rhythm with them, was Isagi: a dark flower, still closed, petals bearing the bite of storms past.

A hidden beauty, almost shy, yet sharp under the right light.

Something that, once fully developed, would be as intoxicating as it was dangerous.

Sae was feeding him slowly, patiently. And Ryusei wanted to sink his hands in, pour his poison, make that heart race—not for football, but for something else, something only they could offer.

Almost reluctantly, he pulled back, running a hand through loose hair, free of gel, trying to appear calm while excitement surged.

“Too bad I wasn’t invited to the shopping trip,” he winked. “I would’ve offered dessert.”

Isagi’s eyes lowered slightly, searching for an answer in the smooth asphalt of Omotesandō.

He didn’t speak. Yet the slight tightening of his lips and the crease in his brow betrayed a mix of embarrassment and… something else.

A curiosity he tried to hide, but the Demon noticed immediately.

He expected Sae to respond first. But against all odds, it was the younger star who broke the silence:

“Shidou-kun, it’s rude to barge into a conversation without greeting the people involved,” he said, teasing, words drifting like a breeze laden with unspoken meanings.

Sae only exhaled, a sound almost like laughter.

“You talk a lot for someone who hasn’t bought anything, Demon,” he said, eyes fixed ahead.

Ryusei shivered, savoring their tone and provocation.

It was like being struck twice: one hot, one cold.

Fuck. 

He liked it.

“I prefer to invest elsewhere,” he said, deliberately glancing at Isagi.

The younger barely reacted. Still, his breath quickened slightly — enough for the other two to notice.

Sae hummed softly, enjoying it, and Ryusei felt it in the depths of his being.

Oh yes, he had noticed it from the beginning.

The gentle way Sae whispered to Isagi shaped him… yet he wanted more.

It was obvious.

Ryusei would give his full attention if that’s what they sought.

If he had to fight to give it, he would.

From their last conversation, he was certain: the prodigy could become their third.

And when he thought of it again, the idea solidified.

Not a passing fantasy. A strategy. A game where every glance, word, and silence weighed as heavily as a goal in the final.

The pink-eyed striker wouldn’t hesitate to crush any “vultures” daring to reach the one he had marked.

There was an almost gentle violence in this thought, a possession instinct fueled by desire and competition alike.

Isagi hadn’t realized how deeply he was ensnared.

Or perhaps he had — and accepted it.

A predatory smile touched Ryusei’s lips.

Tokyo pulsed around them — luxury window displays, expensive perfumes mingling with the one Isagi wore, murmurs of intrigued passersby.

Ryusei loved it.

This feeling of being part of a scene that belonged only to the three of them… one he would redesign in his own image.

He would follow Sae into this dangerous gamble, one that consumed them alive.

But so sweet, they would return again and again.

Until they no longer knew where victory began…

Or where the fall ended.

🌹 Kaiser Pov

Michael loved precise mornings. Mornings when each of his gestures was measured, calculated, almost sacred.

Today was a day of rest. He savored the luxury of these quiet hours, where nothing could interfere with the order he cultivated.

This freedom, owing nothing to anyone, allowed him to appreciate every movement, every sound, every detail like a perfectly orchestrated symphony.

Cold light filtered through the linen curtains, casting sharp shadows on the marble of his living room. The muffled vibrations of his speakers filled the air — Schumann, something soft yet structured, almost mathematical.

Everything in his space was orchestrated to the millimeter.

As it was meant to be.

Comfortably seated on his Italian leather sofa, the Bastard prodigy ran a finger across his keyboard to authorize a transfer: €257,000, drawn directly from the income of his perfume range — KAISER N°.1 — destined for two orphanages in Munich.

He had designed these gifts to give children what he had never had: clean beds, attentive doctors, regular meals, toys and educational materials, competent and caring staff, constant attention…

Michael didn’t linger. There was nothing to prove, nothing to explain.

Just the perfect execution of his choices.

He stood slowly, stretching his arms. His midnight blue sweatpants slid off his hips, and his white linen shirt was open, revealing the roses and thorns engraved at his neck. His hair, tied back, remained immaculate. Gold-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, cold and precise like his mind.

He placed his empty cup on the charcoal countertop and picked up another, filled with fresh fruit: red strawberries, purple blackberries, a few slices of golden mango. Settling back on the sofa, legs crossed, his gaze drifted toward the open file on the coffee table: a letter confirming the Variety of Time collection was approved and production could begin.

Like a silent trophy.

A slight smile tugged at his lips.

He picked up his laptop and wrote an email to the director of the luxury brand, each key struck with deliberate precision:

----

  Subject: Variety of Time Launch

Guten Tag, Herr Sebastian. 

Ich hoffe, es geht Ihnen gut.

I have received your validation regarding the new collection. Thank you for your responsiveness.

If everything goes as planned, the launch will proceed on schedule without a hitch.

As I mentioned earlier, I will travel to Japan in four days with some members of the Bastard team. The duration of this trip is open-ended.

However, I am open to the possibility of conducting a shoot in Tokyo.

To be confirmed at your convenience and that of your team.

Wishing you a pleasant day,

Michael Kaiser

----

A clear click confirmed the sending.

Michael let his body slump back onto the couch, cup of fruit in hand, savoring the fresh sweetness of a strawberry. He swirled it on his tongue before biting, humming softly in satisfaction.

He made a mental note to inform his housekeeper that this brand of strawberry surpassed the usual ones.

Michael finished his breakfast slowly, enjoying the quiet. The silence weighed pleasantly on his shoulders, like a cape carefully tailored by his own hands. Every outside noise was filtered out, controlled by his will… until he decided otherwise.

Having completed his morning tasks, he picked up his phone and scrolled through clips of his cousins: Lorenzo's perfect goal, Noa's relentless mechanics, Loki's fluid movement, Luna's technical speed.

Nothing emotional.

Nothing lingering.

Bored, he deleted his notifications — until one disrupted the calm meticulously maintained.

----

   📱 Itoshi Sae posted 12 hours ago:

@itoshi_sae_official ⚽️🧊, 1.7M views

With @Isagi_Yo_10 🧩⚽️

----

Michael froze. Slowly, he opened the post, expecting what he would not like.

A discreet, provocative shot appeared, almost blurred, illuminated by the dim light of a luxurious hotel. The Japanese prodigy was methodical — one of the few traits they shared. Or so he had believed for years.

The image focused on the thin yet perfectly muscular back of Yoichi. The Blue Lock striker leaned over a table, serving food with precision reminiscent of a Michelin-starred chef. His T-shirt hung loosely, the collar slipping over one shoulder. Raven hair damp, slightly tousled, and his concentrated expression held a domestic, almost innocent air.

The caption seemed a direct provocation, reserved for him:

"Find someone like Yo-chan."

He didn’t smile. Not when the comments suggested what he had tried to ignore, nor when requests — including those from Luna and Loki — poured into the blue-eyed striker's account.

A cold tingle rose in his throat, intense yet controlled. Not anger, but the uneasy realization that he might have waited too long.

A subtle, almost imperceptible laugh escaped him. Dry. Surgical, like the order surrounding him.

Michael turned off the music, placed his phone beside his now-empty cup, every motion precise. His icy blue eyes scanned the flawless ceiling, thoughts racing.

You make mistakes, Itoshi. You think you’re discreet, but you’re not.

Hands on his knees, breathing measured, he whispered almost affectionately:

"Yoichi, why didn’t you wait for me?"

His gaze lingered on the open image, every detail absorbed, the younger man’s beauty impossible to ignore. He exited the app and tapped open his calendar.

----

✈️ Japan – D-4

→ Prey: Isagi Yoichi

→ To do: Variety of Time – Tokyo shoot option (awaiting confirmation)

→ Kaiser No. 2? – Possible new launch

→ Strategic recovery: usual exercises and routine (unless updated)

----

One final thought remained unrecorded:

I’ll be there soon. And you can’t change that, Itoshi.

Michael turned off his phone and stood. His smile was slight, almost harmless, yet it carried the weight of absolute control.

All around him, order reigned. Yet within, a heat bubbled — the collar of the T-shirt, Yoichi’s posture, Sae’s subtle presence… a provocation. An invitation. A challenge long overdue.

And he, the precise and demanding Emperor of Bastard München, knew exactly how to respond.

Notes

    > Places:

Omotesandō – a chic district in Tokyo, located between Shibuya and Minato, known for its zelkova-lined avenues, international designer boutiques, stylish cafés, and modern architecture.

The area is home to iconic buildings such as Omotesandō Hills, designed by architect Tadao Ando, and flagship stores of brands like Louis Vuitton, Dior, and Tod’s.

Re:VOLT Omotesandō – is the hair salon I invented specifically for Shidou… or maybe not ehehe ~

The name plays on the idea of revolt and voltage, evoking electric energy, boldness, and a haircut that “pops.”

It’s a fusion of Japanese minimalism with high-end industrial touches.

    > Words:

いらっしゃいませ – comes from the Japanese “Irasshaimase,” which can be translated as “Welcome” or “Please come in,” in a very polite and professional tone.

It is not a personal greeting, but a standard phrase to welcome customers.

You hear it automatically at the entrance of a restaurant, convenience store, shop, etc.

    > The sentence:

Guten Tag, Herr Sebastian. Ich hoffe, es geht Ihnen gut. – means: “Hello, Mr. Sebastian. I hope you are doing well.”

Chapter Text

♟️Itoshi Sae POV

Sae had never believed in coincidences.

From childhood, he’d learned to trace the hidden logic behind every encounter, to decipher the secret geometry of glances, the invisible trajectories of footsteps crossing his own.

Nothing happened without reason. 

The world was a chain of opposing forces, a constant weighing of competing wills. Every detail became data, every movement a variable he recorded before even realizing it.

In his eyes, the unexpected did not exist. Only destinies that unfolded and devoured one another remained.

So when Ryusei appeared in Omotesandō — an insolent flash erupting between glass and luxury — he knew it wasn’t the result of that “chance” others seemed so eager to believe in.

It was an inevitable collision. 

Not by the demon’s hand, but by that invisible gravity always positioning Yoichi at the center of the action.

Ryusei never arrived without reason.

And Sae refused to feign ignorance.

He wouldn’t.

Not when the demon himself was poised to collide with them.

The reckless striker never emerged by accident. Claiming otherwise would be an insult to the very essence of this embodied chaos.

No.

Shidou Ryusei moved like a natural force: chaotic on the surface, yet governed by an instinct of savage precision, like lightning that always strikes the most vulnerable point.

Today, that trajectory had just two destinations: him… and Yoichi.

The air seemed to hum around the taller striker, brushing Sae’s neck and arms like an invisible current.

Every movement was designed to command attention, bending space itself.

The midfielder knew this presence all too well. It had brushed against him, jostled him, burned him more than he would have tolerated from anyone else.

An aura of raw violence, a desire acknowledging no boundaries.

And he offered no resistance.

On the contrary.

Sae welcomed it.

He felt that heat pressing against his own.

So unbearable.

Indecent.

Not out of weakness, but because he knew resistance would be futile.

The scarlet prodigy had touched this skin — savored its fevered scent — more times than anticipated. But above all, he had confronted those eyes: pink, voracious, corrosive. A gaze that never asked, only took, heedless of the consequences.

So he remained still.

A marble statue, ready to react if it meant keeping any imminent danger at bay. Icy green eyes dissected every nuance of the other’s approach.

Ryusei took his time.

Deliberately.

Like a predator toying with prey.

Like poison seeping into the bloodstream before the body realizes it’s dying.

It wasn’t a walk; it was a silent conquest.

Beside him, Yoichi stood as a stable variable, a constant never wavering. His warmth spread softly, dense and steady, anchoring Ryusei’s intensity.

He carried a presence entirely his own, disarmingly simple. 

Without realizing it, Sae’s shoulders loosened imperceptibly.

He didn’t need to look to know Yoichi was there.

Like a silent protector.

An anchor in the turbulent sea they embodied.

His breath softened, moving in perfect synchrony with that of his other half, a wordless symbiosis that had settled quietly, without a single word.

Sae lifted his eyes toward him, for a fraction of a second. Yo-chan met his gaze, just long enough for a silent understanding to pass between them.

A simple “I’m here” that tightened the bond he never wanted to break.

The blue-eyed player was an addiction he’d chosen. One he intended to keep at all costs.

He embodied logic that asserted itself without raising its voice, patience that never wavered.

Beneath his quiet politeness and perfectly controlled gestures lay unyielding consistency, a gentleness capable of sealing cracks — ones he’d never reveal to anyone.

Ryusei, on the other hand, was the living antithesis.

A dangerous addiction.

A free spirit whose magnetic arrogance imposed its own law.

His intensity was so raw it bent the very air around him.

And Sae, at the heart of this silent confrontation, perceived the fragile, perfect balance forming here.

The icy constancy of Blue Lock’s Heart and the blazing violence of the Demon. Two opposing forces, drawing near, reshaping boundaries, like two magnets irresistibly pulled together, ready to clash, entwine, and devour.

Then, in a single breath, Ryusei joined them.

His wild, burning presence saturated the air, asserting his dominance.

Strong, confident arms wrapped around them in an embrace both tempting and possessive, so powerful that Sae was certain even Tachibana could sense it from afar.

Yoichi didn’t flinch.

He never did.

Yet his body betrayed a subtle tension—a slight stiffening, like a note played a half-step higher.

A reflexive adaptation.

Not discomfort: pure acceptance.

Since their first meeting, Sae knew the little genius commanded proximity in his own way.

He didn’t avoid; he absorbed.

On the field or off, he gauged pressure, fed on it, and always returned it against the other.

Where others bent, he anchored himself even more firmly, willing to destroy — himself and his opponents — within the embrace of his mastery.

And the pink-streaked player would be no exception.

The certainty sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine.

The Japanese prodigy needed this.

More than that, he craved it.

Let the two strikers measure, clash, intertwine. For if he were to leave Japan, the Demon would become the raw instinct protecting Yo-chan in his absence.

A predator tamed solely by the power of their shared territory.

A smile brushed his lips, delighted to finally breathe life into the motion he had been watching for a week. It was just a stolen instant, a suspended pulse before the spark ignited. 

Yet it was enough.

Enough to feed his anticipation, enough to confirm what he had already sensed.

The exchange that followed was set in motion by Ryusei. His dragging, mocking voice excited him as much as it irritated him, stoking the desire to dominate and the temptation to succumb to intoxication. 

Sae, fully aware of the danger, chose not to restrain himself.

Not yet.

Then the breeze shifted slightly, and a familiar scent claimed him.

Immediate satisfaction coursed through him, sinking deep into his chest. 

His gaze slid toward Yoichi — naturally, inevitably — and caught the Demon in the same motion, torn between surprise and greed. They couldn’t help but stare for what felt like an eternity, watching the strikingly-eyed striker flush beautifully under their hunger-driven attention.

A reminder he’d won.

His scent, now on the blue-eyed striker, lingered because he’d placed it there.

A part of him, invisible yet indelible, had already marked Yoichi.

No letting go.

A shiver ran up his spine.

He stifled it immediately, refusing to yield to the sweet, dangerous intoxication before it consumed him.

Still, as if with a mind of its own, his thoughts drifted against his will to a vision bordering on blasphemy: Yoichi and Ryusei, their bodies entwined in his bed, generating a heat so raw it felt sacrilegious.

Damn it. He wanted them both.

Those two hungry pink eyes, searching for every flaw offered.

Hands deceptively strong, kneading their skin until precise marks were left, like a symbol.

Eyes full of endless possibilities. That perfectly pale neck tilted, those parted lips…

Every inch his fangs could claim.

Sae knew a single gesture — just one — would be enough to let himself be swept away. To seize them both and thrust them into the streets, toward a bed that could hold neither their fever nor his.

And yes, Yoichi would inevitably be tempting between them. Forming an equation whose terms drew inexorably together.

However, he violently pushed the image away as soon as it surfaced. A part of him knew it was only a matter of time before this desire to possess everything became unstoppable.

Chaos was his nature.

And all of this, sooner or later, would consume them entirely.

He forced himself to breathe, to regain control over his body. 

But as if sensing his thoughts, the Demon never allowed him respite. His burst of laughter echoed through the air, a predatory grin widening with every word he threw, drawing Sae’s attention once more.

Every icy barb from the redhead was an invitation to strike harder. Every polite irony from Yoichi poured fuel onto the blaze.

He had no doubt: The pink-eyed striker seemed to feed on it. Still, the professional player was not here to share.

Not today.

Now bored, he turned his head wordlessly. His hand found Blue Lock’s Heart and drew him toward the studio, their shadows blending seamlessly on the pavement.

And to his greatest delight, the younger followed, as he had often done in recent days, drawn to this thread he no longer questioned.

Behind them, his escape didn’t prevent a laugh too loud from echoing along Omotesandō. Ryusei, of course, was quick to strike:

“Don’t have too much fun without me.”

In the reflections of the shop windows, Sae saw the lanky silhouette raise a careless hand.

A smile too wide, too insolent.

“Otoya and Karasu are waiting. The real good plans, my dears.”

And the Demon vanished into the crowd, a storm reduced to a trail of powder.

It was only a brief reprieve.

Sae didn’t flinch.

He said nothing.

Only, his hand pressed lightly against Yoichi’s. A gesture invisible to all but a stark reminder that here, he set the rules.

Ryusei bared his fang.

It was only a matter of time before Kaiser would strike.

Surrounded by the scents of velvet and luxury, Sae felt it in his bones: the game was only escalating.

🧩 Isagi Pov

Shidou’s laughter still clung to his skin, deep and mocking, like a veiled threat hidden beneath layers of expensive fabric. Too close, too present, when he had stepped forward and pulled them into his arms earlier.

The kind of laugh that didn’t fade. Instead, it lodged itself inside, like a shard of glass in a puzzle — impossible to ignore, impossible to remove without shattering everything.

Yoichi could still feel its echo tracing his memories, dangerous against his skin. 

It was only broken by Sae’s grip on his hand, so intoxicatingly gentle that it stole his breath, a wave that swallowed everything else.

After leaving the Demon behind, Tachibana had dragged them into a small sushi restaurant. A true blessing, which he had welcomed with open arms. A respite from the chaos that had ruled the entire morning. The perfect way to bring some order back to his thoughts, one bite at a time.

The assistant deserved a raise, always knowing what to do, when to do it. An art he had mastered to perfection — and that Sae, evidently, exploited without flinching.

The professional player remained exactly as he always was: calm, elegant, his gaze fixed on him more than it should have been.

Too long, too directly.

“What?” Yoichi didn’t even lift his eyes from his maki, feigning indifference.

“Nothing.” Sae’s whispered answer was the most transparent lie he had ever heard.

Amused, he raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. 

“Not very convincing, Sae-chan.”

The moment Shidou’s suffix slipped from his tongue, the redhead stiffened, his eyes suddenly captivated by his plate of sashimi.

A silent victory, one Yoichi savored with the same delight as his sushi.

Back in the bustle of Omotesandō, their fingers found each other again, intertwined in what had become a natural, almost instinctive gesture.

And Yoichi didn’t try to pull away.

He didn’t want to.

“You two are cute, huh,” Tachibana called from behind them, hands in his pockets. “Like high schoolers walking home together after a grueling day.”

Yoichi turned with a sly smile.

“Jealous? Want to join us?”

Tachibana shrugged casually, far too amused.

“Not a chance.”

Sae only responded with a faint sigh, as if exasperated by the exchange. Yet Yoichi saw a smile tug at the corner of his lips — so poorly hidden it was almost sinful.

For a brief moment, he couldn’t help but imagine what Rin would look like if he saw his brother — oh, so “taciturn” — like this.

The younger Itoshi would probably have a full-blown existential crisis and try to run away from the country.

The thought alone made him chuckle softly, earning a curious glance from the redhead beside him.

With a vague flick of his free hand, the striker shooed him away, receiving only a low growl and an expression so bored that Yoichi had to summon all his self-control not to pinch the elder’s cheek.

The two Itoshis were so socially awkward it was hilarious.

They continued walking, still hand in hand, teasing each other from time to time. Tachibana added his own jabs now and then, only to receive his employer’s disapproving glance — which both knew was far too feigned to be real.

Yoichi knew it drew attention. Their movement, their presence. But most of all, their two hands linked in the heart of a now-crowded district.

He felt the whispers, the subtle smiles. Yet unlike with past acquaintances, it didn’t intimidate him.

Never with Sae.

There was something liberating, almost defiant, about displaying it so openly. Like a silent challenge to anyone daring enough to judge them. And if the older one didn’t seem to care, all the better. Because it meant he didn’t have to care either.

Curious, he lifted his eyes to the older player — only to meet that usual image of calm. No stiff shoulders. No nervous twitch of the lip like when something annoyed him.

“You’re not embarrassed,” he said, almost to test him.

The other shot him a glance, amusement shining in his emerald eyes.

“Neither are you.”

Yoichi gave a brief smile.

“Good,” he replied simply. Then, to nudge the redhead’s nerves a little, he added, “Because I have no intention of letting go.”

His voice carried just enough teasing. Enough to draw out Tachibana’s not-so-quiet laugh and a faint flush from the one he provoked.

Pleased with his little counterstrike, after all the provocations Sae had thrown at him since the start, he tightened their fingers — this time calming him. Showing that he wasn’t mocking him, or them, but fully embracing the dynamic that belonged to them alone.

And the light, airy laugh he received in return was worth a thousand words.

The next few minutes passed in silence. Then they finally stopped, in front of a sign that nearly made him stumble.

Its façade, a satin black with a proudly displayed golden logo, took his breath away.

The Saint Laurent store in Omotesandō seemed to shine under the afternoon sky, like a beacon.

Unlike Calvin Klein and the other stores Sae had taken him to, nothing here screamed for attention. No glowing screens, no alluring mannequins.

No.

The luxury brand asserted its presence in another way: with a crushing sobriety. As if every inch of the façade whispered that he wasn’t worthy to set foot inside.

Seeing his hesitation, Sae tightened his grip on Yoichi’s hand and pulled him forward. As they approached, the glass doors slid open with a quiet sigh, briefly reflecting their image: two linked silhouettes, with Tachibana behind them, an ironic witness with his ever-present smirk.

Inside, the contrast was immediate. The cool, enveloping air carried a clean yet dense scent: a balanced blend of sandalwood and dark chocolate.

Yoichi inhaled, surprised by the almost sensual fragrance that seemed to define the space.

Everything around him gleamed, from the black-veined white marble on the floor to the display cases arranged like altars, and the classical music playing in the background — calculated, almost reverent.

Absorbed by the place, he let himself be guided by Sae, who moved as if he owned it all.

The striker watched him out of the corner of his eye: it wasn’t just confidence, it was an ease born of habit. As if Sae was playing at home here.

And he, Yoichi, had the strange sensation of being invited onto a field he had only ever dreamed of.

His eyes roamed everywhere, unable to stop themselves. Absorbing every element. Analyzing each displayed object — like on a pitch. Each one was a piece of a game he was beginning to understand. A world he had dreamed of so often it felt almost unreal.

They didn’t need the receptionist’s permission to move toward the back door of the store. The moment she recognized Sae, she had bowed at a perfect angle and gestured for them to proceed, immediately returning her attention to the only other customer present.

Behind the door, the scenery changed again. No more display cases or whispers from the sales staff. Here, silence grew heavier, the walls brighter, the lines cleaner. A reserved, almost sacred space, where even the air seemed filtered to allow only perfection through.

Until his attention was broken.

On the wall, enormous posters.

Of celebrities and international players.

Sae, proudly present among them, radiated his beauty and calm, still as captivating as ever. An intensity restrained, yet ready to devour whatever he considered his.

Or anyone who dared cross his path.

However, it was another poster that drew all of Yoichi’s focus.

Michael Kaiser.

Wearing a tailored electric-blue suit over a blindingly elegant white shirt. A predatory smile curved his lips — almost too perfect — eyes an almost supernatural shade of blue.

Even frozen in place, the German striker seemed in motion, radiating confidence, already a step ahead of everyone else.

To his utmost horror, Yoichi felt his pulse race, traitorous.

Of course.

After Shidou, it had to be him.

Those damned blond strikers, with their flashy locks and predator smiles — too bright, too self-assured, ready to pounce on their prey at the slightest weakness.

The kind of players he dreamed of crushing.

Yoichi squeezed Sae’s hand tighter, anchoring himself in the present.

“Even here, he pokes his nose,” he murmured.

Sae barely turned his head, already aware of the German’s photo. He nudged Yoichi to keep moving, leaning slightly to whisper in his ear:

“Ignore him.” 

His voice hoarse, carried a danger Yoichi knew well: possessiveness.

The same that had pushed Sae to pull him away from Shidou earlier.

And under the weight of that intensity, that protection he accepted with open arms, something twisted inside him.

Insidious, corrosive.

Three imprints crushing against each other, blurring all sense of coherence.

Yet he moved forward, gripping that hand like it was his only certainty. Because Yoichi knew: the day these three players found themselves in the same room, he wouldn’t want to be there to witness the impact — a collision far too intense not to drown in.

🧩🧩

Seated on a cream-colored sofa, a warm cup of tea in his hands, Yoichi felt as if he had been propelled into another world.

They had entered the studio barely ten minutes earlier, and upon their arrival, the staff had straightened in unison, as if this choreography had been rehearsed hundreds of times. Greetings flowed seamlessly, followed by a flurry of commands in perfectly orchestrated motion.

Sae, unflappable, didn’t slow down. He simply squeezed Yoichi’s hand a little tighter before giving him a brief nod, inviting him to join Tachibana in the area reserved for companions. Then, without a word, he disappeared behind the dressing room door, carried away by a ballet of intensity that seemed to belong solely to this place.

From his current seat, Yoichi took in the room. Light wood floors, pristine walls, minimalism pushed to the point of oppression. At the center, the staged platform — an exact replica of the boutique they had passed through — stood like a set torn from another world. Spotlights hummed mechanically, the click of pens and murmurs of the organizers blending with the rustle of fabrics and movements of the staff: everything seemed to form a continuous flow, like an invisible rain.

His body tensed slightly. He had always sensed what others overlooked: the scent of a storm before the lightning, the flutter of wings behind a window. Yet here, everything was amplified, each detail vibrating like a test imposed upon him.

To his left, Tachibana tapped quietly on his tablet, perfectly at ease in this orchestrated chaos. For him, the commotion was nothing more than a tamed routine. For Yoichi, every breath, every movement carried an unfamiliar weight.

He had rarely felt so out of place. Not like on the pitch, where gaps could be closed through play. Here… it was the attention that unsettled him. Fleeting yet insistent glances, as if he himself had become part of the scenery.

Fragile.

Intrusive.

He lowered his eyes to his cup. The dark liquid barely rippled. A burning sip made his tongue jerk, a shiver climbing his throat, and he unconsciously tightened his fingers around the porcelain. His shoulders relaxed for a moment at the thought of Sae behind the door—then tensed immediately under the weight of a new gaze.

Tachibana broke the silence in a hushed tone:

“You must be used to it, right? All this attention, the stares, the whispers… You’re at Blue Lock, after all.”

Yoichi gave a brief smile, shaking his head.

“Blue Lock is an unnatural place. There, the eyes aren’t trying to understand you. They’re only waiting to see if you’ll fall, or break. Here… it’s different.”

“Different how?” Tachibana asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Some say it’s a prison,” the younger one murmured, amused at the assistant’s startled reaction. “The first days, no phones. Forbidden to go outside.”

He set the cup down and fixed his gaze on Tachibana.

“You couldn’t breathe without someone trying to use your own breath against you. Rin realized it as fast as I did.”

A memory crossed his mind: the flash of Rin’s eyes on the decisive pass, the metallic taste of blood when the younger Itoshi had bumped into him… His foot tapped nervously against the floor, his throat tightening, as if every memory reminded him of the pressure he had endured.

“Rin? Itoshi-sama’s brother.”

Yoichi let a cold smile stretch across his lips—a smile that still carried an unexpected softness.

“My rival, as he likes to say. My ally, sometimes, when it suits us. But above all, the one who constantly reminds me that Blue Lock is a battlefield. You don’t go there to make friends. Not really.”

Tachibana remained silent, his fingers tapping as if counting invisible seconds, his gaze briefly darkening before returning to neutral. Then he said, more gravely:

“That’s strange… I’ve been through that too. The army.”

His chocolate-brown eyes clouded for a fraction of a second, caught by a memory, before he continued:

“You don’t sleep, you watch. You don’t eat, you calculate how many days you’ll last. Those around you aren’t necessarily wishing your downfall, but they’re not there to help you either. You quickly realize you exist only in relation to your usefulness.”

Yoichi stared at him.

Oh… he had been right: the man was far more than an assistant.

“The army…? For a long time?” he asked, surprised by the confession.

“Four years. Another life. But that kind of discipline stays. And so does the distrust.”

A heavy silence settled. Yoichi held the player’s gaze, intrigued, yet respectful enough not to press further. A part of him locked away—one that even Sae-kun might never have dared to force open.

He would get nothing more.

Not today.

And, as if to lighten the air, Tachibana spoke again, his tone softer:

“At this rate, you can just use my first name, Isagi-san.”

Yoichi raised an amused eyebrow, lifting his cup. He blew gently over the tea before teasing:

“Really? I thought politeness was part of your contract.”

A small, quiet laugh escaped Tachibana, who shrugged slightly.

“Consider it a special permission.”

Yoichi nodded, pleased, and let the name fall from his lips in a low voice, emphasizing it:

“Then you can drop the last name too, Hiroshi-san.”

The first name landed like a gentle provocation. Tachibana blinked, caught off guard, before a crease appeared at the corner of his mouth. His composure cracked for an instant, his shoulders relaxing almost against his will.

Yoichi knew he had crossed an invisible boundary: the one where the man reveals himself behind the professional.

But the moment closed as soon as a movement drew the entire room’s attention. The door to the dressing rooms opened, and Sae reappeared.

It felt as if the air had thickened. Even the spotlights seemed to hold their breath.

The redhead stepped forward with measured poise, clad in a black three-piece suit whose satin fabric caught the light without ever absorbing it. The stiff white shirt framed his collar with surgical precision. Draped over his shoulders, a long, straight coat cut from dark wool traced a severe line down to the floor. His polished shoes reflected the flashes of the spotlights, and on his wrist gleamed a watch of understated, almost military refinement.

This was not a suit meant to seduce. It was a uniform. Elegant, cold, almost mafioso, stripped of all superfluous ornamentation.

A shiver ran down Yoichi’s spine. He had seen Sae Itoshi running on a pitch, facing him, sharing silences, sleeping just steps away… Still, what he saw now was not that Sae.

It was something else.

Unreal.

Around him, whispers died away on their own. The photographer straightened with a sharp motion, hands already raised to adjust the lighting. And just behind the professional player, the stylist nodded, approving the completed work.

What followed was a succession of precise, measured movements, each pose exhaling calculation, perfect restraint, the icy embodiment of the expected image.

Yoichi almost forgot to breathe. His eyes remained locked, captivated despite himself, on this new facet of Sae-kun.

The shots went on for a long time, the sharp clicks of the shutter echoing like a steady volley. Once, he thought he glimpsed the ghost of a smile, so subtle he wondered if anyone had noticed.

The silence in the room was broken only by the photographer’s voice:

“Perfect… excellent… once more, chin slightly higher… there.”

The more the striker watched, the more it felt as if Sae was building an invisible fortress around himself. Yet his eyes couldn’t look away, drawn to a beauty that carried a certain cruelty in its perfection.

To his left, Tachibana—no, Hiroshi—exhaled, amused:

“You’re drooling, Yoichi-san.”

“Shut up,” he growled, without taking his eyes off the scene.

A soft laugh shook the assistant, who returned to tapping on his tablet, satisfied at having pricked Yoichi’s pride.

They continued their exchange, keeping a low tempo so as not to disturb, which was amplified by the ballet of flashes and the hum of the studio.

Yoichi inhaled, trying to focus on the bitter taste of his tea rather than on Sae’s insolent magnetism. However even the warmth in his throat couldn’t erase the feeling of being surrounded, watched against his will.

That sensation only intensified when the photographer, to everyone’s surprise, suddenly stopped, a spark passing through his eyes. He turned his full attention to Yoichi, who was savoring the last sip of his drink.

He nearly choked when the man spoke:

“Wait. That sweater.”

Oh no…

Curiosity and recognition rippled through the team. The stylist lifted his head, intrigued as well, as if he hadn’t noticed it until now:

“The sweater you’re wearing, Isagi-san… it’s not a public piece yet, is it?”

Yoichi felt his soul leave his body, silently cursing the Re Al player for lending him this exact sweater today.

What a fox…

Before he could say anything, the culprit answered, far too proud of himself:

“Mine. From one of my private orders.”

The statement hung in the air, and Yoichi wanted to kill him right there, then and there.

Never mind discretion.

“Magnificent,” the photographer said, a smile lighting up his face. “Exactly what we need. Would you like to join us for a shot? Perhaps two, Isagi-san? While Itoshi-sama goes to change into his second outfit?”

His heart pounded wildly. He had never posed for anything before, let alone in such a staged setting. But to back down now, under all these eyes — and especially under Sae’s — was unthinkable. It would be like missing a clear chance, a ball placed right on the penalty spot.

Not forgetting that this was exactly the world the professional player wanted him to understand: a staged scenario, a taste of what awaited him upon his return to Blue Lock.

When he finally agreed, still slightly stiff, the team erupted in satisfaction. It seemed they had been waiting for this moment from the very start: this shift, the precise instant when the spectator crosses the line and becomes the actor.

And Yoichi had just stepped over it.

The commotion resumed, renewed by the prospect of having both Japanese players in a single shot. Assistants rushed around, folding and adjusting accessories, while Sae disappeared behind the dressing room door.

Meanwhile, the photographer and one of the stylists approached him, explaining the process and asking if he would allow slight hair and makeup adjustments for the occasion. Curious, he agreed, and the stylist settled beside him on the couch, already setting up her tools.

She ran her fingers through his hair, aligning each strand with meticulous precision, applied a light cream to his face—just enough to mattify and highlight his features—and placed a subtle balm on his lips: a simple accent to enhance his natural beauty without altering it.

“Done,” she murmured with a smile, “just enough to bring out your best.”

Then, a different rustle caught his attention. Leather. A sound immediately recognizable, drawing every eye.

Sae reappeared — transformed. Slim black leather pants, a satin shirt of dazzling white, collar open, high boots gleaming darkly. The icy elegance of the “luxury heir” was gone, replaced by a wilder aura: an edgy, rock-chic, predatory style.

Elusive.

Magnetic.

Yoichi tried to steady himself. The heat of the spotlights, the scent of leather and driftwood hanging in the air, the click of the redhead’s shoes — everything pulsed with a concentrated energy, almost tangible.

Too late to turn back. He stood, legs heavy but posture straight, aware of every gaze upon him, determined to reveal nothing of his inner turmoil.

“You don’t have to,” Hiroshi murmured from the side, up to now silent, a teasing crease at the corner of his lips. Yet behind the irony, his eyes betrayed genuine concern. “But if you do… do it with the same ferocity as on the field.”

Yoichi answered with a brief, almost predatory smile.

“As if I knew any other way.”

The air seemed to tighten around him, like a rope stretched to the breaking point.

He drew in a breath, then stepped forward—resolute. His footsteps echoed up to the platform, sharp, precise, like lashes of a whip. The light of the spotlights blinded him for a moment, the heat striking like a burning wave.

Before him, Sae didn’t move. Yet his eyes followed him, relentless, as if deciphering every micro-breath of his body. Yoichi felt the proximity, the contained heat, and that electric tension filling the room—more intense than during the first outfit.

“Closer,” the photographer instructed. “Oh, you make such a beautiful pair!”

Yes, Yoichi was aware. He had noticed it over time, but especially last night, in front of the bathroom mirror in the hotel room.

He accepted the warmth of Sae’s body, familiar and reassuring amidst this unfamiliar chaos. In response to the closeness, fingers brushed his neck with a careful respect. A confident gesture, without hesitation. Sae adjusted a lock of hair with an almost irritating precision.

And the striker didn’t flinch. On the contrary, he tilted his head imperceptibly, offering more access, like laying one’s throat before a blade.

Slow fingers continued their attention, until the older man leaned slightly, just enough for their eyes to meet at the same level. The movement might have seemed innocuous, but in the electric tension of the room, it rang like a tear.

Yoichi held the contact, his breath steady, deliberate. To be watched, photographed like this: he had no intention of retreating.

“Perfect! Hold that position... that's it!”

The flashes popped. The outside world disappeared. There was nothing left but Sae, his fingers grazing the edge of his skin, his scent — now theirs — etched into his senses. Then the redhead lowered his head slightly, their eyes aligning perfectly. His lips brushed against Yoichi’s cheek, just enough for the burning contact to be felt, visible to all, and deeply engraved in his memory.

Yoichi didn’t flinch. He let the contact exist, deliberate, claimed. Each flash felt like a pass, each silence like the pressure of an invisible opponent. The striker understood he was no longer watching: he was playing.

A faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, a silent challenge to the player who thought himself untouchable.

This shot, he knew, would be the one to ignite the audience.

🦖 Shidou POV

Two days later

Ryusei let a smirk stretch across his lips, his canines bared as if still sinking into the memory. Two days had passed since that unexpected encounter, and he was still laughing.

The scene played on a loop in his mind: Sae and Isagi, side by side on the avenue, like two statues made to be adored, one burning with restrained arrogance, the other icy with calculation. And him, in the middle, consumed by an insatiable urge to seize them both, to drag them into his world where nothing had rules — and where everything boiled down to them, to him, in a loop of sins and pleasures.

The still-fresh dye in his hair gave him this sensation… of renewal. Sharper. And in front of these two monsters, it wasn’t just desire; it was pure possession: the need to devour them, to break them, to remake them in his image.

To make them his.

But he had restrained himself, leaving them to join Otoya and Karasu—those two predatory shadows he knew were made for the most chaotic storms—on a purposeless outing. Arcade? Karaoke? An empty lot to wear themselves out with balls and provocations? It didn’t matter. Everything blurred into a euphoric haze under the blazing afternoon sun. What mattered were the laughs, the dumb bets, the knowing glances, and this certainty: he was building his own pack.

Still, that very evening, the true spark was born. He had created a trio. Just him, Sae, and Isagi. A direct line, no filters, no other intruders. Three voices, three flames ready to burn together.

They had spoken. Not long. Not much. Just enough to feel the difference. These weren’t just messages: it was a dance. The Japanese prodigy’s barbs, the little striker’s sharp humor, his own provocations that suddenly tied it all together.

Against all logic, it worked.

An unstable, violent triangle.

And Ryusei loved it.

The next day, the group sprang back to life. Notifications arrived at irregular intervals, each one a little explosion in his mind. They talked about everything.

Sae‑chan sent his cold, cutting comments on Yoichi’s training videos, correcting his posture, his shooting angles, as if sculpting a model of precision. Isagi‑chan, quieter at first, replied cautiously, his messages short but precise, almost clinical. And Ryusei himself added sparks everywhere: a teasing emoji here, a biting remark there, an ambiguous compliment to make the other two falter.

“That shot was okay, but you can do better, Isagi‑chan.”

“Just… thanks?”

“Oh, you know I’m always watching you, even in your mistakes 😏”

He loved that combination: Itoshi’s analytical distance, the blue-eyed player’s restraint, and him, the walking chaos, shaking everything up. It was like holding fire in his hands: impossible to contain, but delicious to manipulate.

Then the conversation shifted from a simple exchange to a video call. They talked about their day. Isagi mentioned running errands for his parents, mundane tasks he described more openly than usual. Enough for Ryusei to understand—and inwardly chuckle—that the blond’s hesitation had nothing to do with his parents. One box checked off on his “people to destroy” list.

The pink-eyed took immediate advantage:

“Too cute. When do I get to meet your parents? Or should I just kidnap the little striker for a personal discipline lesson? 😈”

Sae growled, letting out a low, attentive sound. He read everything, judged everything, and Ryusei made a mental note to devise a plan later. He was sure the redhead would follow willingly.

Isagi hesitated for just a second too long, merely exhaling — but the blond striker had caught that slight flush, so addictive.

Their exchanges continued over their passions: football, games, viral videos, life anecdotes, plans for the next day. And once the call ended, the notifications kept coming, each reply sending a surge of adrenaline. The trio didn’t need long conversations to build intimacy: teasing remarks, silences, digital gestures were enough to weave an unbreakable… and slightly dangerous… bond.

Ryusei smiled, feeling both master and plaything at once. This organized chaos, this underlying tension, this fragile dance between three forces — it was his playground. And he already knew he never wanted it to end.

Then the next day, the Saint Laurent photo of Sae and Isagi appeared. Their calculated yet burning proximity, their glances brushing without breaking, the slight affectionate contact observed by everyone… it fascinated him.

The public?

They went wild.

Notifications poured in: comments, shares, reactions. Statistics showed that pieces from the collection were sold out in barely two hours.

And Ryusei? He saw what others didn’t. He felt the invisible line between Isagi and Sae, that boundary that only he wanted to cross.

He stretched out on his sofa, in the quiet of his too-empty apartment, a bottomless hunger shining in his eyes. The fascination wasn’t just aesthetic. It was a territory to conquer, a puzzle to unravel. Every touch, every shiver… the little triangle strengthened with each passing moment. That photo, that bond visible to all, was just an opening move. 

A silent invitation to push limits. 

To approach, provoke, test… how far? 

He had no idea. And that was exactly what drove him wild.

Leaving the apartment behind today, Ryusei carried his restless energy into the world.

Humming cheerfully, he pushed open the door of the tattoo studio with an impossible, undeniable confidence. The metallic scent mingled with disinfectant and wax floated in the air, pricking the senses, and he grinned at the thought of the little session he was about to have. 

The studio had been chosen on the recommendation of his hairdresser, Renji—reliable, discreet, yet trendy enough not to miss a single detail.

Inside, Yoichi was already waiting, seated in the waiting area, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. His clinical calm contrasted with the electric chaos animating Ryusei, and every second in his presence charged the air with tension.

“Curious?” Ryusei murmured as he approached, a predatory smile on his lips.

Isagi raised an eyebrow, his gaze sliding over him, measuring, weighing every millimeter of distance.

Shidou let out a small laugh and moved toward the reserved chair. The artist was already preparing the equipment: needles, rings, carefully arranged jewelry.

“So… an ear piercing?” the technician asked, polite but amused by Ryusei’s confidence.

“Yes. Simple but eye-catching,” Ryusei replied, eyes gleaming with clear intent. “A small diamond. Enough.”

Isagi watched every micro-gesture, his breath held, absorbing the tension, the near-electric charge vibrating between them.

The needle pierced Ryusei’s lobe. The pain, sharp and electric, made him shiver. A low, satisfied laugh escaped his lips. The strange sensation, both sharp and delicious, overwhelmed his senses. He felt Isagi’s gaze on him — heavy, attentive, almost possessive. Every shiver, every shared breath made the moment hypnotic.

Before the jewelry was secured, he turned his head toward Yoichi, a predatory smile on his lips, his voice low, like a whisper against his ear:

“Want one too? Just a little gift… my way.”

Isagi blinked, surprised, a subtle flush rising to his cheeks. The look he cast at Ryusei was heavy with promise and challenge, a silent invitation to cross the line.

“You’re crazy, Shidou…” he breathed, his voice trembling between amusement and excitement.

Every detail — the metallic scent, the diamond’s glint, the electric sting of the needle, Ryusei’s breath near his face — made the moment nearly hypnotic.

When the technician finished securing the piercing, Ryusei let himself give a predatory smile. Between needles, bursts of laughter, shivers, and burning glances, he knew they had just created a new dynamic.

A game where possession, provocation, and marking territory became almost tangible.

Chapter Text

🧩 Yoichi Pov 

The buzz had its own scent – a metallic cocktail that clung to his skin. A perfume of adrenaline, different from the one on the field: denser, more intimate.

It hung in the air, tugging at him like a taut rope, suffocating enough to make his head spin.

Gone was the shared euphoria of a goal scored; what remained was a solitary tension, each vibration latching onto him, as if the whole world were holding its breath, waiting for his next move.

Thanks to Blue Lock, Yoichi was slowly learning what it meant to truly be seen.

Acknowledged.

Not the way people cheer for a goal, but the way they watch, dissect, and linger on every detail.

With Sae, he felt that gaze cut two ways: protective, yet dangerously intrusive, able to slip into places it shouldn’t. The older player raised him in his own way, cherishing him as a partner might — an intimacy teetering on the edge of something far more complicated.

Until now, Sae-kun had held the reins, guiding his exposure as one tames a wild creature. But Yoichi soon realized that control was about to slip from his grasp.

He understood it the day a notification, different from the others, emerged in his feed:

----

   @YSL.Official  

Huge thanks to @itoshi_sae_official ⚽️🧊 for this amazing collab — and to @Isagi_Yo_11 🧩⚽️ for his unexpected but absolutely flawless contribution.

An unforgettable chemistry we’re definitely revisiting soon. ✨

----

He remembered staying frozen in front of the screen. Because, this time, it wasn’t just fans cheering. It was a global fashion house, engraving his name alongside Sae’s.

A door had just opened — an unknown place, intoxicating.

Contrary to everything he expected, the realization didn’t scare him. No paralyzing anxiety, no gnawing doubts like before.

A part of him, quiet yet insistent, drank in the recognition. As if the universe were finally confirming what Blue Lock had taught him: that he belonged here, that he could stand among the others.

A vertigo not born of emptiness, but of the promise it carried.

Then the wave hit.

Two days swept by in a media avalanche.

His phone buzzed relentlessly: mentions, shares, slow-motion clips, hashtags. A digital roar, like a stadium cheering.

He still remembered the day after the shoot, awoken by a call from the oldest player — triumphant, yet firm: “Don’t go out today.

Yoichi hadn’t even needed to ask why. He had known the moment the brand released the photos, felt the storm it would unleash.

He had agreed — verbally and in writing — and he didn’t regret it. Not when the image of Sae and him looked so… perfect, so harmonious, it had even drawn an emotional smile from his parents.

His mother had said he looked “in his place.” His father, more reserved, had simply nodded, pride shining in his eyes.

Deep down, he found himself enjoying it.

Still, enjoying something like that… meant also accepting being pulled further than he had anticipated. Like a ball caught in an unpredictable trajectory, he already felt that this story wouldn’t be confined to two viral shots.

No — the wave was only just beginning.

Filled with a strange, heady sensation. An unexpected energy tickling his stomach, sweet, electric, pulling him toward the birth of a thrill spiked with satisfaction — even as the outside world prepared to erupt.

Amid that rising storm, the Blue Lock group had ignited the moment the photos circulated.

Stickers, screenshots, jokes… reactions flew in every direction, a mix of jealousy, irony, and fascination. Yoichi hadn’t bothered responding, content to watch this miniature circus, a mere reflection of the outside world.

And then, a notification unlike the others.

A message from Shidou:

Isagi‑chan ~ Don’t you want to try a real duo? With me, this time 🤭

He sighed — because of course, it would be him.

Just like his recent surge in popularity, the devilish striker had barged into his life, wild and unpredictable.

That very evening, the one they had crossed paths in Omotesandō, he had reached out again.

A group.

Composed of only him, Sae, and the Devil. Who, to Yoichi’s horror — and amusement, though he would never admit it — had named it: Threesome 💦👀.

The first message came almost immediately:

----

    > Demon’s Soul 😈

So, my two favorite dolls, ready for the party? 💋

    > Daddy Red ❤️‍🔥

…

Ryusei, change that name right now.

    > Demon’s Soul 😈

Never, Sae‑chan 😙. 

It’s too perfect.

----

Yoichi groaned internally, hiding his face behind the screen.

Before he could write something, another message from Shidou came : 

----

    > Demon’s Soul 😈

Look at Isagi‑chan blushing like crazy for us.

----

Yoichi gripped his phone as if the device had betrayed him.

Blushing?

Him?

No…

Still, the warmth in his cheeks gave him away.

----

    > Blueberry bby 🫐

You’re really unbearable.

    > Demon’s Soul 😈

Ooooh, adorable. You already love me. ❤️

----

Sae’s cutting threats soon flooded the screen, like a promise of silent suffering. But Shidou thrived on the opposition: the more the Re Al player ignored him, the more he provoked. 

And Yoichi, once again caught between these two opposing forces, felt the tornado slowly engulf him.

They were a trio.

Unstable.

Explosive.

And already uncontrollable.

Perhaps that was why he had ended up here — sitting on a black leather stool, the smell of ink and alcohol thick in the air, the red neon of the storefront flickering in bursts and casting its reflection on the mirror.

Somewhere behind him, Blue Lock’s Devil was laughing — a raw, insolent sound — negotiating another piercing as if it were a trophy. That laugh, rough and husky, reverberated in his skull, impossible to ignore. So much so that, somewhere in that nonchalance, his own judgment had wavered over the minutes.

When he realized it, it was already too late.

He had given in.

To curiosity, maybe.

To temptation, surely.

A single tilt of his head was enough to confirm it. In his reflection, on his left ear, a cold glint caught the light, cutting sharply against the lingering warmth of his skin and the red flush of his reaction.

For a fleeting instant, the jewel’s gleam pulled him elsewhere — toward a shade long admired: pale, crystalline, merciless. The same blue that — in the past few days — had stared back from his computer screen, impossible to escape, even through pixels.

Michael Kaiser’s eyes.

A color that did not merely linger.

It claimed attention, vivid, arrogant, impossible to forget. Not just a hue, but a presence, daring recognition, memory, feeling.

An attractive thing with a weight of its own, rivaling the fresh sting still burning against the skin.

Yoichi didn’t understand why this particular diamond had been chosen. White could have been safer, more neutral — like Shidou had. But when spotted, nestled among the others, it called irresistibly. As if the jewel itself had selected its bearer, rare and magnetic, tugging at something deep within, pulling closer before any awareness had taken hold.

He pushed the thought away, unwilling to linger on such slippery ground, aware that curiosity could so easily turn into something far more dangerous… and yet, the jewel remained, glinting insistently in the mirror.

It was more than a gift or a simple piece of jewelry: it carried meaning.

Given, yes.

Accepted, without the slightest resistance.

Shidou’s trace. A silent bite, a reminder that something tangible, impossible to ignore, had been left on him.

Shivers ran down his spine, the delicious, dangerous tension coursing through Yoichi with every brush of his fingers against the skin around the piercing — a gesture almost reverent in the way he approached it.

The blue-eyed striker knew one thing: he had crossed a line.

However, somehow, he felt no regret.

A movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention. He let his hand drop and turned.

Shidou approached, having finished paying the piercer who had taken care of them, his own jewelry glittering under the red neon lights. He stopped just a few steps away, bowing until his breath brushed against Yoichi’s:

“You look incredible like that, Isagi‑chan. Almost too… mine.”

The scent of strawberry gum, mixed with the spicy, vibrant notes of burning musk clinging to the Demon, made a strange thrill coil in his stomach, sharp and insistent.

Between them, the words hung, scorching, as if being etched directly under his skin.

“Too mine.”

As though the cold ring in his ear had just been sealed by those words.

The smaller striker didn’t respond.

Not really.

He looked away, searching for anything to pull his attention elsewhere, only to find himself trapped again in his own reflection, which continued to betray the silent confession: he loved the feeling.

Jagged as it was, invasive as Shidou could be, there was something electric in simply trying. An impulse he had chosen to follow, a curiosity he couldn’t resist.

Much like he had with Sae.

That thought almost made him let out a quiet laugh. The blue-eyed player could understand perfectly why the two of them were drawn to each other, even if they were so different.

But with Shidou, it was different. 

Where the redhead was a deafening calm, the pink‑blond one was unpredictable. Every movement, every smile, every spark in his eyes seemed designed to unbalance him.

To push his limits. 

To see how far he could go without self-destructing.

Shidou leaned in, a faintly predatory smile curving his lips, his breath brushing against Yoichi’s ear.

“So… how does it feel? This little jewel, hmm?”

Yoichi heart raced. He could have responded cautiously, reminded him of his limits — but he did nothing of the sort.

The mere brush of the blond pink-haired striker, the heady scent of musk, the heat radiating so close… It made thinking impossible.

An almost animalistic warmth, intrusive, demanding, yet permissionless. A ghost of a touch that burned — not from the skin it grazed, but from what it implied: a possession disguised as provocation.

“It’s nice,” he murmured at last, almost startled by his own husky voice.

Fuck. 

These two were going to be his downfall, he thought grimly.

Shidou let out a soft, teasing laugh, a sound that slithered around them like a promise of chaos yet to come. He stepped back just enough to offer space, but not enough to break the heat, keeping that dangerous, magnetic game of proximity alive between them.

Then, without warning, he murmured:

“Can you imagine Sae-kun seeing you like this? Damn… I’d love it.”

Yeah, of course you would.

“He’d be way too scared that I’d fall victim to your devilish schemes,” Yoichi replied, teasing in return. “And you? What would you do in his place?”

Shidou’s lips curved into a mischievous smirk. 

“I’d just shower you with gifts,” he admitted, pausing for effect, arms raised as if the villain of a manga had stepped into reality. “You’d look so good in our colors. Maybe that’s why Sae-chan redid your wardrobe.”

Then, leaning closer, ignoring every boundary, he whispered as if confessing a dangerous secret:

“And now… I’ve given you something too. I’d say he and I are on equal footing, don’t you think, Blueberry?”

Yoichi froze, lips curling into a half-smile that dared not cross the line. 

Respond, and they’d spiral into a day-long duel of words and glances.

So he stayed silent.

Every nerve, every pulse in him screamed otherwise.

He knew he'd return to it.

He couldn’t not.

Instead, he finally stood, fingers clenching the small pouch resting on the coffee table.

Inside the care items for their two new additions.

He inhaled softly, regaining his composure, and met the slitted pupils of the other striker.

“Thank you… for the gift,” he said at last, his voice low, carrying a sincerity that left no doubt he meant it.

Shidou’s smirk softened slightly before, without warning, he draped his heavy arm across Yoichi’s shoulders. It wasn’t just a gesture of closeness - it was a belt, a silent declaration of possession and protection. The weight against him was as comforting as it was suffocating.

Yet now, accustomed to this side of the player, the smaller striker didn’t move, not when the embrace carried a hint of tenderness so unusual that he didn’t dare push it away.

Perhaps… it wasn’t so bad, sometimes, to let oneself be carried.

They walked together through the expansive lobby, the Blue Lock Demon leading the way with a casual stride, never once removing his arm from Yoichi’s shoulders — as if it were a natural extension of himself.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked the screen, ignoring most of the notifications before tapping on their group chat. The address Sae had sent appeared at the top of their morning conversation: a discreet restaurant in the heart of Shibuya, reserved for a lunch for the three of them.

Enough to scare off the servers, Yoichi thought slyly.

Following the tallest striker, he entered the address into the GPS, revealing they were only five minutes away. His mask was pulled back into place — a gesture that had become almost automatic over the past few days — and the jacket zipped up.

They exchanged a polite but quick farewell with the salon staff. The sharp chime of the bell rang softly as the door closed behind them, instantly swallowing the muted warmth of the interior.

In its place, the streets, overflowing with people, engulfed them.

A contrast that hit him like a slap.

Waves of sound, neon flashes, the smells of frying oil and gasoline — everything merged into a screaming tide of chaos. Broken laughter, fractured conversations, saturated colors across the pavement… his senses wavered, consumed by the dense tumult of the city.

Yoichi barely stifled a growl, though an annoyed shiver ran down his spine despite himself.

He hated it.

That sense of too much.

A relentless stream of information assaulted him from every direction, crashing into his skull like an uncontrollable tide.

A saturated mass of clashing details, suffocating him.

His mind had always had this unfortunate habit: breaking down, sorting, reassembling too fast.

Unable to halt the momentum.

Unable to slow down.

Like an endlessly scrolling screen, a forced update, unending.

He felt his temples throb under the pressure, a hammering that pounded down into his jaw. His eyes desperately sought fixed points, anchors — still, everything dissolved instantly into the chaos of neon. Every reflection, every burst of laughter, every stray scent imprinted too sharply, too vividly, burning him from the inside out.

Deep down, a dull, persistent anger devouring him.

Not just at the city. Not at others.

Mostly at himself.

At this inability to shut down, to disconnect.

As if sensing his growing discomfort, Shidou tightened his arm around him without a word. A contact that, usually suffocating, now felt like a shield against the chaos outside.

Yoichi suspected Sae had let slip a hint of his unease in crowds — a detail dropped between two messages, one the other striker had clearly not forgotten.

One he secretly appreciated.

They continued walking, more gently than usual: no masks, no exaggeration. And when silence settled between them, it didn’t weigh on him. Not when the Demon began humming an unfamiliar tune, fingers tapping lightly against his shoulder in a rhythm he seemed to invent.

A quiet anchor, meant to keep Yoichi present.

He closed his eyes for a moment, accepting this fragile truce at the heart of Shibuya’s tumult.

Their masks offered them relative anonymity, even if their closeness stood out in a country where social etiquette demanded restraint. Yet passersby flowed past, absorbed in their own urgencies, indifferent to the unusual pair. At that moment, the crowd became nothing more than a distant hum. Everything around them blurred, as if an invisible bubble had closed in. 

Time stretched within it, and each breath took on unexpected weight.

Shidou’s arm rested across his shoulders, a reassuring presence he welcomed like an old lover.

Glancing once more at his phone, they walked until a discreet sign came into view. The restaurant’s façade was almost invisible — a deliberate contrast, no doubt: Sae always favored secluded and impeccable spots.

The warm, spicy aroma escaping from the chimney hit them instantly — smoked paprika, sautéed garlic, roasted peppers… Spain condensed and transposed into a Tokyo alley. Even Shidou blinked, nose slightly lifted, surprised by the foreign scent.

Without lingering, Yoichi pushed open the wooden door, and they stepped inside. A wave of warmth enveloped them, bringing an almost unexpected calm after the street’s agitation.

A gentle melody of Spanish guitar brushed through the space like a caress, its chords mingling with subtle aromas of olive oil and wine.

White walls were adorned with a delicate fresco of raised Moorish rosette patterns — a subtle nod to Andalusian patios. Worn but perfectly maintained white-and-blue tiles covered the floor. From the ceiling, creeping plants framed the hanging lights, diffusing a soft, warm glow.

Occupancy was light, but the place was far from empty: a couple leaned toward each other in hushed conversation, a small family shared colorful tapas, and farther away, a solitary man swirled his wine glass while casually consulting a dossier laid out on the dark wooden table.

Here, nothing was loud. Just a bubble of warmth where every gesture felt natural, as if time moved differently.

Yoichi felt his shoulders loosen almost involuntarily in response to the peaceful atmosphere. The Demon, on the other hand, raised an amused eyebrow, clearly unsettled by this calm — so orderly, so alien to his natural chaos.

“Good afternoon, Yoichi-san. Shidou-san,” came a familiar voice from their right.

Tachibana approached, his dark, impeccable suit contrasting sharply with the casual ease around them. Yet his smile radiated a confidence that felt entirely natural, not just professional.

Yoichi returned it without hesitation, greeting him just as warmly as always:

“Good afternoon, Hiroshi-san.”

A gleam of delight flickered in Tachibana’s eyes at this new usage — subtle, but unmistakable, a consent he had given just a few days earlier. The man nodded in approval before indicating the corridor.

“This way. The table is ready. Itoshi-sama requested a full Spanish lunch, house specialty,” the assistant explained, then added with a teasing note, “I hope you enjoy the spices.”

Shidou leaned slightly closer, keeping his arm firmly around Yoichi’s shoulders, letting out a small, mischievous laugh. His eyes sparkled with playful malice.

“The spicier, the better, right? This should be… interesting.”

Yoichi sighed, lowering his mask… and that of the other striker, a tight smile betraying a mix of amusement and a touch of resignation.

“Oh no… now there are two of them.”

Tachibana raised an eyebrow, a discreet smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t be like that… After all, Itoshi-sama and Shidou-san? Hmmm... Even for you, that’s a lot of seasoning, isn’t it, Yoichi-san?”

The pink-haired striker’s laugh rang out.

“Oh, it’s fine. He handles it like a pro,” he murmured, provocatively.

Yoichi rolled his eyes, though the slight flush on his cheeks betrayed him.

“I should file a complaint against both of you.”

The assistant shook his head, stopping in front of a door before opening it.

“We know you secretly love us far too much for that,” he retorted, waiting until they stepped inside to close the door behind them.

Hiroshi-san paused mid-step, turning slightly to cast a quick glance their way. He examined them with exaggerated scrutiny, then shook his head like a parent exasperated by two impossible children. Unfazed, he resumed walking, guiding them through an archway from which the aromas of dishes drifted, servers bustling quietly.

The trio passed reserved tables, pristine linens, and hushed conversations before reaching the back of the room.

Stopping for a moment, his tone far too calm to be innocent, he added:

“Oh, and Yoichi-san… Itoshi-sama enjoys surprises, but this shiny little thing might attract far too much of his attention.”

The words lingered in the air like a veiled warning. But Yoichi barely had time to react. His eyes were already drawn to those waiting for them.

Sae sat at a table for four, set with discreet elegance: cutlery perfectly aligned, small plates of colorful amuse-bouches, every detail precise, leaving nothing out of place. His dark green sweater and jeans betrayed nothing, but his gaze… that left nothing unseen. Emerald and piercing, it tracked the closeness between Yoichi and Shidou — a subtle mixture of cold scrutiny and quiet satisfaction.

Their eyes met for just a second. Enough to send a shiver up Yoichi’s spine. Beside them, the assistant carried on calmly, a faint, triumphant smile tugging at his lips, too pleased with himself for the blue-eyed striker to dare protest.

They moved toward the square table, weaving between the already-occupied seats. Somewhere along the way, Shidou’s arm slipped away, leaving the smallest player painfully aware of the warmth that had just vanished.

He said nothing, simply taking a seat to Sae’s right, while the Demon and Hiroshi-san positioned themselves across from them.

As soon as they were settled, the Re Al midfielder leaned slightly toward him, brushing his knuckles against Yoichi’s cheek in a silent greeting. The gesture whispered: “How are you?”

Yoichi responded quietly, pressing the redhead’s wrist gently. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Well… that’s new,” Sae murmured, finally noticing Yoichi’s new piercing, a faint smile touching his lips.

It wasn’t a reproach. More a quiet remark, tinged with that gentle irony Sae used when he wanted to tease him. Yoichi stubbornly refused to look away, even though he felt like a child caught in the act.

“Yes,” he murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I wanted to test it a little… What do you think?”

A waiter passed nearby, tray piled with steaming glasses, the scents of coffee and spirits mingling briefly with the air. The subdued murmur of the room — soft conversations, clinking of cutlery — partially masked their voices, as if their exchange were shielded from the rest of the world.

Across from them, Shidou raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the interaction.

Feeling his gaze, Sae didn’t waste a moment to strike back, his eyes narrowing dangerously at the other Blue Lock striker:

“You’re a bad influence.”

“Oh no, darling, I call it style,” the Demon retorted immediately, a sly grin playing on his lips.

A faint scrape of a chair came from a neighboring table. They stayed there, suspended in this silent, burning dialogue. A sigh escaped the older player's lips, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Apparently resigned — or desperate — his gaze returned to Yoichi before lowering his voice slightly, conspiratorial:

“It suits you.”

The blue-eyed striker pressed his lips together, all too aware of the combined attention from the two players and the delighted flush spreading across his skin in response to Sae's husky tone.

Hiroshi-san, for his part, seemed to be reveling in the spectacle they made, sipping his glass of orange juice as if it were wine and they were the lead actors in a play. Yoichi shot him a silent plea for help — which went completely ignored.

A crime.

An offense against nature.

He would get his revenge.

The assistant seemed to have forgotten that he knew exactly where the stash of caramel candies were…

“Careful,” Yoichi whispered to Hiroshi, loud enough for the other two to hear. “If I get eaten by the Demon and the Prodigy, you’ll save me, right?”

“Always,” Hiroshi replied with a wink, “but you’ll have to buy me dessert.”

Shidou burst out laughing, eyes sparkling with mischief, while Sae raised an eyebrow, torn between amusement and offense.

The pink-haired striker arched a brow:

“And me, Sae-chan? No pretty compliments for me?” he asked, pulling Yoichi’s attention back to the charged exchange.

The midfielder lifted his eyes, a thin, icy smile on his lips that left nothing hidden about his possessiveness:

“Why? You’d end up enjoying yourself here, little Demon.”

Shidou let out a sarcastic “tss…” feigning indignation, but the fire in his eyes betrayed a hungry joy.

Yoichi said nothing, caught somewhere between amusement, embarrassment, and that silent tension that never seemed to leave him in the presence of the other two.

The waiter set down their steaming dishes, already ordered by Sae, and the hushed murmur of the restaurant resumed, guiding their conversation back toward harmless small talk.

At the center of it all, he memorized every detail: the reassuring closeness of the redhead, Shidou’s provocative audacity, while Hiroshi-san watched over them like a caring, attentive older brother. Everything etched itself into his mind, amplified, flavorful, impossible to ignore.

Yoichi, prisoner of that attention, surrendered to that taste of danger, to the burning tension clinging to his skin, making every fiber of his body shiver. In this unpredictable, electrifying game that teased and enthralled him, he found himself savoring every moment, relishing the bittersweet sting of desire mingled with risk.

And deep down, he knew — with an almost frightening certainty — that he didn’t want it to stop.

🧩🧩

Night had long since fallen, stretching shadows across the walls of his bathroom. The warm steam, laced with pine and mint, seeped into his aching muscles. Beside him, on a small tray within reach, lemon tea released a soothing sweetness, easing his thoughts after the day.

Sae and Shidou — “Ryusei, for you, Yoi-chan!” — had drained every ounce of his energy. Between the piercing session, the rushed lunch, and the unexpected afternoon training, his body and mind were on fire. Their movements on the field seemed to whisper a silent riddle: the Prodigy with cryptic instructions and piercing gaze, the Devil with insolent daring — both knowing exactly how far to push him.

So, the bath was more than a refuge; it was a fragile truce, a pocket of silence. 

Steam curled around him, brushed against his shoulders, slid down his neck, drawing him back to that blurred boundary between body and mind. Soothed, the striker let his fingers graze the warm water, savoring the motion, every droplet sharpening his awareness.

The wave lazily folded back against his knuckles, as if trying to hold them, and the light touch awakened a fresh awareness of every sensation.

Letting out a soft sigh, he leaned back slightly, his gaze falling on the book resting nearby, just within reach. It was a dense collection of philosophy and applied psychology, devoted to the writings of great strategists. Machiavelli, Sun Tzu, Clausewitz — the pages wove together military tactics and analyses of human behavior, like a cruel mirror reflecting the power games he was now beginning to enact on the field.

His hips swayed gently beneath the water, droplets sliding slowly over his bare skin.

Yoichi dried his hand on the edge of the towel and opened the book to the page he had marked earlier. A sentence, underlined the day before in the section devoted to The Art of War of Sun Tzu, leapt out at him: “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

The words stayed tattooed on his mind, but his thoughts flew elsewhere, drifting between the lines and Sae’s voice still echoing in him: “Your observation is your greatest asset.”

Intrigued, he repeated both in a loop, turning them over and over, scrutinizing every nuance, every word.

Was it merely a metaphor, or a genuine clue about what he needed to awaken within himself?

Hmm…

He would bet on the latter.

Though vague, the midfielder never left anything to chance. If he deemed a piece of guidance useful, it had to be taken seriously.

And so far, every bit of advice had proven invaluable. It had helped him improve, but also opened his eyes to the stage gradually unfolding before him.

Yoichi remembered that the older Itoshi often spoke of professional players who had caught his attention — and sometimes of those he did not favor at all. But of all the names, only one kept returning insistently to his mind: Michael Kaiser.

Like a silent paradox, emerging only when his thoughts drifted toward what he had learned about the German player.

“You’re alike,” Sae had told him during their first training session, sparking curiosity. And, somehow, he understood what the redhead was talking about. 

He saw himself in certain ways of playing that the star striker of Bastard München employed. The way Kaiser read the space, dissected the game, anticipated every move of his teammates and opponents… everything seemed to resonate with what the younger player was beginning to perceive within himself.

Yet, differences remained. 

Where Yoichi was only beginning to understand this part of himself that he had long kept locked away, Kaiser already mastered it, elevating it in every match. So swiftly, so flawlessly, that it struck him instantly in the footage of the recorded games.

Fascination and envy intertwined; he imagined combining that perception with the raw power of his own instincts. The weapon he could become, if only he possessed the same knowledge as “the chosen Emperor.”

Through his observations, every detail he retained, every micro-movement he had noted, now took on a deeper meaning. Yoichi realized that his perception did not rely solely on the match footage or Sae’s guidance: it resided in the subtlety with which he sensed, anticipated, and analyzed — in the attention he paid to the present moment, to what his whole being whispered to him.

Humming softly, he set the book aside, inhaling once more the lemon-scented steam. A certainty was rising within him: Sae-kun had sparked something. He had given him an awareness, an awakening. Ryusei offered another dimension, more instinctive, more primal. 

And somewhere beneath this warmth, this steam, and this intimacy, he knew it was only the beginning.

With half-closed eyes, he let his thoughts wander while staying attuned to the sensations coursing through his body. He recalled Rin’s destructive precision, Barou’s wild unpredictability, Nagi’s graceful agility. He pictured their positions, anticipated passes, mentally recalculating trajectories and timings.

Finally, he left the bath. Water ran off his shoulders, beading across his chest and stomach. Wrapping the towel around his waist, Yoichi savored the softness of the cotton against his skin. Damp, he ran his hands over his face, eyes reflecting the intensity of his thoughts — analysis, alertness, constant readiness. 

Somewhere in the calm of the night, he felt prepared for tomorrow, for Blue Lock, for everything to come.

Picking up his book, he left the bathroom, to be soon greeted by the familiar silence of his bedroom. On the corner of the bed, his bag was already packed, carefully placed as a reminder of the routine he had to follow before returning to Blue Lock the next day. 

Yoichi had already said his goodbyes to his parents earlier that evening. Their amused eyes, their knowing smiles when they noticed his piercing, left a light, warm memory. It was no surprise they had found it funny — after all, it was just one detail among many that made their son unique.

He carefully placed the book in his sports bag, moisturized his body, slipped into pajamas, and settled onto his bed.

Exhaling slowly, all his thoughts drift toward Sae, whose return to Spain tugged at his heart. The European season, the intense training, the endless routine of travel… yet he knew the professional player would not fail to surprise, that each future return promised a new puzzle, a new test.

He furrowed his brow slightly, thinking of what Ego might have in store for them this time. But he was prepared. His bag contained everything: cleats, uniform, notes, essentials. Even away from the field, his mind remained alert, bracing for the chaos only Blue Lock could deliver.

All the sensations from the bath still lingered on his skin, soothing his thoughts. Everything felt calm, and yet the day’s chaos and the promise of challenges to come still hummed within him.

Tired, Yoichi leaned forward to grab his phone from the bedside table. The room was bathed in a soft dimness, lit only by the glow of the bedside lamp. As soon as the screen was on, he was immediately hit by the endless stream of comments under the photos from the shoot and his story from the day. Each notification seemed brighter than the last, as if the outside world had suddenly decided to pour itself into his space.

----

“Wow, they look so good together 😍”

“Dude, this is one of the most stylish shoots of the year.”

“Do you think they’ll play together in the future? 🤔”

“Are they together? If so, do you think they’ll make it official?”

----

New followers arrived, amplifying the strange sense of exposure. A small, shy pride made him smile as he imagined Sae and Ryusei’s reactions.

However, a more urgent notification pulled him from his daydream: a missed call from Rin.

Yoichi glanced at the clock: 10 p.m. Not too late, but enough to know that the younger striker would start drifting off to sleep. He drew a slow breath and decided to call back immediately. Phone pressed to his ear, he leaned against his pillows and felt the tension ease slightly, replaced by that strange anticipation, suspended in the desire to speak with the other player.

The dial tone rang twice before a sleepy but firm answered:

“You’re late.”

Rin’s voice, unmistakable among a thousand others, brought a small smile to the corner of Blue Lock’s 11’s lips.

“Are you already asleep?” Yoichi asked, a hint of teasing as he slipped into his sheets.

“No. Well… almost,” the other one admitted reluctantly. “Why did it take you so long to call back?”

“I was enjoying a bath, all alone, before being invaded by the others,” he replied calmly. “And you? Training today?”

On the other end of the line, Rin seemed to shift in his bed as well, the sound of rustling sheets floating between them.

“I finished early,” Blue Lock's 10's retorted sarcastically. “But I wanted to make sure you weren’t getting home too late, and… that you weren’t going to get dragged off somewhere by Sae again.”

Ah, still just as protective.

Yoichi smiled.

Though their friendship was full of rivalry, there was a certain respect, a kind of attentiveness between them. Not as close as he was with Sae, but enough for Rin to be one of the few people with whom he allowed himself to lower his guard.

“Did you talk to your brother?” he asked, resting his nose against the sheets, content to breathe in the lavender scent of his mother’s laundry. 

A smell he would certainly miss at Blue Lock.

“No!” Rin groaned, clearly irritated at even the thought of such a possibility.

“Well, you should,” Yoichi said, teasing yet firm, rolling his eyes silently and praying someone would grant him patience. The Itoshi brothers were so complicated… “If neither of you hurries, I’ll have to step in.”

A short breath crossed the line. He knew the other one's language well enough to recognize it for what it really was: a restrained laugh.

“I’d like to see you try, lukewarm. Have you looked at your height?” teased the younger one, a playful note slipping into his usually dry tone.

Yoichi let out a far too dramatic gasp — one that would have made Ryusei proud — and protested:

“I’m not short.”

“You’re certainly not tall either,” Rin said, before adding, “I mean, if I look straight at you, you wouldn’t even appear on the horizon.”

“Rin! Show some respect for your elders!”

“Tch. So dramatic.”

An amused silence settled between them. Yoichi gave a satisfied smile, but before he could tease back, the younger Itoshi spoke again:

“…Hey, Isagi.”

The tone had shifted slightly — not as harsh as usual, but not exactly soft either — somewhere in between.

Lifting his head, he asks intrigued: 

“Yes?”

He could sense the other’s hesitation. Then, almost reluctantly, the words slipped out:

“What do you think of Hiori?”

Yoichi blinked, surprised. 

He hadn’t expected Rin to drop that name in the middle of a conversation. Especially since their talks were usually dominated by Sae or football. 

A faint smile stretched his lips.

“Hiori, huh?” he repeated, deliberately stretching the pause to test Rin’s patience.

“Answer me, lukewarm,” growled Sae brother, though his voice lacked its usual harshness.

There was a sensitivity, a doubt that the blue-eyed player could only understand. After all, he had been there himself.

Regaining his composure, he softened his tone, letting his gaze wander across the ceiling.

“I think… he’s intelligent. Talented, but not just with the ball. Hiori observes a lot, knows how to read others. He’s not the loudest, but he’s reliable. Kind, too.”

He paused, his smile returning.

“…And he seems to have a good effect on you, I’ve noticed.”

“What?” Rin said, a little too quickly, betrayed by the abruptness of his tone.

Yoichi stifled a laugh, delighted by the effect he had achieved.

“I’m just saying what I see. You’re calmer when he’s around. Less on the defensive,” he explained calmly, knowing that a single word could send the younger one running. “Maybe because he understands things without you having to say them.”

A long silence followed, heavier this time, drifting in doubt. Rin neither denied nor confirmed. The older striker knew this language too: the silence that spoke louder than any protest.

“…You think too much,” finally muttered Sae's brother. But his voice had lost its usual sharpness.

Yoichi sighed, far too pleased with the situation, before replying more softly, almost fatherly:

“Maybe. But for once, it would do you good to listen to what I think.”

A growl was his only response. Yet he was almost certain he had heard, just before, a breath that resembled a quiet laugh.

“Good night, lukewarm,” Rin finally replied, clearly embarrassed.

Yoichi smirked, already knowing that the younger one would probably come to him as soon as they arrived at Blue Lock the next day.

“Good night, Itoshi.”

The call ended, but his amusement lingered longer than expected. He shook his head, pleased that Rin was finally opening up to others, even to the point of considering such feelings. Watching the younger Itoshi stumble through this kind of emotion was almost endearing and reassuring. The emerald-eyed striker wasn’t just a wall of pride and anger. Yoichi had himself begun to crack that shell. And Hiori seemed to have already managed to slip inside

Nevertheless, a darker thought quickly surfaced. As long as Sae-kun remained in the equation, that opening wouldn’t be enough. The two brothers were still trapped in a sterile cycle, and he knew that the silence between them weighed heavier than any of their confrontations.

So, he didn’t put his phone down immediately. Instead, he opened his private conversation with the redhead and typed one last message. A reminder, no — a demand he probably should have let go of earlier, even though he had hoped he wouldn’t need to dwell on it:

“Talk to your brother. Both of you need it.”

Yoichi stared at the screen for a second, the bluish glow reflecting in his tired eyes. Then, without waiting for a response, he finally set the phone back on the bedside table. If Sae hasn't pushed to do it, the issue would linger for nothing, and the misunderstandings between the two Itoshis would drag on indefinitely.

And what kind of friend would let them sink forever into such a petty dispute?

A sigh escaped him, quickly muffled by the pillow. Tomorrow would already be another battle, and he needed to be ready for it.

Unnoticed as he drifted to sleep came a notification: Michael Kaiser’s subscription. A simple gesture, almost insignificant, yet the first thread of a story he hadn’t yet grasped. 

Beyond rivalries with the Itoshis and Ryusei’s chaos, the future held a meeting far more unsettling, unpredictable… and impossible to avoid.

🌹 Kaiser Pov

Tokyo, at the same time

The temporary hotel room exuded Japan: clean lines, lacquered surfaces, indirect lighting emphasizing the sharp angles of the furniture. The dark wooden floor absorbed just enough neon glow to give the space depth.

Though he had been here for only a day, Michael let his piercing gaze sweep over the polished dark-wood coffee table where his laptop rested, and the large window overlooking a city that never stopped.

Even if the culture surrounding him differed from Munich, it reminded him of the control he so valued. Objects were arranged with exacting precision, shadows and reflections adjusting as if obeying his presence. As though every detail had been designed to remind him that the outside world could be chaotic; but here, only his law ruled — just as on the field.

Vaguely exhausted from the day, the striker leaned back in the armchair, his leather jacket discarded beside him. He let the hotel — chosen by Ego Jinpachi and his assistant — exert its calm over him, and over the sudden act he had just committed. His phone, resting on the jacket, bore witness to the impulse that had driven him to subscribe to Yoichi Isagi. 

An instinctive yet controlled move, a silent warning: the Emperor was here, watching.

Two days earlier, the Saint Laurent photos had dropped like an unexpected challenge. Intended for sponsors and advertisements, they revealed a troubling closeness between Yoichi and Sae Itoshi.

Michael knew the rules: no impromptu shoots, no intimate poses without a contract. And yet, these shots pulsed with a tension that commanded attention, stirring his interest in a way no promotional image ever could.

A proximity so blatant that his skin itched every time he thought of it.

Only two photos. 

Two simple photos, yet they showcased two men, two players, close enough to ignite the rumors already swirling around them. And the internet — the world — had devoured them, frenzied by the intense duo Yves Saint Laurent seemed to have favored, adopted, much to Michael’s displeasure.

He kept his composure. However, the nagging sensation that his prey was slipping through his fingers crept in, like an unwelcome parasite.

So, he had ignored them. Set them aside while he focused on matters far more important than dwelling on such things. Until today’s stories from the two players confirmed that impression: snapshots from a restaurant, the same Spanish dishes, the same location, and the same football field.

A coincidence?

Impossible. 

The signs were too precise, too orchestrated. And with that realization, the adrenaline surged beyond the point of return.

Did he regret it?

No. 

But it annoyed him.

Never had any of his prey affected him like this. Not to the point that he felt compelled to remind someone of his existence. To show that he was far too close, even when he wasn’t.

The German shifted slightly, the leather of his shoes brushing against the floor. He removed the watch on his wrist and placed it carefully on the coffee table, then turned his attention to his laptop. There, the photos from his today's shoot awaited him, captured with an almost obsessive meticulousness. Haus Weltenbrandt, faithful to his rigor, had barely dared to breathe.

An ironic smile stretched across his lips. The comparison was inevitable: on one side, his flawless project, professional down to the last detail; on the other, a young player capable of unsettling that mastery simply by existing.

Yoichi was — up until now — just an image, a movement on a screen, and yet… he had triggered something within him.

Sighing in mild annoyance, Michael stood, leaving his phone behind, his mind already planning. He moved toward the bathroom, knowing that all of this was not mere curiosity, but a strategic observation.

The Japanese striker had been on his radar for far too long. Long enough for him to know how to strike at him, how to weaken him. In the upcoming matches, every decision made by this little gem would be analyzed with care.

Michael understood perfectly that Blue Lock was a field of study. One he would anticipate and dominate. And he had understood it so well that he intended to savor every moment.

A calculated, provocative smirk slid across his lips. The German striker couldn’t help but add aloud, his voice dancing between mischief and seduction:

“I can’t wait to see if you’ll shine as brightly on the field once I have you under my feet.”

The bathroom light flicked on. The air around him seemed to drop into a parallel atmosphere, conducive to contemplation. Yet his intention lingered, ready to follow him into his dreams.

🌹🌹

Blue Lock, the next morning

It took only a few seconds to grasp a truth that seemed deliberately overlooked: the Blue Lock building resembled a prison. A sealed-off place where nothing mattered but football.

From the moment they arrived, no natural light penetrated the vast waiting area. Only the intense, numerous white spotlights cast their beams across the immaculate floor. Everything in the facility seemed designed for performance, optimization, and, above all, competition.

An arena where everything would be put to the test.

Michael, closely followed by the Bastard München players, moved at the head of this unfamiliar place with the precision of a predator calculating its path. His expression was impassive, yet his movements betrayed a controlled anticipation.

A familiar adrenaline coursed through him like a sweet poison: this place was a human laboratory, designed to spot prey, dominate it, and exploit it.

A prison made for perfection.

The professional team members had all arrived at the same time. They had been picked up from the hotel and transported by buses bearing the project’s logo. Now, they settled in with the calm and discipline of men accustomed to high-level competition, keeping their own belongings close and patiently awaiting the arrival of the one who had summoned them.

Meanwhile, Michael swept his gaze over each of them, assessing posture, balance and confidence. Mentally noting weaknesses, strengths, and implicit hierarchies. Calculating each person’s positioning, their heights and musculatures, adding them to the variables he needed to anticipate.

Although he already knew many of them, his mind didn’t limit itself to familiar faces: he also analyzed the newcomers, preemptively mapping out every possible scenario they might bring.

Satisfied with the new data he had just gathered, the German striker nodded to Loki as he passed by. The latter was joining the front of the teams to stand alongside Noa and the other “masters.”

The foundations of the project had already been presented via videoconference: the Neo Egoist League, its format, its objectives. Still, one thing was clear: what they had heard through a screen was only a prelude.

Here, in this clinical-looking hall, the staging took on an entirely new magnitude.

It was almost like an examination. As if Ego Jinpachi himself were giving them a preview of what awaited — not to see if they were ready, but to observe if anyone would falter before his arrival.

To their credit, although the surprise rippled through them in waves, not a single one backed down.

A few minutes later — once it was clear that no one would leave — the heavy doors at the back of the room opened with a mechanical groan. A tall, slender figure appeared, clad in dark, impeccable clothing, glasses glinting under the lights. Behind him came the measured stride of his assistant, Anri Teieri, if Michael remembered correctly. She stood in contrast, not only in her choice of brighter colors but in her posture: straighter, more professional, a notebook in hand, eyes fixed on the rows of players.

They formed a… particular duo. One that seemed to balance each other in a way few could manage. Where Ego imposed himself through silence and casual poise, Anri was the exact opposite, ready to do whatever it took to get what she wanted.

The contrast only intensified when the Japanese man remained silent, not even raising his voice to command the attention of those still speaking. In truth, he didn’t need to. His mere presence demanded icy respect, as if the very air awaited his signal.

Michael watched with interest. To him, it was obvious that the creator of Blue Lock orchestrated the place with an iron hand, leaving no doubt about who dominated the entirety of the organization.

Ego waited a moment, observing them as a god might: with detached interest and a disdain that would have been laughable if Michael weren’t among them. Once it was clear that his presence had been acknowledged by all, the Japanese man spoke, in flawless English:

“You are in the sanctuary of Blue Lock. From now on, your clubs, your glories, your certainties… none of that matters here.”

At this, a tense silence hung over the hall. A few players shifted, uncomfortable under the icy intensity radiating from the man in glasses.

“Your role is simple,” he continued. “Observe. Evaluate. In three hours, the group of adolescents you are waiting for will arrive. This time is yours, so do not waste it.”

Each word weighed on them like a scalpel, ready to expose every flaw they might inadvertently reveal during their stay.

From the corner of his eye, the blond striker saw Alexis and Eric shift slightly, whispering to each other like children far too excited.

Before he could say anything, Anri stepped forward. Her presence seemed to soften the heavy atmosphere that had settled over the hall.

“I will guide you to your stands. As promised, each of you has this time to settle in properly,” she began, drawing their attention. “The cafeteria is located in the main wing of the building. You may use it at any time. It’s one of the few neutral spaces you’ll find here. We expect everyone to keep this place free from conflict.”

“Hmm. A rule even we’ll have trouble upholding once my jewels arrive,” Ego sneered, a predatory smile on his lips. “Save your disagreements for the field. That’s the only war that interests me.”

His assistant sighed and shook her head.

“They’re not that bad… most of them,” she murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Ego shot her a look that made it clear he didn’t quite agree. He eventually dismissed her remark with a polite disdain that only the Japanese seemed to master.

Ignoring him, Anri returned her attention to the group, her polite smile restored.

“The masters, please follow Ego-san. He will provide the layout maps and the final adjustments before the Blue Lock players arrive.”

She paused briefly, then indicated the door they had entered through with a calm, elegant gesture:

“Please, if you would kindly follow me.”

The separation was clear, as if to remind everyone of the invisible hierarchy of this place: the masters at the top of the pyramid, the club players just below, and soon… the project’s adolescents, destined to overturn everything.

Anri walked with assured steps through the immaculate corridors, an efficient guide who knew every corner of the building. The metallic walls, cold white lighting, and perfect geometry around them exuded functionality over comfort. At regular intervals, illuminated panels displayed the project’s stylized logo, like a promise — or a threat.

“As I mentioned, you will be housed in the dormitories,” she explained, her voice resonating through the silent space. “Your clubs each have their designated area.”

The brunette stopped them at an intersection where five distinct corridors branched off. On the walls, glowing logos clearly marked each territory: Bastard München, FC Barcha, Paris X Gen, Ubers, and Manshine City. 

Each emblem cast a cold light, as if embedded in the concrete itself, reminding the players that even far from their stadiums, their club remained a point of pride.

“Master’s have their own room and office. You will find them, if needed, in the first room, right at the entrance of their respective stand,” Anri continued, gesturing toward one of the corridors. “Your dormitories are located directly opposite those assigned to the Blue Lock players attached to your club. Two common areas are situated at the beginning of the wing, one housing a conference room, the other a locker room. As for the training field and gym, they are at the very end, in the most spacious section.”

Ego’s assistant let the information sink in, watching their reactions. A restless murmur ran through the group, a flow of different languages echoing down the corridor. Michael, deliberately keeping to the side until now, noticed his team beginning to follow suit. Displeased, he stepped closer. His presence, imposing enough, prompted them to apologize and regain the calm they had so far managed to maintain.

Once silence returned, Anri resumed her instructions, her eyes carefully evaluating them.

“I remind you that central areas, such as the cafeteria or the main field, are shared. You will find them on the other side of the building. Our players, however, have a common area all their own. It is also there that their lessons will take place. If you are looking for them and they are not in the spaces assigned to their respective clubs, it is highly likely that they are there.”

New murmurs ran through the group, as if they were surprised by the news.

Michael found it amusing, even naïve, that other professionals hadn’t considered this possibility. After all, it made sense that Blue Lock would provide its players with a space where they could see each other off the field, while also continuing their studies.

Although they were all in competition, it was highly likely that bonds or friendships had formed during their previous stay.

Anri ignored them and moved toward an automatic door at the end of the corridor. Their footsteps echoed faintly on the polished floor, absorbed by the stripped-down architecture of the complex. The geometric lines, smooth and symmetrical, constantly reminded them of the military-like coldness of the project and its creator.

A large room opened up before them, the scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. Ten beds were perfectly aligned along the space. The lighting was surprisingly soft compared to the rest of the building, designed for the comfort of those who would spend time there.

An infirmary, Michael realized, pleased that the place was more considerate than he had initially thought.

At the center of the room, a temporary table awaited them. On it, small black devices bore the Blue Lock logo, signed by Mikage Corp.

“Translation earpieces,” Anri explained. “They will automatically synchronize your exchanges. English, Japanese, Spanish… no barrier should exist here.”

Michael stepped forward without hesitation and picked one up with a casual gesture. His eyes quickly scanned the device—simple, discreet, and functional—with a hint of approval.

He had to admit, it was a clever idea. It would make briefings much easier.

Once the devices were distributed, they headed back toward the entrance of their stands, while Anri explained that the infirmary would provide everything they might need and would remain open twenty-four hours a day.

She paused, politely thanking them for being there, signaling that they could return to their respective dormitories to finally settle in. Yet it was clear that the assistant wasn’t done speaking.

And when someone tried to ask a question, her attention focused solely on him.

Ah.

Good.

They had accepted his request.

Pointing toward the back of the Bastard dormitories, Anri added:

“Kaiser-san, as requested, your room is ready. It’s on the left side of the German stand, just past the dorms of your usual teammates.”

Michael nodded and thanked her politely. He took it as an invitation and passed by the other players without lingering. Glances followed him—curiosity, jealousy, perhaps even a hint of resentment. He paid them no mind. His steps echoed on the metallic floor like a declaration: he was not here to blend in.

Already, his mind drifted to Yoichi, still absent. The thought of this young striker, capable of disrupting the order of things, brought a small, inward smile. His impulsive subscription from the day before had been no whim; it was one of the pieces in a chessboard he intended to assemble on the field. Everything he observed here was merely preparation, anticipation, a method.

Arriving at the door marked with his name, he pushed it open without lingering, closing it gently behind him. He removed his jacket, placing it on a small corner sofa, and calmly surveyed the room.

The space reflected the rest of the building: cold, clean, and impersonal. Yet luxury was evident. A large king-size bed, dressed in deep blue sheets, stood at the center. A desk spacious enough for his laptop and files, a walk-in closet, and an adjoining bathroom completed the room. To the left of his bed, a mini fridge stocked with Japanese and European beverages.

Michael took a few steps, lightly brushing the smooth surfaces with his fingertips. A floor-to-ceiling window — a privilege reserved for the masters, but one he had requested — offered a direct view of the surrounding woods.

Satisfied, he dropped his sports bag at his feet and placed his suitcase on the bed, beginning to unpack, arranging his items in their distinctive order. He set his fragrance, KAISER N°1, on the bedside table next to his phone. He pulled out his cleats from the sports bag, placing them carefully on the rug, before casting a glance at the neatly packed football gear: shin guards, gloves, each piece inspected and placed with precision. His jersey remained on the corner of the bed, ready to wear, while the two extras were placed with the rest of his clothing.

Once everything was put away, he set up his desk, taking out his laptop and placing it in the exact spot he had designated.

The sponsor's and Haus Weltenbrandt files were arranged to the right of the laptop. On the left, he placed his personal notebooks, the ones containing all his analyses of the current days — notes on performances, habits, strengths, and weaknesses, as if he were already preparing for a game in advance.

When everything was perfectly in order Michael put on his perfectly fitted jersey. Already ready, he checked the time, realizing an hour and a half had already passed. The German removed his watch — a mechanical, ritualistic gesture — and left it on his bedside table. He let one last evaluative glance sweep over the room.

Everything was in place.

Everything was under control.

But the game was only just beginning to be interesting.

He found himself smiling slightly: this place, these players, this controlled chaos… it was all a perfect hunting ground. And soon, Yoichi would be here.

The ice-eyed striker stepped out to join the members of Bastard. The wait was brief, but every second was used to refine his calculations.

Michael knew exactly what he would do when the Heart of Blue Lock appeared: observe, test, provoke, analyze. This project would reveal everyone’s instincts, and Michael would be ready to exploit every movement, every hesitation, every mistake.

He would make his presence known to all: the Emperor was finally here, and he had no intention of letting anyone slip away.

   > Words :

Tepas — a variety of small Spanish sharable dishes, traditionally served as appetizers or combined to create a full meal.

Machiavelli, Sun Tzu, Clausewitz — 3 great theorists of strategy. 

There are actually a few compilations that assemble them, so I took the liberty of doing the same. Though I will sometimes refer to them separately.

The Art of War, by Sun Tzu — mainly emphasizes psychological warfare, patience, and striking the fatal blow at the exact moment. A little like Yoichi 🤗

Chapter Text

🧩 Isagi Pov

Sae was gone. And in his wake, something had collapsed.

Yoichi didn’t immediately understand why the emptiness weighed so heavily. Perhaps because he hadn’t expected this new silence to weigh heavier than presence itself. Or because he had already gotten used to hearing him breathe somewhere in the same space.

It didn’t matter.

Not for now…

At least, that’s what he wanted to believe.

That morning, he woke up to two messages sent in the dead of night. The first was strangely bright: “I talked with Rin. We argued… but it went well.”

Reading it, a near-instinctive smile slipped across his face. That kind of quiet, proud delight you don’t admit to yourself. With it, a weight lifted from his chest, replaced by a calm warmth — a silent happiness for the two brothers.

But the second message was already waiting: “Yo-chan, I’m on the return jet. Let me know when you wake up.”

Everything snapped shut. A sharp, invisible click, like a door slamming shut before he could catch it.

Though he had expected it, the reality still left a bitter taste on his tongue, a dry sting at the back of his throat, hitting harder than any alarm. So Yoichi sat there on the edge of the neatly made bed, shoulders slightly bent, as if the world had lost its axis. The air felt heavier, the room larger, or perhaps just emptier. Outside, the morning sounds of Saitama drifted in a hazy melody, almost unreal, like a memory hesitating to fade.

Two weeks had been enough for the Japanese prodigy to settle into his daily routine. Fifteen days for that presence — so intense, yet softly grounding — to become an anchor, a calm gravity around which everything seemed to revolve, without him realizing it. Now, every gesture felt off, every breath carried the echo of absence. Silence stretched long and stubborn, lingering in the corners of the room, clinging to his thoughts like a warm fog he couldn’t quite disperse.

The striker caught himself listening to that void, giving it shape, once again trying to get used to the solitude that had been his life before the redhead arrived. He’d told himself he was ready for it. That Blue Lock, the field, the training, the competition would be enough to fill this absurd void. After all, football had always absorbed everything: pain, waiting, the rest of the world.

A low growl slipped out, rough and short, a mix of irritation and helplessness.

As if.

What he felt now had nothing to do with the absence of a mere friend.

Sae had intertwined himself with Yoichi, becoming an extension of him. And since they wouldn’t see each other for a long while, the younger felt that part of his own tempo had fallen silent.

His phone's screen lit up between his fingers, bringing the endless messages to life, while his body refused to cooperate. His eyes stayed fixed on the bluish glow, almost hypnotized — as if each notification could momentarily bring Sae back, or at least give the illusion that something still moved in the void. 

The steady buzz against his hand reminded him that life outside moved on, regardless of his stillness. He let his attention drift across the screen, into the chaotic flow that shattered his inner turmoil like a dissonant note.

____

Threesome 💦👀

    > Daddy Red ❤️‍🔥

Don’t embarrass yourself at Blue Lock.

I’ll know.

____

Dry and precise, as always.

Yoichi sighed, shaking his head: the midfielder knew exactly how to make silence snap — enough to make him roll his eyes every time.

____

    > Demon’s Soul 😈

Don’t worry, Yoi-chan and I are gonna put on a show.

Maybe we should film something for you too?

🤭🔥🫦🥵

____

A snicker escaped him despite himself. Ryusei filled the space left by Sae as if he had been waiting for it. He was incapable of letting a provocation pass without adding his own dash of madness, shaking the very air.

His thumb hovered above the keyboard for a few seconds. Then, finally, the blue-eyed striker typed:

____

    > Blueberry bby 🫐

You’d better run as much as you talk, pink menace.

____

He hesitated before sending, but the message slipped out on its own, almost without his notice.

____

    > Demon’s Soul 😈

@Blueberry heating me up first thing in the morning 😏

   > Daddy Red ❤️‍🔥

That’s my boy @Blueberry 🙌🏻

____

Yoichi rolled his eyes, but a half-smile escaped anyway. The emptiness in the room felt lighter, if only for a moment.

His phone eventually went dark, and he let it drop face down on the still-warm fabric beside him, before running a hand through his tangled hair. He stayed like that for a few seconds, palms pressed to his face, trying to release what lingered — the diffuse fatigue, the void he refused to name.

This calm would be brief. Soon enough, the device would spring to life again, glowing with messages, emojis, absurd notifications. Especially Ryusei, who seemed to possess endless energy, able to flood any conversation with jokes, innuendo, or random provocation. Not to mention the Blue Lock players’ chat already coming alive: tactical discussions, stupid bets, screenshots of performances, barely-veiled teasing.

He told himself he didn’t need the noise — that stillness was easier. But sometimes, when it stretched too far, even a flicker of connection felt like a lifeline.

Like it did last night. Yoichi remembered waking up at the sound of a tiny notification — Kaiser’s subscription to his profile. At first, it had sparked a fleeting curiosity, which he had quietly letting it fade into the background of his thoughts. He had even tried to ignore the pathetic little beat of his heart it had triggered, telling himself it was just a trivial moment in the long rhythm of the night.

By now, he had almost convinced himself it meant nothing. Still, the thought was persistent. A faint warmth, perhaps, of what was yet to come. Or maybe, to remind him how quiet his life truly was without Sae and Ryusei. Maybe that explained why he'd clicked "accept" so easily. 

Ugh... he could already feel the regret creeping in.

But there was no turning back. Not when he knew the German was watching. 

He let out a heavy sigh, letting it settle.

When he finally stood, the cold floor sent a shiver up his spine. The room had already taken on the air of a transient place: sheets tucked, desk cleared, belongings neatly folded in his bag. A perfection too precise. One left behind to avoid lingering.

Except for one detail. On the chair, Sae’s burgundy sweater lay casually abandoned — a bright spot in the midst of the surrounding neutrality.

Yoichi recognized it immediately: the one the midfielder had handed him one evening, half-smiling, saying, “Keep it. It looks better on you than it does on me.” A throwaway remark, but he had felt it as a gentle touch.

He stayed still for a moment, gaze fixed on the fabric. Torn between leaving it and instinctively taking it, he hesitated. Finally, without much thought, he approached, grabbed the garment, and slipped it into his bag, the fresh scent of pine and green tea calming a turmoil he refused to admit.

A simple gesture, almost trivial. Yet at that precise moment, it carried the weight of a confession.

Glancing at his alarm clock, he closed the bag with a precise motion. Blue Lock was starting again, and if he showed even a hint of weakness, any trace of his nocturnal thoughts, everything could fracture.

Breathing in deeply, just enough to compose himself, he ran a hand through his hair, chasing away the lingering traces of fatigue, then turned on his heel toward the bathroom.

The harsh light cut his reflection in the mirror. His eyes slid over himself, measuring silently the imperceptible change. The faint gleam of his new piercing pleased him more than he expected.

Touching the jewel with his fingertips, Yoichi felt satisfaction ripple through his stomach. He knew this tiny object was no longer just provocation or possession. It had become a silent promise — to endure no more, to hold back no longer. To be himself. To stop hiding behind façades.

After all, who better than Shidou Ryusei to offer him such an opportunity? And Itoshi Sae to force him to confront his own fears? 

Two opposing storms, two mirrors he had learned to face without lowering his eyes. One pushed him to burn, the other to think. And between them, he finally moved — along that razor-thin line where danger almost tasted like freedom.

At that thought, a brief, light laugh escaped him, almost imperceptible. Pleased, he threw on black jogging pants, adjusted the white collar of his t-shirt, and tightened the straps of his bag. His gaze met the mirror one last time.

Cold.

Clear-headed.

Ready.

The day could begin.

And Blue Lock?

He didn’t need to own it.

It was enough to be its center of gravity.

 🧩 🧩

The station buzzed with activity, a mix of smells and sounds filling the air as the loudspeakers spat out indistinct announcements. Trying not to get swept up in the spiral of noise, the striker moved forward unhurriedly, his bag slung over one shoulder, hands buried in his pockets.

As always, Tokyo had a gift for distorting time; the world seemed to rush without ever arriving anywhere. Still, he knew exactly where he was going. He had always known. Even when his chains had been his only company.

The stream of passersby parted for him without his paying attention.

Was it his natural calm, too sharp at the center of the surrounding chaos?

He didn’t know, and at that precise moment, he didn’t care.

No sooner had Yoichi arrived than his mind began spinning at a dizzying speed. Every movement, every trajectory became a moving equation he decoded effortlessly.

An old woman hesitating in the middle of the flow, a child tugging at his mother’s sleeve… it didn’t matter to him. To his eyes, they were merely additions to a thread that only he could perceive.

It was stronger than him: barely aware of his own breathing, the information kept flooding in. Everything converted into data: speed, trajectory, timing. Every step he took was calculated in advance, as if he could take ownership of the space around him and control what was about to happen.

This phenomenon had grown more present in recent days. After analyzing match after match, the heart of Blue Lock began to think like an algorithm. Nothing escaped his gaze: speed, distance, angle.

Trivial details became fundamental. The rustle of his bag against his back, the clack of his shoes on the floor, the rhythm of his heart became information on his invisible mapping — the entire world reduced to a series of signals he translated without thinking.

Tokyo had become his pitch, and he, a player at the peak of his concentration.

For a brief moment, his reflection flickered across a shop window: firm features, straight posture. There was no trace left of the hesitant boy he had been at the start of the program. Just the confidence of a player who now knew the cards he held.

The striker easily reached the esplanade where two buses were already waiting, one of them just pulling away. Black and massive, polished until they reflected the daylight, they drew the attention of passersby. The Blue Lock logo gleamed proudly, stamped in silver on the side.

Around him, familiar figures moved. Chigiri leaned against a pole, phone in hand, while Reo gesticulated emphatically to catch Nagi’s attention, who remained impassive under his hood, as if the outside world didn’t exist. Further off, Hiori and Rin spoke quietly, exchanging discreet smiles and comments only they could understand. Other players lingered here and there, some laughing, others warming up silently, like pieces of a puzzle that had just been rearranged.

The reunion had that strange taste of normalcy. A new cycle was beginning, yet the faces remained the same.

Yoichi observed them without trying to blend into the crowd. He liked this in-between moment: the calm before everything, when ambitions were hushed beneath polite smiles. He caught fragments of laughter, friendly pats, the tension hidden under good humor. The glances too, brief, measuring physical changes, supposed progress, rivalries always ready to ignite again.

Then a voice cut through the station’s din:

“Yoi-chan!”

He barely had time to react.

A warm, lively mass lunged at him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, the scent of strawberry mixed with leather invading his senses. A presence far too close, too confident, and unbearably comforting.

Yoichi lifted his head, meeting the piercing gaze of Blue Lock’s Demon. That predatory grin hit him like a greeting. Yet today, his attention was caught instead by the strands of blond and pink hair — usually styled, now dancing freely with the morning wind, still damp from a recent shower.

Unable to resist that raw energy, he slipped beneath the Demon’s arm instinctively, almost naturally. His body brushed against the other’s, and the blond’s aura — wild, untamed, and provocative — seemed to dance around them: vivid, capricious, almost feline. It filled the air with a muffled fire, too bright to be ignored.

Ryusei tightened his hold slightly, pulling Yoichi closer in a gesture that felt almost possessive. His breath grazed the smaller one’s temple before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. A simple touch, yet enough to stir that electric intensity within him, that familiar warmth he hadn’t expected to welcome so soon.

“I missed you,” he murmured, eyes glinting with a mischief that felt almost tangible.

Yoichi replied with his usual composure, the corner of his lips lifting faintly.

“I saw you yesterday, Ryusei-kun.”

The laugh that burst out drew — unfortunately — the attention of the nearby players. Several heads turned toward them, expressions caught between amusement and disbelief, as if unable to process the duo standing before them. On the sidewalk, a few meters away, Bachira froze mid-sentence, his wide eyes flicking between them as if witnessing a forbidden scene.

“Huh? Wait, since when are they this close?” the dribbler asked, his voice cutting easily through the surrounding noise.

As they approached the group, Reo raised an eyebrow before exchanging a look with Chigiri, their expressions caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“I knew he was clingy, but this…”

“This is a whole new level,” Chigiri replied, a corner of his mouth lifting.

Rin, however, remained silent. Leaning against the bus, he watched the scene without a word, his dark eyes narrowed to two impassive slits. Yet the faint twitch of his jaw betrayed a doubt he could barely contain.

Sensing what unsettled him, Yoichi met his emerald gaze and greeted him with a quiet nod. The gesture was returned, almost gently, though the shadow of doubt still lingered in Rin’s eyes.

He knew that, unlike his brother, Rin was reserved in his displays of affection, always composed, yet deeply attentive, as if he watched over him without ever saying so. Ryusei’s presence at his side — so close, so new — kept the younger striker balanced between curiosity and vigilance. Everyone knew chaos followed the Demon like a shadow, and tension could spark at any moment. A reminder of their confrontation in Blue Lock and their encounter at the café just days earlier.

Yet beneath that layer of predatory attention, Yoichi could see that the usual weight pressing on Itoshi’s shoulders had eased, replaced by a steadier kind of vigilance. The striker felt a quiet relief: the conversation between the two brothers had clearly left its mark, softening doubts he had never managed to silence himself.

No, he would never let their teasing go that far again.

He had become too protective, too attached, to let them drift into that violent sea that belonged only to them. They were two monsters, ready to destroy anything — ready to face each other until one yielded, to be devoured. A dynamic that made them more alike than either would ever admit.

Knowing that Ryusei-kun and Sae-kun were spending time together...

Yes. This was going to be interesting.

A movement to his left drew his attention, breaking his thoughts, and Yoichi had to suppress a smile. Hiori, in all his effortless grace, lingered beside Rin like a shadow softening the taller striker’s presence.

He noticed their closeness — their shoulders brushing now and then, a subtle contact that carried the warmth of budding trust. The sight pleased him; he still remembered Rin’s uncertainty during their last call, the unspoken hesitation when he mentioned the cyan-haired player in their messages, as if every word carried the weight of his own desires.

Watching him act so freely now, following what he truly wanted without restraint, stirred in Yoichi a mix of pride and relief. Rin was moving forward. That was enough to ease the quiet worry the older player had always carried for him.

Determined to let them enjoy their private little world, he slipped an arm around Ryusei’s waist and tugged him gently toward the bus, where Yukimiya was already climbing aboard. Without a word, the Demon followed, his steps deliberately unhurried, though they couldn’t quite hide the predatory, self-satisfied curve of his mouth. He basked in the attention, strutting like a peacock utterly aware of its own beauty.

Yoichi found himself enjoying the sight. Every glance thrown their way, every muffled whisper that followed them, only heightened that thrilling feeling that no one — except Sae — could ever truly understand them. And despite that insolent smile, he could sense the subtlety behind the pink-haired striker’s movements: the brush of a hand against his collarbone, the way his body adjusted instinctively to include him, like an invisible thread quietly binding them together.

As they passed, everyone seemed either fascinated or confused, unsure what to make of the pair. He couldn’t help but wonder how the others would’ve reacted if they too had felt that faint shiver that had run through Ryusei at his touch.

Muttering the thought under his breath, he caught the taller striker's attention, who merely leaned closer, his lips brushing Yoichi’s cheek once more — this time lingering longer than they should have.

“What are you whispering about?”

He smirked, half-teasing, half-exasperated.

“I was just wondering… if everyone’s watching us and trying to guess whether I’m dating Sae or you.”

A quiet laugh escaped Ryusei, but his eyes were far too sharp to be innocent.

“Let them wonder whatever they want. Either way, you’re mine, no matter what they imagine.”

At those words, a shiver ran down his spine — not from fear, but from something far warmer.

“Better not let Sae hear you say that,” he teased, the blue in his eyes glinting with playful light.

The pink-blond only shrugged, his grin unyielding:

“Sae-chan belongs to me just as much, darling.”

Their gazes locked, a complicit silence stretching between them, deepening the unspoken connection threading their hearts together.

The bus doors slid open without a sound. Yoichi dropped his arm, and, without complaining, the Demon let him step in first. Several players had already taken their seats — some slouched comfortably with the lazy ease of those who had nothing to prove, others sitting upright, their tension barely concealed as they braced for what was to come.

Yukimiya was already by the window, perfectly groomed, eyes fixed on his phone in a feigned display of indifference. In front of him, Nanase and Niko whispered quietly, no doubt speculating about the scene they’d just witnessed. Even Bachira, sitting at the back, kept sneaking wide-eyed glances at them, a dopey grin plastered on his face. Beside him, Barou grumbled loudly, telling him to sit still or move somewhere else. When they walked past, the red-eyed striker frowned, as though this display defied even his already twisted expectations of Blue Lock.

Yoichi led his chaotic friend toward the very back of the bus, where it would be harder for the others to watch them. A simple tactic, yet foolproof: their curiosity would fade soon enough, dulled by fatigue. As they walked, he offered quiet greetings to those who were awake and ignored the sharp, knowing look from Reo, with Nagi asleep against his shoulder.

They set their bags beneath the seats, and he let the taller player take the window side, his body naturally leaning toward him. Settling in with the ease of someone claiming what was already his, Ryusei stretched his legs slightly while pulling earphones from his pocket. A knee brushed against the smallest one, neither speaking — a silent ritual now.

A few seconds later, Hiori and Rin boarded, completing the group. The cyan-haired striker took the seats opposite theirs, his gaze too perceptive for comfort.

“You two match,” he remarked, his calm voice tinged with faint curiosity, as though noticing something that had escaped him until now.

Under the dim lights of the bus, their new jewelry caught the glow at every movement. The white diamond on the Demon was a beautiful beacon of sharp brilliance, while the pale blue on himself cast soft sparks. Their unintentional synchronicity drew attention, just as he had anticipated.

“That’s new,” Rin added, watching them with an analytical air, like he was solving an equation too intricate to name. Hiori gave a subtle nod, as if silently confirming the observation.

The bus rumbled softly, putting an end to their exchange. A few muffled laughs echoed from the front, soon drowned by the steady hiss of the tires on asphalt. The atmosphere settled into a familiar torpor: that of early morning departures, when thoughts drift between fatigue and adrenaline.

He leaned back against his seat, eyes following the blurred scenery passing by the window. The taller player had slid an earphone into his ear, sharing his music without asking, the white cord brushing their shoulders in an oddly intimate gesture. The heavy rhythm of the bass blended seamlessly with the engine’s hum, creating a quiet bubble that no one dared disturb.

Time passed in gentle silence, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. When the bus finally left the main road and veered onto the gravel path leading to Blue Lock, a shiver ran through the cabin. Heads lifted almost in unison, as if the imposing building itself called them. In the distance, it rose proudly, framed by tall trees.

“Back to hell,” muttered Nagi.

“Hell is for those who lose,” Barou replied immediately, his tone sharp, eyes fixed on the window.

A soft laugh escaped Nanase. Bachira, on the other hand, was already bouncing in his seat, visibly impatient.

Upon arrival, bags in hand, they stepped out and moved straight into the building. Inside, Raichi, Gagamaru, and Tokimitsu were already among the group waiting. Off to the side, the under-twenty Japanese national team kept to themselves.

Raichi raised a hand upon seeing them enter, his usual raw energy — far too loud — contrasting sharply with Kyora’s calm demeanor and Aryu’s incomprehensible babbling about a new line of hair products.

“Hey, sleepers! Took you long enough!”

“Want me to bring you a coffee?” Chigiri called as he entered, a lazy smile on his lips.

“Tss, save your insolence for the pitch, Princess.”

The tone was mocking, but the challenge was clear. A shared language among them. He merely shook his head with a half-smile as he slung his bag over his shoulder, feeling the reassuring presence of the taller one behind him. Kurona, not far off, approached and called out:

“Hey, new arrivals… What are you doing here, huh, huh?”

Aiku, who had turned around at their arrival, answered, amused:

“Us? We’ve been summoned by Ego for his new project.”

Bachira, waving energetically at some of the players, exclaimed joyfully:

“Really?”

Sendo shrugged, his scowling gaze fixed on him:

“Apparently, we can still be useful.”

Greetings and jabs flew around them, voices bouncing off the walls. Not wanting to linger, he moved toward Rin and leaned against the wall, unconsciously mimicking the younger player’s posture. Ryusei joined them, accompanied by Hiori, both animatedly discussing a new video game released last week, punctuating their sentences with small, lively gestures.

Minutes passed like this. The U-20 players continued moving in small groups, some curious, others openly mocking, yet all alert to their surroundings. Then, the lights dimmed and the massive screen flickered to life. Silence immediately fell over the assembly as Ego Jinpachi’s imposing image appeared, his presence intense by sheer force. Along with it came the promise of a new challenge.

The man’s piercing eyes scanned every face, every reaction, before offering his signature smile.

“Greetings, my raw diamonds,” he said, his calm yet cutting voice resonating through the room. “You all survived the first phase — or at least, some of you did. Now, it’s time to move on to the next part of the program: the Neo Egoist League.”

A shiver ran through the room. Some heads turned, eyebrows furrowed. The air vibrated with a mix of tension, confusion, and restrained excitement.

“As you know, I have free rein over the Japanese U-20 team,” Ego continued, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “And you will all be part of my selection.”

At this announcement, a thrill mingled with apprehension ran through him. A quick glance at Ryusei confirmed the same, adrenaline already heating their veins.

Ego theatrically spread his arms, clearly relishing their surprise.

“In one hundred days, the Under-20 World Cup will take place. With your current level, you will all fail. That is why this stage is crucial. This time, you will be thrust into the heart of the five biggest European leagues.”

Whispers spread as flags were projected on the screen, each representing a different destination. Yet one in particular caught his attention — the one showing a player with blue streaks and an all-too-charming smile.

With that realization came certainty: Sae knew. He always had. Probably since the very beginning. That smile, that seemingly detached tone when the name reappeared… everything suddenly made sense. The redhead hadn’t just wanted to warn him; he had set him to the test, preparing him to face the one he feared as much as he respected — one of his greatest threats.

“Choose carefully. This choice will determine not only your future, but also that of the national team,” their coach continued, his finger pointing to the first flag. “The little gems who rely on their physical abilities — England will keep you on your toes. However, those who favor the path of creativity… I am certain Spain will fully satisfy your desires.”

At these words, a flurry of notifications erupted, everyone pulling out their phones to choose. Some were already moving, Bachira humming that Spain would surely appeal to him.

“Next, for players who value cunning and strategy, you will undoubtedly appreciate the solid organization Italy has to offer. And for the rising stars, those aiming for the top, France will gladly open its doors to you.”

There was no need to glance sideways to know that Ryusei and Rin had chosen the latter. He could feel it. France represented what they embodied best: glory, provocation, and that arrogance unique to those who don’t just want to win, but to be admired while doing so.

“Finally, for my gems ready to drown in extreme rationality, Germany awaits you eagerly,” Ego concluded, a sharp smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His hand moved, and five silhouettes lit up on the screen, each bathed in an almost divine glow. Noel Noa, Julien Loki, Marc Snuffy, Chris Prince, and Lavinho were displayed with their team logos, provoking a tense silence — the kind that always precedes a storm.

“From this day forward, these men will be your new coaches. Also, your next rivals. Pay close attention: everything is allowed.”

A new silence settled over the room, punctuated by held breaths and the nervous rustle of shifting bags.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Ego muttered, switching off the projections. “You won’t just be playing for your own glory anymore… every move you make will be broadcast to the world. Have fun.”

He gestured toward the corridor, signaling them to follow. The screen went dark, leaving them in its wake, with the shadow of a global spectacle already looming above them.

Fame? The stares? He’d grown used to it by now. Sae had primed him for this. Every whisper, every tiny spark of attention was just another piece of the game he’d been trained to navigate — and he was ready.

At his right, Ryusei leaned slightly toward him, murmuring with amusement:

“This is going to be our favorite playground, don’t you think, Yoi-chan?”

Yoichi offered him a half-smile, his hand brushing subtly against the other’s in a silent accord. 

His choice had been made. Like a quiet truth etched somewhere deep inside him. He knew where he would go, who he would face, and what he intended to take from them. Soon, he would taste every fragment of it — the raw, burning flavor of war.

 🧩🧩

Goodbyes came quietly. A few pats on the shoulder, exchanged glances, sometimes a faint smirk. Only Ryusei — true to form — had broken the rhythm, pressing a quick kiss to Yoichi’s cheek with a: “See you soon, Blueberry.”

After that, everyone drifted toward their chosen groups, drawn by the promise of a new beginning. Or driven by the hunger to improve. In the silence that followed, Yoichi felt the weight of his decision settle deep within him — as if leaving that corridor meant turning a page.

The locker room of the German stratum carried that distinct scent of new leather and cold metal. Perfectly aligned lockers, neutral uniforms marked with the program’s emblem, and a near-military precision that stood in sharp contrast to Blue Lock’s usual chaos. True to his nature, Ego had ensured the place reeked of discipline.

A recorded hologram appeared, the man's face suspended in the air like a spectral presence. He delivered a second speech: protocols, sponsors, and the new rules of the Neo Egoist League. More precise instructions about the facilities, but also the hierarchy to come : the one they would have to climb.

When the translator's earpieces were handed out, Yoichi watched the ritual in silence. Most joked as they tried them on, but he couldn’t shake the familiar sensation: arming soldiers without telling them exactly why. He recognized that tension — the kind that comes before a match, or before a turning point.

Then the door opened.

Ego merely announced the arrival of a player personally recommended. And this time, the surprise was complete. Because the heavy steps approaching were once familiar to him — belonging to a figure long vanished, swallowed by the Demon of Blue Lock.

Kunigami.

But he was no longer the caring player they had known.

No.

Yoichi was certain: the striker, now excessively muscular, gave the impression of a repressed emo in the middle of an existential crisis. A detail that would no doubt delight Ryusei. That impression only deepened as the player spoke to no one, displaying a rudeness far surpassing even Rin on a bad day. Kunigami crossed the locker room without so much as a glance at anyone, jaw clenched, features locked in a neutrality too rigid to be anything but a façade. The air around him felt different — heavier, as if his presence had instantly dispelled the lightness that had lingered until then.

No one dared address him. Even Raichi, never short of ideas, settled for a low whistle and a shrug, feigning indifference.

Meanwhile, the blue-eyed striker remained motionless, arms crossed, judging the scene with an almost clinical detachment. What he saw bore little resemblance to the player he had known. He remembered the calm, almost soothing aura the towering redhead had once radiated. Now, the hero’s fire had transformed into something else — colder, more methodical, yet strangely hollow. That fixed gaze, devoid of any spark, resembled a perfectly maintained weapon, never drawn.

Disappointed by such a display of disconnection, he turned his gaze away. He wasn’t afraid of him — it took far more than that to make Yoichi fear someone. However, he could recognize those who had clawed their way back from the abyss. Or those who had chosen to remain there. And Kunigami bore that mark in the stiffness of his neck, the tension in his shoulders, the way he avoided every gaze.

An alarm rang, signaling that their preparation time was over. The players left the locker room, earpieces in place, forming a silent line down the corridor leading to their new training ground. Their footsteps echoed over the smooth floor, paced by the metallic clicks of zippers and the soft rustle of uniforms.

Shaking off those unwanted thoughts, Yoichi took the lead, alert to everything: the rhythm of breathing, the cadence of footsteps, the faint scrape of soles on the floor. He recorded it all, so he could dissect it later.

When the automatic doors slid open onto the field, the addictive scent of freshly cut grass flooded his senses. An artificial breeze — cold, almost European — rose through the space, no doubt programmed to mimic the German climate.

Yukimiya let out a soft chuckle.

“Even the air seems to have turned against us.”

Yoichi didn’t answer – he didn’t need to. The former model was right. The game had changed, and though they were still on home ground, this field no longer belonged to them.

Not yet.

His gaze drifted across the vast expanse before him: the flawless turf, the sharp white lines, the goals perfectly aligned. Then to the newcomers already stationed at the center of the training hall, watching them with a patience that carried authority.

In that precise moment, he understood : they had just stepped into the true Blue Lock. A field where the weak were devoured, and where even the hunter could become the prey.

The doors closed behind them with a mechanical hiss, and the artificial light of the field unfolded like a steel dawn. This place was a machine. A stretch of symmetrical turf, perfectly calibrated, where every line seemed drawn by a mind incapable of error. Holographic panels floated here and there, projecting suspended numbers — statistics, tactical diagrams, fragments of brilliance frozen midair. Every pulse of light seemed to measure something: speed, power, precision, perhaps even thought itself.

His focus shifted back to the German players. Towering figures, carved in discipline, their eyes clear and merciless. They wore the black and red uniform of Bastard München — an austere outfit traced with a golden edge, echoing the mechanical precision of the nation they represented: cold, calculated, relentless.

Each of them seemed to embody a fragment of that philosophy. Efficiency before grace. Structure before spontaneity. Discipline elevated to art. Even their posture breathed symmetry, as if every breath belonged to a greater pattern, a human algorithm where chaos had no place. 

However, two presences stood above the rest.

The first commanded silence simply by existing: Noel Noa. Their new coach. The best in the world. The idol of thousands of strikers.

He stood at the center, arms crossed, his expression as calm as a frozen ocean. Everything about him radiated methodical perfection — the impression of a man who had become one with the system he led. His gaze swept over them without emotion, sharp and almost clinical. No smile. No speech. Only that cold intensity that said everything: here, only the best get to breathe.

A shiver of anticipation ran down Yoichi’s spine. Not admiration. Calculation. Behind the prestige, he could already sense the fractures: patterns too perfect, systems too reproducible — the kind of predictability born from a structure wound too tight.

A machine can always be broken. You just have to find the right screw to pull. 

His analysis vanished almost instantly when a rough voice rose behind Noa — laced with a smile you could hear before you saw it.

“So that’s him? The little Japanese player everyone’s been talking about. Itoshi’s new toy?”

The tone was light, almost melodic, yet carried a hint of honeyed cruelty, the kind of priceless poison only insolent geniuses know how to wield.

Yoichi didn’t need to look to know who had spoken, or who the prodigy was referring to. After all, there was only one person in this room who had ever gotten close enough with Sae-chan.

The group behind him shifted uneasily, ready to step in if needed. Hiori — and to his surprise, Kurona as well — moved closer, taking position by his side. He could feel the others adjusting around them, like predators circling as they waited for the perfect moment to strike.

Still, he tilted his head ever so slightly to signal that everything was fine. That small gesture made them ease up, though none of them moved away.

Alright then.

Stepping onto unfamiliar ground filled with older sharks meant a temporary alliance.

Got it.

The man took a few steps forward, the icy blue of his eyes gleaming under the spotlights, mirroring the same color that adorned his ear. His blond hair caught a metallic sheen in the light, and the contrast against the black of his jersey made his presence all the more magnetic. Around him, even the air seemed to move in time with his rhythm. He didn’t need to raise his voice — everything about him commanded attention: the regal posture, the arrogant smile, the deeper streaks of blue in his hair, and that infuriating ease too natural not to be calculated.

Yoichi recognized him before anyone had to say the name.

Michael Kaiser.

The emperor of Bastard München. The German prodigy. The player who had seized his throne from other legends through sheer arrogance — and now wore that kingdom like an invisible crown.

“Noa doesn’t usually let us have fun,” he said with a predatory smile. “You’d better make it worth it, Yoichi.”

His first name rolled off the professional player’s tongue like aged whiskey — dangerous, addictive. It carried a layer of possession that made the Blue Lock players shift uncomfortably in their places.

Yoichi, however, didn’t move. He wouldn’t give the other striker that satisfaction. Instead, the depths of his gaze met Kaiser’s glacial blue, and in that brief exchange there was a sharp crack, a silent challenge, a language only kindred, complementary egos could understand.

When he finally spoke, his voice was as cold as the air around them, yet filled with a toxin ready to burn through everything in its path.

“Kaiser.”

A last name, a courtesy worthy of his upbringing, yet tainted by the blood and malice that had consumed Eve and dragged Adam into her fall.

Only silence followed while the air seemed to tighten. Some breaths hung suspended; others caught in throats.

Kaiser welcomed his name as though it were an offering, like the apple that had led to the first humans’ downfall. His lips curved slowly, a predatory smile brushing across his handsome face, though his eyes never once left Yoichi’s. A mute, provocative satisfaction lingered between them, that of a beast aware it had just been summoned on its own territory.

And Noa’s shadow stretched like an invisible line marking the border between what they were… and what they were about to become.

Without realizing it, Yoichi felt his heart beating to a new tempo — precise, cold, sharpened.

The rhythm of Bastard München.

Maybe Kaiser’s one too. 

🌹 Kaiser Pov

The sound of his own name rolled through the air, as soft as silk against his skin, as dangerous as a serpent ready to strike its prey.

“Kaiser.”

He felt each syllable as a vibration in his chest, a calculated intrusion into his inner territory, a place no one should be able to penetrate. The Japanese player’s lips were nothing but an instrument, and yet, that single word ignited a fire he hadn’t expected to feel so quickly.

Michael recoiled almost imperceptibly, surprised, before regaining his composure, delighted. It wasn’t the audacity, nor the perfect pronunciation that provoked such a visceral reaction, but the absolute calm, almost clinical, radiating from Isagi Yoichi.

Ah, he didn’t fool himself — he had studied him too much for that. The blond prodigy knew perfectly well that this calm, controlled, dangerous, was not fear. No. It was pure confidence, focused and precise. A silent challenge he could feel carving its mark into his bones.

The German paid no attention to those around them. In that moment, they were nothing more than mere intruders, chosen to be ignored, far too aware that the ultimate predator of the program stood directly in front of him.

And for good reason. That deep blue flooded his senses as their eyes locked, shifting the gravity of the field — of his world. The sensation of déjà vu, of an imminent battle, mingled with a new, almost animal curiosity.

Without warning, Michael gave in to the urge that had gnawed at him since the other had spoken, stepping forward, his imposing stature gradually consuming the space around them. He mapped the smaller player from head to toe: a slimmer, perfectly proportioned frame; sharp, sculpted features shaped by silent discipline; the lips, almost too calm, like an invitation to provoke.

However, what truly unsettled him was the sleepy aura surrounding his new adversary. Yoichi didn’t move. No twitch, no flicker of doubt. His posture remained erect, a perfect testament to self-control. His intense gaze met Michael’s without faltering — where nothing human remained, and everything of a being superior to those around him endured.

He had seen that kind of gaze once before. In a mirror, on a day when he had sworn to crush the entire world.

A dark pleasure ran down his spine, an intense mixture of excitement and restrained anger.

How dare he?

How dare he, this player from an experimental program, stand there before him — Michael Kaiser, the emperor of Bastard München — without flinching, without yielding?

He knew it wasn’t arrogance. Not entirely. It was something else: a silent declaration. A “I see you” that resonated in a space where only monsters could understand, awakening a drive he had believed perfectly controlled until now.

Impatient, like a predator who had waited too long, the German finally closed the distance. With a gesture faster than anyone could have expected, he placed his fingers on the younger player’s chin, startling everyone around them.

Instantly, he was flooded with the sensation of skin under his touch — a deceptive softness. A near-brutal contrast with the cold that had settled around them. Yoichi’s breath brushed against his hand, light, fearless, enough to anchor the moment. A trivial detail for anyone else, but for him, a signal, a recognition: the striker’s resistance and latent power. Michael could feel the energy radiating from the smaller player, vibrating through every fiber of his body, ready to explode at the slightest misstep.

The blond knew that this closeness violated the protocol of the country he was now in. Especially with strangers. Yet, at that moment, it did nothing to dissuade him. Because, unlike so many others, Yoichi didn’t flinch under his intensity. Not a twitch. No twitch, no shiver — only that piercing gaze, as if judging his soul. That stillness, that flawless self-control, drowned his senses in a frenzy of excitement and satisfaction.

Michael had never encountered an opponent who resisted him even before the game began. Even before they were on the field. One who made everything else vanish, leaving only a silent duel of domination and mutual admiration.

Perfect. Simply perfect.

Behind them, the Blue Lockers went on alert, protesting the closeness he had imposed. They were ready to defend their striker, yet aware that, for now, there was no aggressive move. Nothing that could push them to react physically.

In truth, their caution only fueled the fire rising within him. A predatory smile brushed his lips, and he closed the distance, gripping the other firmly enough that their breaths mingled.

“I came here just for you, Blue Lock Heart,” he murmured, his voice deeper than usual, catching the brief spark of surprise on the other’s face. His smile wasn’t merely arrogant — it was provocative, an invitation for their game to continue. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Yoichi didn’t answer immediately. He simply met his gaze, a coldness so intense that Michael could feel, in every fiber of his being, the savage disdain hidden within. Yet he didn’t step back an inch. On the contrary: his smaller hand rested on Michael’s wrist, firm, unyielding — matching the hold on his chin.

At that touch, the blond drew in a slow breath, trying to calm the euphoria that had conquered nations, devoured kingdoms.

He knew this boy was more than a player. Blue Lock’s Heart embodied a threat, a mystery, a burning curiosity. He fueled Michael’s thirst for control. Against all odds, this dangerous, magnetic mix pulled him in.

Then Yoichi spoke again, his voice low but clear, cutting each syllable in perfect English — slicing the air like a blade.

“It would be a shame if you regretted choosing the wrong target. So make sure you’re a worthy obstacle, Kaiser.”

And his world shifted. His axis faltered. Breath caught.

One beat.

Two beats.

Too fast.

His heart pounded — violent, almost painful. A shiver — no, a jolt — ran up his spine, burning away every ounce of calm he had tried to maintain.

A single word surged through his mind, guttural, choked, in his mother tongue, as his blood surged dangerously: “Verdammt.”

Then, with brutal clarity, he understood. This player had shaken everything he thought he controlled.

Yoichi had simply cracked his balance — and, worse, made him want to do it again and again, like a forbidden fruit he would be more than happy to indulge in.

A rough, almost panting laugh escaped him — a sound he hadn’t remembered making in years, perhaps ever. Something deep inside purred, primitive and hungry, as he caught the effect that timbre had on the smaller striker: a barely audible exhale slipping from lips now slightly parted.

Satisfied, his eyes lingered on that calculated grace, on that calm loaded with promise. Michael knew he had just met his equal, and the taste of this war was only going to become more exquisite.

Words :

Verdammt is the German word for Damn.

Déjà vu is a French expression that means feeling like you’ve experienced something before, even though it's happening for the first time.