Chapter Text
You're dancing at the center of the stage, movements fluid, effortless—each step hitting the beat. The lights flash in vivid colors, syncing perfectly with the rhythm of your latest song, casting prismatic patterns across the screaming crowd. The fans are chanting your name, their voices reverberating through the venue. You're glowing under the spotlights, quite literally beaming—cheeks flushed, eyes shimmering with something more than adrenaline.
Something's changed, and it shows.
Studio cameras zoom in, capturing every angle, every breath, every sparkle in your gaze. This is a live stage, streamed in real-time on YouTube, broadcasted on one of the top music shows. But even with all eyes on you, your mind drifts.
You can't stop thinking about that game—the one you watched the other day. Bastard München versus FC Barcha. That young man. Michael Kaiser. His name floats through your thoughts like a song stuck on repeat.
♪I won't regret it, not even once—
It's ridiculous, really, how he's managed to take up space in your head like this. You had tried to ease your curiosity, looking him up, and when you read his full name—Michael Kaiser—it felt... perfect. Fitting. Regal, even. You'd whispered it to yourself just to see how it tasted on your tongue.
I'll keep moving forward, forever with you♪
And now? Now, you can't help the quiet chuckle that escapes your lips in the middle of a verse, breathless with more than just the exertion.
♪Even if I stand against the world,
Even when loneliness creeps in—
Your presence is all I need to stay brave♪
When the performance ends, the crowd erupts. You bow, still catching your breath, smiling as fans scream your name. You lift a hand to wave, fingers quivering from the thrill, before retreating backstage where another performer waits their turn.
The moment you step past the curtains, your staff swarms in—one dabbing a towel gently against your damp forehead, another pressing a bottle of water into your hand. A straw already pokes through the cap. You take a grateful sip, chest still rising and falling.
One of them finally breaks the silence, unable to hold it in any longer. “You're different today, [Name].” she says, eyes wide with curiosity and a teasing grin forming at the corners of her mouth.
You blink at her, swallowing another sip before raising your brows. “Hmm?”
“You were literally sparkling out there,” she giggles, nudging your shoulder playfully. “Something happened, didn't it?”
You glance away, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips. “Oh... nothing, really.” You press the towel to your face, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your cheeks. “I'm just happy... that's all.”
But your mind is already gone again. Back to the pitch. Back to him.
Michael Kaiser.
You're lying on your stomach on the couch, arms folded beneath your chin, the quiet buzz of your phone filling the still room. A faint light spills from the screen, illuminating your face as you scroll through the familiar layout of your dummy account—one you've dedicated entirely to Bastard München's number ten: Michael Kaiser.
Your fingers scroll through your feed, filled with posts from fellow fans—edits, slow-motion clips of his goals, highlight shots from the latest match. You've followed dozens of them, engaging in long comment threads, gushing over his performance, his footwork, his smirk. Every time someone posts a clear screenshot of his face—especially when the camera catches that brief moment of arrogance just before a goal—you save it immediately.
Sometimes, you can't help but add your own thoughts underneath. “Michael Kaiser supremacy!” you write under one. “How is he this unreal?” under another.
You giggle, a pink flush dusts your skin, and roll over onto your side, then back again, kicking your feet lazily in the air. The couch creaks under your restless movement, but you don't care. Kaiser is amazing. Truly. There's something magnetic about the way he plays—confident, calculated, yet wild. Like he knows the world is watching and he thrives in that spotlight. Watching him is like staring at a star that knows its brilliance, a star so blindingly self-assured it's impossible to look away.
You sigh dreamily and press your phone to your chest, eyes fluttering shut as if trying to etch his last goal into your mind forever.
“Haaah... I feel like I'm going to combust.”
A breathless giggle escapes your lips again, impossible to contain.
Your life right now borders on ridiculous. You're an idol—trained, polished, always on schedule. And yet, behind the stage lights and rehearsals, you're also just a fan. A full-fledged, heart-thumping, screen-capping fan. It doesn't even have to be Bastard München playing—you'll still find time to stream matches, muttering reactions under your breath, clapping like a child whenever someone scores. But when it's Kaiser on the field?
You're glued to the screen.
Even the busiest day can't pull you away from watching him shine.
────୨ৎ────
You stand before the mirror, staring at the reflection looking back at you. A small smile creeps onto your face as you examine every angle, every curve, like trying to memorize it all before stepping into the spotlight. Your fingers begin to fidget unconsciously—pulling at the hem of your sleeve, brushing your thumb over your palm. You inhale deeply, then exhale just as slow, trying to steady your nerves.
“[Name]?” your manager's voice calls from just outside the dressing room door.
You hum in acknowledgment, still watching yourself.
“Two more minutes. I need you to be on standby.”
You nod, even if she can't see you, then glance back at your reflection one last time. The smile you give it is soft—but effortful. It holds the weight of the expectations you're about to carry.
Moments later, you're seated at the center of a long, pristine white table. A single black pen rests near the edge, perfectly aligned, like it's been waiting just for you. Beyond the stage, beyond the lights, a sea of faces waits—rows and rows of fans, eyes bright with eagerness, adoration flickering in their eyes. The energy crackling in the room is warm but heavy, full of anticipation.
The lottery system behind this fansign event always feels bittersweet. It ensures fairness, sure, but it also means only the most persistent—those who bought dozens, even hundreds of albums—are here today. Their dedication is written all over their faces, and for that, you owe them your very best.
You plaster on your practiced smile. Not insincere, but something you've worn so many times it feels like second skin. You remind yourself: give them what they came for. Let them remember this.
The lights dim briefly, then blaze to life again as you step onto the stage. The crowd erupts—cheers, camera flashes, the constant whir of video recordings. Fansites are already zooming in, capturing every blink, every breath. You can feel the gravity of hundreds of eyes tracking your every movement.
You launch into your opening song, your body moving automatically through the choreography—sharp, graceful, fluid. The rhythm pounds in your chest, syncing with your heartbeat as the crowd sings along, their voices rising beneath your own.
By the time the final notes of your set fade into silence, your pulse is still racing, though the high has begun to ebb. You make your way back to the table, sweat cooling against your skin, replaced by the warm tingle of post-performance calm. Staff weave in and out of view, checking placements, adjusting timing, organizing lines. Everything must flow smoothly now.
The fansign begins.
You brace yourself.
One by one, they come. Each fan steps forward with a tremble in their hands, eyes wide and alight, carrying with them stories, drawings, questions—hope. Some stammer, others chatter excitedly. A few tear up before they even sit down. And through it all, you meet them with the same patient warmth. You sign albums, write their names carefully in the corners, listen as they speak. You laugh when it's expected, smile when it matters, offer nods and reassurances that they'll remember forever—even if you won't.
Hours pass in a gentle blur, marked by flashes of cameras and the faint scent of permanent marker. The smile never leaves your face. Your voice softens with every passing moment, but your gaze remains focused. Present.
Because right now, in this room, you're not just an idol. You're someone's dream come true.
The day slips away quietly, and before you realize it, night has fallen deep and heavy. The world outside is still, cloaked in darkness, but you're wide awake—refusing to give in to sleep.
You lie curled up in bed, the soft glow of your phone illuminating your face in the dim room. Your fingers scroll endlessly, eyes glued to the screen. You're completely absorbed—diving into match analysis threads, exchanging thoughts with fellow fans, and gushing over every move Michael Kaiser made on the field.
Your heart swells a little every time someone posts a clip of his goals, his smirks, the sheer command he holds on the pitch. It's late, much later than you meant to stay up, but you can't help it.
Before finally setting your phone down, you open the caption field and type out a message. Your thumbs hover for a second before you begin to write, smile tugging at your lips.
“I can't wait to see Michael Kaiser play again. His skill, control, and confidence never fail to amaze me! I'll always be rooting for him—and for the rest of the Bastard München team. I love you so much~!”
You reread it once, then again—nodding in quiet satisfaction before hitting post.
With a final sigh, you lock your phone and set it down beside you. The screen fades to black. You close your eyes, a small, contented smile still hovering as sleep finally begins to pull you under—Kaiser still playing behind your eyelids like a star you're chasing in a dream.
♪da-ding... da-ding... da-ding...♪
The shrill sound of your phone ringing snaps you out of sleep. You groan, arm flailing blindly across the nightstand until your fingers finally brush against the device. You drag it toward you and press it to your ear without even checking the caller ID.
“Hello...?” you mumble, voice rough and low with sleep.
“[Name]? Where are you?!” your manager’s voice bursts through the speaker—high-pitched, panicked, and far too loud for this hour.
You blink slowly, brain still foggy. “...In bed?” you answer honestly, rubbing your eyes. “Where else would I be?”
“Are you kidding me right now?! What the hell did you do last night? Were you drunk?!” she screeches, disbelief lacing every word.
That jolts you. You bolt upright, heart thudding. “What? No! Why would I—what are you even talking about?”
She doesn't miss a beat. “Why would you post something like that? Without telling anyone? Without clearing it with the team? Do you even realize what you’ve done?!”
“Post...?” you echo, blinking as you scramble for clarity. “What post? I don't—”
“Check the news, [Name].” she hisses through gritted teeth. Then the call cuts off.
You stare at the screen, still displaying the call duration, before inching the phone down, as if afraid to let go. A heavy silence sinks in the room. Your fingers move on instinct, tapping through apps until the headline greets you like a slap to the face.
Bold. Blazing. Inevitable.
“Top Idol's Public Declaration of Love for Bastard München's Football Star Michael Kaiser Sparks Uproar!”
You freeze.
“Oh,” you whisper.
Your thumb scrolls automatically, heart dropping lower and lower with each line.
“No.”
A sinking feeling settles deep in your stomach.
“No, no, no—”
Your head hangs low as you sit stiffly in the conference room, the air tense and suffocating. The CEO's footsteps snap against the floor as he paces back and forth, voice scathing and unforgiving as he scolds you over last night's post on your professional media account.
Your manager is seated beside you, hands clenched tightly in her lap, her jaw visibly tense. She looks as if she hasn't blinked in the last five minutes.
Your staff stand nearby, trying their best to look serious, though it's clear some are losing the battle. One has their head ducked behind a clipboard, another is biting their lip so hard it's turning white. You can feel the barely suppressed laughter rippling through the room, just under control.
But you?
You're dissociating.
Your soul has already left your body and is floating somewhere above this room, watching you suffer. You stare blankly at the table, eyes unfocused, shoulders hunched in shame.
You want to die.
No—worse. You want to disappear into the void and never be found again. What you did wasn't just unprofessional. It was mortifying. Reckless. Utterly stupid.
How could you forget to switch accounts? How?
You had one job: fangirl in secret. Use the dummy. Keep it low. Maintain your idol image. But no—one rush of excitement and suddenly you're confessing your undying love for Michael Kaiser to the entire internet on your verified account with a million followers.
You sigh heavily, slumping further into your chair.
And of course, the internet exploded.
Collages of you and Kaiser are everywhere now—your photo side-by-side with his, captioned by your very own heartfelt confession. Fans are analyzing your post with the seriousness of scholars: linking it to the lyrics of your latest album, matching timelines, building theories.
Some even say that's why you've been smiling more lately. That you're glowing. That you must be dating Kaiser in secret.
That thought alone sends heat rushing to your face.
You groan and drop dramatically to the floor, rolling onto your side in utter despair. Your manager glares at you like she's contemplating murder.
The meeting ended an hour ago, but you're still stuck inside the company building. Outside, a mob of reporters, paparazzi, and vloggers have swarmed the entrance, all shouting the same thing:
“What's your relationship with Michael Kaiser?!”
You bury your face in your hands.
“I think I'm going to quit.” you declare with grave determination, looking up at your manager from the floor.
She doesn't blink. Her eyes are dark. Flat. Unforgiving.
“If you can pay 2,000,000 yen in penalty for breaking your ten-year contract, be my guest.”
You pause, then smirk faintly as you sit up and shrug.
“Haaah. I can pay that much.”
Without missing a beat, she lifts her foot and gives your side a gentle kick.
“Ouch!!” you yelp, falling over again. “That's abuse—abuse!”
“Keep talking,” she mutters, standing. “I'll make it 3 million.”
You grip your hair tightly, fingers tangled in the strands, eyes wide and glazed with panic.
“What should I do?! What if... what if he sees the news?! I swear to God, I'm going to die—no, I'll kill myself!”
One of your staff snorts from the corner, still scrolling through the flood of articles on her phone.
“You really had it bad for that Kaiser guy, huh, [Name]?” she teases, shaking her head with an amused smile.
You shoot her a death glare.
“Quit it already! I can't take this anymore—my life is over!” You pause for dramatic effect, then suddenly shift into an unnervingly cheerful tone, forcing a smile. “Oh well! It's not like he'll understand what I said anyway. He's German, and he's probably too busy with the league and stuff, duh.”
Your manager raises a brow from across the room.
“Translations exist, you idiot.”
Your smile falters instantly. It twitches, then drops completely as dread washes over you again. You let out a strangled sound and collapse back to the floor.
“Nooooooo...” you groan, voice muffled as you bury your face into the carpet.
Another staff member—one who's clearly enjoying your slow unraveling—pipes up with a casual, “So... when's his next match?”
You jerk upright, expression suddenly radiant, eyes gleaming.
“Ten days from now! They're playing against Manshine City!” you chirp, clapping your hands excitedly. “They beat FC Barcha a few days ago—he scored during that match, did you see it?! They're calling it the Kaiser Impact. It was insane! So fast, so clean—he just sliced through the defense like—”
You stop, noticing the room has gone oddly quiet. Everyone is staring at you.
Blank stares. Raised brows. One of them is biting back a laugh.
“Uh... it's really obvious you like him.”
“Of course I do!” you chirp again with no shame.
Then reality slams into you like a truck.
You gasp—over-the-top, like a stage actress. “He's going to see it. He's going to see it and laugh. I'll be a meme. I'll have to change my name. Move to the mountains. Bury my phone. Burn my albums.”
Your manager rubs her temples and grumbles under her breath, “And I'll be right behind you, making sure you don't post anything else while we're at it.”
At the Germany Stratum—Blue Lock's Man System Field—Michael Kaiser collapses onto the turf, body thrumming with adrenaline. Hours of intense training have pushed him to his limits. His chest heaves as he gulps down air, sweat clinging to every inch of his skin.
He closes his eyes briefly, letting the silence fall around him. Sweat trickles down his temple, soaking into his collar. After a few moments, he sits up slowly, muscles aching as he rises to his feet and drags himself toward the showers.
The water scalds and soothes. He lingers longer than usual, letting the heat work through his sore limbs. By the time he emerges, towel slung over his shoulder and dressed in Bastard München's sleek black tracksuit, he finally reaches for his phone.
And that's when he sees it.
The headlines. The photos. The post.
Dozens of articles across multiple languages, but one image keeps repeating: a collage—his press photo from Bastard München beside a candid shot of a certain idol taken by one of her fans.
He raises a brow, thumb hovering. The text is in Japanese, but a small “Translate” button sits beneath the post. He taps it.
Your words load on screen—your heartfelt confession, your support, your love.
“Huh?”
His gaze skims the translation, scanning the message quietly.
Then, he scoffs. A smirk curls the corner of his mouth—wicked, amused, unreadable. He pockets his phone without a word and walks off.
Back in your place, the night stretches on like a never-ending punishment. You haven't dared open your professional account. The notification count is dizzying—thousands and climbing—but you ignore it, choosing the comfort of your dummy account instead.
You sigh, loudly and miserably, leaning heavily into the pillows with dark circles forming under your eyes. Even your mutuals gushing about Kaiser can't pull a reaction from you tonight. You're too tired. Too on edge.
You lock your phone and toss it aside.
Just as sleep begins to creep in, your phone rings.
You groan, reaching blindly for it. You don't even check the name before answering.
“Hello...?”
“News. Now.” It's your manager—curt, cold, no patience left. The line goes dead immediately after.
You blink and lurch into a sitting position, startled.
“What now?” you mutter, already spiraling. You mentally retrace your day. You didn't post anything. You made sure of it. No tweets. No accidental reposts. Nothing.
But just to be safe, you open the news tab.
Your entire body goes rigid.
There it is.
Michael Kaiser's official, verified account.
He's posted a series of Spotify screenshots.
“What—?”
His top artist: you.
His most-played song? One of your recent singles. The rest of the top five is a mix of your older tracks, charting your career like a discography of undeniable interest.
Beneath the photos is a single caption written in German.
You press the translate button on the right:
“I don't loop just anyone.”
Your heart starts racing, thunderous in your ears. Your hands go clammy.
“WHAT THE HELL?!” you shriek, clutching your phone as if it might explode. Your face turns crimson in an instant.
And just like that, the media finds its next wildfire.
The top idol who confessed.
And the football star who just might be listening.