Chapter Text
Mornings in the Isagi household followed a familiar rhythm. The distant hum of Madrid’s streets drifted in through the open window, mixing with the scent of fresh bread and strong coffee. The chatter of Spanish radio hosts filled the kitchen as the golden morning light seeped through the curtains.
Yoichi stirred beneath the covers, blinking sleepily at the ceiling before rolling over. He could already hear his tita (aunt) moving about in the kitchen, the clinking of plates and the occasional hum of a song punctuating the stillness of the apartment.
With a yawn, he pushed himself up and padded towards the small kitchen, his socked feet making soft thumps against the tiled floor.
"Buenos días, mi estrella" (Good morning, my star), Maya greeted, glancing over her shoulder with a smile. She stood by the counter, pouring herself another cup of café con leche (coffee with milk), her dark curls tied up in a loose bun.
"Buenos días, Tita" (Good morning, Auntie), Yoichi mumbled, still drowsy, as he climbed onto his usual chair. His hair stuck up in all directions, and Maya chuckled as she set a plate of warm toast, sliced fruit, and a glass of milk in front of him.
"Eat first, then we start lessons," she reminded him.
"Sí" , he muttered before taking a big bite of toast.
Maya liked to keep their days structured. Breakfast, then lessons, then he was free to do whatever he wanted until lunch. Sometimes he played outside with the neighborhood kids, but lately, she’d been keeping a closer eye on him, telling him not to stray too far.
He didn't mind too much—homeschooling with Tita was different from what he imagined school would be like. There were no uniforms, no strict teachers, no rows of desks. Instead, he sat at their small dining table, going through lessons while Maya guided him with an energy that made everything feel exciting rather than forced.
"Alright, cariño, warm-up time" (Alright, sweetheart, warm-up time), Maya said, sliding a small stack of worksheets in front of him. "How do you say ‘yesterday’ in French?"
Yoichi chewed thoughtfully, swinging his legs under the chair. "Hier."
"Good! And in English?"
"Yesterday."
"Bien. Ahora en japonés?" (Good. Now in Japanese?)
"Kinou," he said proudly.
Maya smiled and tapped the table. "Muy bien, cariño. See? This is why learning multiple languages is important. You can understand so much of the world just by knowing different words!"
Yoichi grinned, feeling proud. He liked being able to switch between languages. It was like a secret code only a few people knew.
The rest of the morning passed in a rhythm of numbers, writing exercises, and vocabulary drills. Maya Isagi was a firm but patient teacher, always making sure Yoichi stayed focused but never making things feel like a chore.
When he got an answer right, she praised him warmly—"¡Eso es, mi estrella!" (That's it, my star!)—and when he struggled, she guided him through it gently, never raising her voice.
By mid-morning, their lessons were wrapping up. Normally, Maya would walk him down to let him go outside to play, but today, she seemed preoccupied. Her phone, which she usually kept away during their lessons, buzzed more than once. Each time, she glanced at it with a frown before muting the sound.
Yoichi tried not to pay attention, but after the third time, Maya finally sighed and stood up. "I need to take this, cariño" , she murmured, more to herself than to him.
She stepped out of the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, her voice dropping lower as she moved toward the hallway.
Yoichi wasn’t supposed to eavesdrop. But his name and her switch to Japanese caught his attention.
"No, I haven’t told Yoichi yet."
He frowned, setting his pencil down. Tita was talking about him?
"Yes… I know, but this isn’t normal."
There was a pause. He could hear her shifting on her feet, her voice quiet but tense.
"It did feel like somebody was following last night but—"
Following?
Yoichi frowned, his fingers tightening around his pencil.
"I don't want to worry you, but… this doesn't feel like it used to. This is different."
He felt a strange twist in his stomach.
"I know, I know, but you’re his parents, Iyo. Maybe you could come visit—Eh? They took your passports?! Q-qué?!" (What?!)
Tita Maya had always been careful. She always made sure the doors were locked, always reminded him not to talk to strangers, always told him where he could and couldn’t go. But he’d never seen her like this—tense, worried, almost scared.
After a few more hushed words, she finally hung up.
Yoichi quickly looked down at his worksheet, pretending to be focused just as she stepped back into the kitchen.
She was quiet for a moment, then let out a small breath before ruffling his hair. "Okay, cariño," she said, smiling like nothing was wrong. "Let's eat now, alright?"
Yoichi hesitated, but nodded anyway. He wanted to ask. Wanted to know who was following her. But something about the way she was forcing that smile made him hold his tongue.
For now.
…
The sun hung lazily in the Madrid sky, casting long golden shadows across the narrow streets. The air was thick with the scent of warm pavement and the distant aroma of freshly baked bread from a nearby panadería.
In a small, open plaza just a few blocks from his tita’s apartment, a group of boys dashed across the uneven concrete, the rhythmic thump-thump of a ball echoing against the old brick walls.
"¡Pásala, japonito!" (Pass it, japonito!) one of them yelled.
Yoichi grinned, the nickname no longer bothering him the way it did when he first arrived in Spain. He had earned it—not just because of his Japanese roots, but because of how quickly he had carved a name for himself among the neighborhood kids. Despite being the youngest on the pitch, he was already one of the best.
"¡Vamos, Yoichi!" (Come on, Yoichi!) another boy called.
The ball zipped toward him, bouncing once before he expertly trapped it under his foot. A bigger kid lunged to intercept, but Yoichi was faster—his body moved on instinct, cutting right, then slipping between two defenders with a quick feint.
"Demasiado lento." (Too slow)
Yoichi’s mind worked in overdrive. He could see the field in a way the others couldn’t, like pieces shifting on a chessboard. The goalie was too far to the left. The defender to his right was favoring his stronger foot. If he passed now—
No.
A playmaker’s job wasn’t just to pass. It was to create .
With a sudden burst of speed, he flicked the ball forward, dodging another challenge before sending a perfectly placed rabona pass to his teammate at the far post.
The older boy barely had to move before tapping it into the goal.
A brief silence fell over the group. Then—
"¡Golazo!"
"¡Oi, Yoichi, cómo hiciste eso!" (Oi, Yoichi, how did you do that?!)
"Este enano nos está destrozando, haha." (This little guy is destroying us, haha.)
Yoichi beamed, breathing hard as the boys crowded around him, ruffling his already messy hair. Praise like this made his chest swell with pride—here in Spain, talent wasn’t given respect, it had to be earned .
And even at seven years old, he was earning it.
As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, the group eventually broke up, boys scattering toward their homes. Yoichi wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his old jersey before slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"¡Mañana jugamos otra vez, japonito!"(Tomorrow, let's play again!)
"¡Sí, sí!" he called back, jogging toward home.
By the time he reached the apartment building, the evening air had cooled. Climbing up the narrow stairwell, he fished the spare key from his pocket and unlocked the door.
The moment he stepped inside, he frowned.
¿Gasolina?
The scent was faint, but unmistakable. A sharp, acrid smell that made his nose wrinkle.
He hesitated, glancing toward the kitchen.
Ah… Maybe Tita Maya was cooking something different tonight.
Shrugging off the strange feeling, Yoichi kicked off his shoes, yawning as the exhaustion from the game settled into his limbs. His body ached in that pleasant way after a hard match, and all he wanted now was a nap before dinner.
"Tita, I’m back," he called lazily, stretching his arms over his head.
No response.
He peeked into the kitchen, but the stove was off. No pots, no pans, nothing cooking. The gas smell was still faintly there, but without any flames burning, he figured it was nothing to worry about.
Maybe she stepped out for a moment.
Shrugging, he made his way to his small bedroom, flopping onto the bed without even changing out of his clothes. His body sank into the mattress, and within minutes, he was asleep, he’d just wake up later for dinner then.
…
At some point in the evening, Maya Isagi unlocked the door and stepped inside, her shoulders tense.
She paused.
The air in the apartment was still.
For a brief moment, she listened—then spotted Yoichi’s shoes by the door. He’s home.
Letting out a quiet breath, she set her bag down and moved toward the kitchen. She wasn’t hungry, but she made herself a simple meal anyway,. A routine meant everything felt normal, even when it wasn’t.
After finishing, she set aside a plate for Yoichi, wrapping it carefully before placing it in the fridge. A small note in neat handwriting rested on top:
‘Yoichi, heat this up if you're hungry. I love you. =)’
She hesitated before glancing toward his bedroom door.
The soft sound of his breathing filtered through the quiet apartment.
Her heart ached.
At least he’s safe tonight.
With that, she turned off the kitchen light and locked the door behind her.
Something was wrong.
Even before he fully woke up, Yoichi’s body sensed it—his chest felt tight, his throat dry, his skin damp with sweat that had nothing to do with the lingering warmth of Madrid’s evening.
Then, he smelled it.
Smoke.
Thick, acrid, suffocating. It clung to his lungs, burned his nose, sent a sharp pang of alarm down his spine. His mind lurched out of sleep before his body could catch up, a creeping panic crawling up his skin like a thousand invisible ants.
What—?
His eyes flew open.
The dim glow of streetlights outside barely cut through the heavy, curling darkness filling the room. Shadows flickered unnaturally against the walls—dancing, stretching, writhing like something alive.
Fire.
For a second, he couldn’t move. His heart slammed against his ribs, his pulse hammering in his ears, louder, louder, louder—
Then the sirens.
Screaming through the streets, wailing, shrieking. His hypersensitive ears caught everything at once—the distant shouts of firefighters, the frantic voices from outside, the frantic crackling of burning wood, the groan of something structural giving way.
The sounds crashed into his brain all at once, a tidal wave of too much, too fast, too loud—
"Tita."
His body finally moved before his brain could stop reeling. He stumbled out of bed, legs tangling in the sheets, nearly tripping as he tore toward her room.
"TITA MAYA!"
He coughed, the smoke already making his lungs seize. His hands slammed against the door, pushing, pulling—locked.
"Tita, wake up! ¡TITA!" His little fists pounded against the wood, desperation clawing at his throat.
She wasn’t answering.
Was she still asleep? Didn’t she hear him?
"TITA, POR FAVOR, ¡LEVÁNTATE!" (please, get up!)
His voice cracked into sobs before he even realized he was crying.
Somewhere outside, voices were yelling. His ears barely made sense of the words through the chaos.
"¡El niño! ¡Aún está adentro!" (The boy! He’s still inside!)
"¡Dios mío, la puerta!" (My God, the door!)
Then—THUD, THUD, THUD—the sound of someone slamming against the entrance to the apartment.
"¡Niño, abre la puerta!" (Kid, open the door!)
Yoichi turned, chest heaving. He recognized those voices.
The old couple from next door. The ones who always smiled at him, the ones who always greeted him in warm Spanish every morning.
He wanted to move—he knew he had to—but his legs wouldn’t stop shaking. His breath came too fast, his head spinning, his body struggling to catch up with his thoughts.
He felt trapped—trapped between the smoke creeping along the ceiling, the heat licking at the edges of the walls, the door that wouldn’t budge, the people outside telling him to move, move, MOVE.
Then, as if sensing his hesitation, another voice joined in—louder, younger, urgent.
"¡Atrás!" (Move back!)
A massive force slammed into the door.
Once.
Twice.
The third time, the lock gave way with a sickening crack.
A figure rushed in through the smoke—a man, maybe in his late twenties, face barely visible through the thick haze.
"¡Ven aquí, pequeño!" (Come here, little one!) Strong hands grabbed him by the arms, pulling him toward the door.
"No!" Yoichi screamed, fighting against the grip, his panicked mind snapping back to one thing, only one thing he needed—!
His fingers scrambled for something, anything—
There.
His football.
Sitting near his bedside, half-hidden under the frame.
In the same motion, Yoichi twisted his body, his small hands snatching it up before the man could drag him further.
Then he was lifted off the ground.
"¡Déjame ir! ¡Tita está—!" (Let me go! Tita is—!)
"¡No podemos, pequeño, tenemos que irnos!" (We can’t, little one, we have to go!)
Yoichi kicked and thrashed, but the man’s grip was unyielding. Too strong. Too fast. He was carried out, his cries drowned beneath the roar of the flames.
As he was hauled into the suffocating hallway, a horrible, unbearable truth finally reached him—
They weren’t trying to save her.
Because they already knew.
And as the fire swallowed the world behind him, Yoichi screamed.
…
The rustling of newspaper filled the quiet orphanage dormitory, the crinkling pages the only sound in the otherwise still room.
"Look at this,"
"A year ago today. What a sad story."
The headline stretched across the page, bold and uncaring:
‘APARTMENT FIRE IN MADRID’S DISTRICT 5 – 27 DEAD, INVESTIGATORS SUSPECT FOREIGN CRIMINAL INVOLVEMENT.’
Below it, in smaller print:
“ Eyewitnesses report seeing unfamiliar marks near the scene, consistent with the signature left by certain loan shark syndicates from Japan. Investigators are looking into possible motives behind the arson, though no official suspects have been named. Yadda yadda, scary stuff ”
A grainy photo accompanied the text—a charred husk of what was once an apartment building. The frame barely stood, blackened beams clawing at the sky like broken ribs.
The boy smirked, then flipped to the second page, where a single paragraph mentioned survivors.
" Oh, would’ja look at that? One notable survivor is a young Japanese boy. The child, identity withheld, is currently under the care of social services. "
A chuckle escaped him. "Tch. Must’ve been a real pain, huh? Imagine getting burned out of your own home—"
The newspaper was ripped from his hands.
"¡Dámelo!" (Give it back!)
Yoichi stood before him, fists clenched, his small frame trembling. His usually bright blue eyes were filled with something darker—anger, hurt, something raw and barely held together.
The older boy grinned, holding the paper just out of reach. "Relax, japonito ," he drawled, using the nickname the other kids had for him—sometimes affectionate, but right now, mocking. "I was just reading."
Yoichi’s stomach twisted. He could hear the snickers behind him. The other kids—watching, waiting.
"It’s mine." His voice wavered, his fingers tightening at his sides.
"Oh, yeah?" The boy’s smirk widened. "Then why was it under your pillow? Huh?" He laughed. "What, you sleep with this? Like some kinda—"
"¡DÁMELO!"
Yoichi lunged.
The older boy yelped as Yoichi’s small hands grabbed at the paper, fingers digging into the fragile newsprint. A scuffle broke out—Yoichi clawing at it, the other boy twisting away, the fragile pages caught in the middle.
RIP—
The article tore, black ink smearing against their fingers as shredded pieces fluttered to the ground.
For a moment, everything was silent.
Then the boy’s expression darkened.
"You little—!" He shoved Yoichi back, making him stumble. "You’re really getting worked up over this, huh? Maybe ‘cause it’s true?"
Yoichi’s breath hitched.
The boy sneered. "Maybe your tía died ‘cause of you."
Yoichi’s heart clenched painfully.
"You know what it says right here?" He pointed at the torn page still clutched in his hands. "‘Japanese loan sharks suspected.’ You know what that means, right? Maybe you brought them here. Maybe you got her killed."
Something in Yoichi snapped.
His fist connected with the boy’s face before he even realized he had moved.
A sharp gasp echoed through the dormitory as the boy stumbled back, clutching his cheek. Yoichi was breathing hard, fists still trembling, anger twisting inside him like a storm he couldn’t control.
"You—!"
Before the boy could retaliate, a shrill voice cut through the tension.
"¡¿Qué está pasando aquí?!" (What is going on here?!)
One of the orphanage staff rushed in. She took one look at the scene—Yoichi standing with clenched fists, the older boy rubbing his bruised cheek—and her gaze hardened.
"Yoichi Isagi," she snapped. "Did you hit him?"
Yoichi’s throat tightened.
The other boy sniffled dramatically. "He—he just attacked me!" he whined. "For no reason!"
Yoichi’s nails dug into his palms. ‘ No es cierto ,’ (That’s not true,) he wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat.
The staff member sighed in exasperation. "Isagi, otra vez ?" (Again?) She pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is the third time this month! I don’t care what happened—you do not resort to violence!"
Yoichi bit the inside of his cheek.
It didn’t matter what he said.
It didn’t matter what the bully had done.
He was always the one getting in trouble.
He looked down at his hands, the faint sting of scraped knuckles lingering, the torn newspaper pieces scattered at his feet.
His stomach churned.
No matter what he did—no matter how hard he tried—everything just kept falling apart.
…
The office smelled of stale coffee and old paper.
Yoichi sat in the wooden chair, his feet barely touching the floor, staring down at the scuffed tile as the orphanage staff scolded him.
“Yoichi, this needs to stop.” The woman rubbed her temples, exhaling sharply. “This is the third fight this month. Do you want to be sent somewhere else?”
His stomach twisted, but he said nothing.
She sighed. “I don’t know what that boy said to you, but you can’t keep responding with violence. It won’t solve anything.”
Yoichi’s fists clenched on his lap. But it wasn’t just words.
It was his tita’s name. It was the fire, the fear, the smoke still clinging to his nightmares.
And worst of all, it was the way they all believed he was the problem.
The woman stood, shaking her head. “You have football today, right?”
Yoichi blinked up at her.
She sighed again, softer this time. “Then go. Get changed and get your things.”
He nodded, standing wordlessly.
As he trudged back to the dorms, he wiped his sleeve over his eyes, shoving down the lump in his throat.
When he reached his bed, he crouched down, pulling his football from underneath. His fingers brushed over the worn leather, pressing against the faint indentations of his grip over the months.
His only constant.
He patted it twice for good luck before packing his things and heading out.
…
The wind hit like a slap to the face.
Yoichi grit his teeth, his breath coming out in sharp puffs of air as he ran his final lap.
No jacket. No break. Just running.
The rain from earlier still clung to the grass, dampening his already worn-out cleats. His socks were soaked. His fingers, numb. But he didn’t stop.
Not when the whistle screeched again.
“ ¡Más rápido, Isagi! ” (Faster, Isagi!)
Yoichi barely flinched at the barked order.
The man watching him scowled. His sharp features twisted with displeasure, his arms crossed over his chest.
Miguel Herrera.
The head coach of Academia Madridista Juvenil—a second-tier club academy that prided itself on being a "proving ground" for young talent. Or at least, that’s what they advertised.
In reality? It was hell.
At least for him.
Yoichi remembers the first time he stepped foot on these grounds, just a couple months ago, after he begged the orphanage to let him sign up.
He had arrived early, hoping to practice alone before the others arrived. He set up cones for dribbling drills, his movements careful and precise. Football had always been his escape, but lately, it felt like the field itself was a prison.
When the coach arrived, he wasted no time setting up a brutal scrimmage. Yoichi was placed on the weaker team and lost, then it was running laps for the losers.
“Faster, Japonito! You think you’re some kind of prodigy, but you’re just dead weight!”
Yoichi gritted his teeth, his chest heaving as he pushed himself to sprint the last lap. The heat pressed down on him like a weight, and the sound of the whistle pierced his ears, sharp and jarring.
“Again!” Herrera shouted, his voice booming over the field.
Yoichi stumbled but caught himself, his vision blurring at the edges. He felt the familiar prickle of tears threatening to spill over—not from pain, but from the overwhelming noise, the barking commands, the jeers of some of the older players.
“Coach, give him a break!” called a boy from the sidelines. It was Mateo, a lanky defender who had always been kind to Yoichi. “He’s been running for hours!”
The coach turned, his glare silencing Mateo instantly. “You think I’m here to baby him? If he wants to play, he’ll earn it. Otherwise, he’s nothing but bench material!”
The words hit Yoichi like a blow, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.
“Keep up, Isagi!” the coach shouted as Yoichi struggled to defend against a taller, stronger player.
The whistle’s shrill tone cut through the air again and again, each blast making Yoichi flinch. The constant sound, combined with the jeering laughter of a few players, sent his senses into overdrive.
By the end of the game, Yoichi was sitting on the bench, his head in his hands. His heart raced, and his skin felt hot and prickly. Mateo sat down beside him, handing him a water bottle.
“You’re better than he says, you know,” Mateo said quietly. “Don’t let him get to you.”
Yoichi nodded, though he didn’t lift his head. “Thanks,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
…
He snaps back to the present miserable day before him,
“Still as weak as ever,” Herrera sneered as Yoichi passed him. “That all you got, japonito? ”
Yoichi clenched his jaw.
He didn’t reply. He never did.
It only made it worse.
Herrera hated him. From the moment he arrived, it had been clear—Yoichi was an outsider, an unwelcome presence. He wasn’t Spanish. He wasn’t from some rich football family. He was just some orphan.
But Yoichi could play.
And Herrera hated that.
“Alright, no running for now,” Herrera called. “Time for scrimmages.”
Yoichi sucked in a breath, his lungs burning from the cold.
He barely had time to recover before he was thrown onto the field with the older players—14, 15-year-olds with at least double his weight.
No calls. No fouls. No mercy.
The ball barely touched his feet before someone slammed into him from the side. His body hit the wet grass hard, knocking the breath from his lungs.
“ Levántate. ” (Get up.)
He gritted his teeth.
He did .
Again. And again.
Each time, he got the ball, maneuvered through tight spaces, created chances—only to be bodied off it by someone bigger, stronger.
He could see the passes, the openings. His brain worked faster than the others. But his body—his tiny, underfed frame—couldn’t keep up.
And Herrera loved reminding him.
“Pathetic.”
Yoichi panted, wiping the rain from his eyes.
“Maybe you should stick to being a water boy , ” Herrera taunted. “At least then you wouldn’t embarrass yourself.”
Yoichi didn’t flinch. He didn’t glare.
He just stared at the ball.
Focused on the only thing that mattered.
“…Again,” he muttered.
The players around him shifted uncomfortably.
Some of them—Mateo, Samuel—looked at him with quiet sympathy. They were good guys. They’d given him advice, helped him up when Herrera wasn’t looking.
But even they couldn’t save him.
Not here.
Not under him.
Another drill. Another scrimmage. Another tackle sending him to the mud.
“Otra vez, Isagi.” (Again, Isagi.)
It didn’t stop.
Even when the rain picked up again, cold and relentless.
Even when the others were sent to the lockers to change.
Even when his legs shook with exhaustion.
Herrera stood over him, arms crossed.
“Still standing?” he mocked.
Yoichi didn’t answer.
He just stared ahead, vision swimming, fingers digging into the soaked grass.
He wouldn’t cry.
Not here. Not in front of him.
“Then run.”
Yoichi swallowed down the bile in his throat and forced his legs to move.
It was the only thing he could do.
…
The locker room smelled of damp clothes and sweat, the air thick with exhaustion.
Yoichi sat on the bench, shivering slightly as he toweled off his dripping hair. His fingers trembled—not just from the cold, but from the exhaustion weighing on his small frame.
His body ached. His ribs stung from the earlier tackles. His legs felt like lead.
But still—he smiled.
“Nice game today, Samuel.” He nudged the older boy beside him. “Your pass to Mateo was crazy good.”
Samuel blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Oh—uh, yeah. Thanks, Isagi.”
“Yeah, man.” Another boy, Rodri, tying his cleats, gave him a small grin. “You had some sick dribbles too. I saw you weaving through us like a little demon.”
Yoichi laughed, rubbing the back of his head. “Well, I couldn’t really score anything.”
Samuel and Mateo exchanged a glance.
The others were watching too.
How Herrera forced him to play against kids twice his size. How he singled him out in the rain, making him run laps long after training was over. How he never let him rest.
And yet—
Yoichi never complained.
Even now, as he sat there, bruised and battered, he still smiled at them.
Like none of it even mattered.
Rodrigo clenched his jaw.
Samuel looked down at his hands.
“…This isn’t right,” Samuel muttered.
Mateo nodded. “We need to do something.”
The rest of the team murmured in quiet agreement.
And that night, they did.
…
The turning point came during a Saturday match. A few parents had come to watch, including Mateo’s father, who often attended games to support his son.
Yoichi, as usual, was on the bench, his body still sore from an overly harsh training session the day before. The coach’s mood was worse than usual, and when Yoichi fumbled a pass during warm-ups, the man lost it.
“You’re an embarrassment, Isagi! Get off my field!” he yelled, his voice echoing across the stadium.
Mateo’s father, sitting just a few feet away, stood abruptly. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, his voice loud enough to silence the field.
The coach froze, but his expression quickly turned defensive. “This is my team, and I’ll discipline my players how I see fit.”
“Discipline? That’s abuse,” Mateo’s father shot back. “My son says he’s been watching you humiliate that boy for weeks. You know damn well I’m telling the cops about this.”
The other parents murmured in agreement, and the coach’s face turned red. Yoichi sat frozen on the bench, his heart pounding as the adults argued.
…
It started with whispers.
Then murmurs.
Then phone calls.
By morning, the parents of Madridista Juvenil players had questions.
Why was a seven-year-old being made to play with teenagers? Why was he left outside in the cold rain while the others rested? Why did their sons come home every day looking more uncomfortable with their own training?
Herrera scoffed at first.
But then the calls turned into meetings.
The meetings turned into inquiries.
And suddenly, his job wasn’t so secure anymore.
But there was one problem.
The boy at the center of it all—Isagi Yoichi—was nowhere to be found.
…
The locker room was quiet.
Yoichi sat on the bench, hugging his football close.
His bag sat at the foot of the frame, barely filled with much aside from a few clothes and his boots.
He was leaving the Academy.
The orphanage had decided to transfer him to a different branch—one further north.
It wasn’t surprising.
But still…
A soft knock at the door made him look up.
The handle turned, and familiar faces peeked in.
Mateo. Samuel. A few others from the team.
“…Hey,” Mateo said, shifting awkwardly. “Uh. Can we come in?”
Yoichi blinked, then nodded. “Yeah.”
They filed in, sitting around him, clearly unsure of what to say.
Then Samuel sighed. “You really never told anyone, huh?”
Yoichi tilted his head. “Told anyone what?”
“That Herrera treated you like that , ” Rodri muttered.
Yoichi hesitated.
“…It wouldn’t have changed anything,” he admitted quietly.
Samuel scoffed. “That’s not true. You know our parents are furious right now? They’re getting him investigated.”
Yoichi blinked. “They are?”
“Yeah.” Rodri crossed his arms. “They wanted you to give a statement too, but when we asked around…”
He trailed off, eyeing his empty locker and barely filled worn bag
Yoichi looked away.
“…I’m leaving tomorrow,” he murmured.
“…That sucks.”
Yoichi huffed a laugh. “Yeah.”
Mateo sighed, ruffling his hair. “You’re a tough little guy, you know that?”
Yoichi grinned. “I try.”
Rodri rolled his eyes. “ Try . You get tossed around like a ragdoll and still show up every day.”
Yoichi laughed again.
And this time, it actually felt… real.
For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t alone.
And for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe—
That maybe, just maybe, things would get better.
“Hey, keep in touch, okay?”
“I’ll try. Thank you”.
…
The orphanage dormitory was still. The rhythmic rise and fall of quiet breaths filled the space, a soft lullaby beneath the pale glow of the moonlight. Beds lined the room, each one occupied by a sleeping child, safe—at least for tonight.
But in the middle of it all, Yoichi Isagi lay awake.
Sleep refused to come.
His mind was restless, looping through memories with relentless precision.
The fire.
Thick smoke curling through the halls. Heat licking at his skin. The sound of wood cracking and walls collapsing under the weight of the flames.
Tita!
His voice had been hoarse with panic, his small hands pounding against her door. He had screamed her name over and over until his throat burned, but she never answered.
They had pulled him out before he could go back for her. Strong hands. Harsh voices telling him to stop, to look away.
But how could he?
She had been his world. And just like that—she was gone.
Yoichi turned onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut, as if that would stop the images from playing in his mind.
And then there were his parents.
They loved each other more than the world
And they had promised.
Sworn they would come for him.
He had clung to those words for so long. Had waited. Had hoped.
But the days turned into months, and the months stretched into a year. And still—nothing.
Maybe they couldn’t come back.
Maybe that was just another world he couldn’t have.
His hands curled into fists, gripping the thin blanket draped over him.
The coach. The drills. The cold wind biting into his skin, his body aching from the relentless training. The way the older players crashed into him, elbowing and shoving, and how the whistle never blew in his favor. The insults. The harsh words meant to break him down.
Yoichi exhaled sharply.
It would’ve been easy to hate football.
To let it become another thing he lost.
But even after everything—after the exhaustion, the bruises, the cruel voices—he couldn’t bring himself to turn away from it.
Because football was the only thing in this world he had left.
The one constant.
Slowly, he reached under his bed. His fingers found familiar, worn leather.
His football.
The only thing he had taken from Japan. The only thing he had saved from the fire.
He pulled it close, pressing it against his chest, feeling the weight of it.
It wasn’t just a ball.
It was his world, now.
His game.
And if the world refused to give him a place, if it insisted on taking everything from him, then he would take control instead.
He wouldn’t just play football—he would define it.
Not by their rules.
Not by their expectations.
By his.
No more waiting. No more following paths carved by people who didn’t care.
No more bending to a world that only sought to break him.
From now on, he would shape his own fate.
He would take football and mold it into something no one could ever take away from him.
He opened his eyes, gaze steady.
Tomorrow, they would move him to another orphanage. Another place filled with unfamiliar faces.
But it didn’t matter.
Wherever he went, football would go with him.
And one day, the world would see it too.
His vision.
His creation.
His world of Egoists.
And with that, the night was quiet.
The kind of quiet that only existed when the world was asleep—when no one was watching.
Yoichi sat up, heart pounding. His breath was steady, his movements careful as he reached beneath his pillow. His fingers closed around the worn leather of his football. The only thing he would take with him.
He didn’t need anything else.
With practiced ease, he slipped the ball into his pillowcase, tying the end tight before slinging it over his shoulder like a traveler setting off on a journey.
His eyes flickered to the bed beside his. The boy who had tormented him earlier lay curled up, shivering in his sleep. Yoichi smirked, a soft huff of amusement escaping him. Serves you right.
Without hesitation, he tugged the thin blanket from his own bed, then grabbed the bully’s too, knotting them together. The fabric was weak, barely enough to keep out the cold, but it would do.
One last glance at the sleeping figures around him.
Then he moved.
Silent steps carried him through the room, weaving between beds. He slipped through the doorway without a sound, his bare feet light against the old wooden floor.
The hallways stretched before him, long and empty. Every shadow felt like a pair of watching eyes, every creak of the floorboards made his pulse jump. But he didn’t stop.
He had memorized this path. Had dreamed of it enough times to know exactly where to go.
The window.
The one that led to the courtyard.
It was locked, but locks had never stopped him before.
A quiet click, and it gave way under his careful touch.
Cold air rushed in. A crisp night breeze that smelled of damp earth and distant city lights.
He climbed onto the ledge, clutching his makeshift rope of blankets.
It wasn’t long enough to reach the ground.
Didn’t matter.
Yoichi looped the end around the window frame, gripping tightly before lowering himself down. The fabric strained under his weight, the knots slipping slightly. His arms trembled, his breath sharp between gritted teeth.
His feet dangled above the ground, just short of safety.
No choice but to drop.
He braced himself and let go.
The impact jolted up his legs, but he bit back any noise of pain. He rolled with the landing, quick to his feet again.
The viny wall stood before him. His fingers gripped the rough vines, feet finding purchase against the uneven surface. It wasn’t easy. His arms ached, his muscles burned with effort.
But he kept climbing.
Higher.
Higher.
The top of the wall loomed just within reach. He pulled himself up, balancing precariously on the narrow ledge.
One last drop.
Yoichi took a breath—
—and leaped.
He hit the ground in a crouch, the air rushing from his lungs. For a moment, he stayed still, body tense, waiting to hear if anyone had noticed.
Nothing.
No shouts. No footsteps.
Only silence.
He straightened.
And then—
He ran. North.
Across the courtyard, past the empty streets, feet pounding against the pavement.
Away from the orphanage. Away from everything that had held him back.
The night swallowed him whole, but he didn’t stop.
He was free.