Chapter Text
The steady thrum of the airport blends with the occasional ding of announcements overhead, draping a soft rhythm over the terminal. Alexis Ness sits with his fingers gliding across his phone screen. Headlines sweep past his gaze—transfer rumors, injury updates, championship predictions. His brows twitch in thought as he scrolls, eyes flickering with quiet concentration.
After a few minutes, he exhales, stretches his arms above his head, and lets out a soft groan. The motion makes his track jacket shift, and he glances sideways, drawn by the stillness beside him.
Michael Kaiser sits slouched against the bench, one leg casually draped over the other, radiating an air of effortless arrogance. His blonde hair falls over his brows, and sleek, black headphones cover his ears. His gaze is locked on the screen of his phone, completely absorbed. There's a faint glow reflecting in his eyes.
Ness leans in slightly, curiosity tugging at his spine. The screen plays a video—vibrant lights flashing, the crowd waving luminous sticks in unison, voices screaming in pure, high-pitched excitement. On stage, a figure dances with perfect precision, beaming under the spotlight. A Japanese idol concert, unmistakably.
Ness blinks. His lips press into a thin line as his brows draw together. Kaiser? Watching this?
He turns his face away and straightens his posture, quelling the stir of confusion that curls in his stomach. “I didn't know Kaiser's interested in Japanese idols...” he murmurs under his breath as he unlocks his phone again, though the screen now feels dull.
Eventually, the boarding announcement echoes through the terminal, and the two rise with the rest of the Bastard München team. Hours blur into silence and turbulence. Clouds pass outside the window like smoke.
After almost a day of travel, the plane finally descends into Tokyo.
As they step off the aircraft into the cool press of the arrival hall, Kaiser has already removed his headphones. His phone rests forgotten in his hand, his gaze distant, jaw propped lightly against one hand as he stares ahead.
Ness faces him, heart tapping with quiet interest. “That video you were watching earlier....” he begins, voice light but probing, “what was that all about?”
Kaiser doesn't even blink. He digs his phone out of his coat and tilts the screen toward Ness lazily, as if indulging a child's curiosity. “Ah, that. It's from a concert.”
Ness tilts his head, watching him. “I didn't know you were into Japanese idols, Kaiser.”
A small smirk plays at the edge of Kaiser's lips. “Curious, that's all.” he replies.
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The arena pulses with life, a tempest of chants and screams crashing against your ears as you command the stage. A blazing kaleidoscope of lights bathes you in brilliant hues, spotlighting your every move. The microphone is an extension of your hand, your voice carrying a melody that electrifies the massive crowd.
Your smile shines bright, the corners of your lips curving naturally as your eyes glimmer with fiery passion. Every step of your choreography is precise yet brimming with energy—fluid spins, playful poses, and deliberate gestures aimed directly at the cameras that magnify your presence on the towering screens flanking the stage.
For a fleeting second, you catch a glimpse of yourself on the display—a larger-than-life figure captivating the sea of fans.
Sweat trickles down your forehead, the heat of the performance combining with the stage lights to create a sheen on your skin. Your cheeks flush, but you never falter, drawing deep, steady breaths between verses. Your muscles burn from the relentless pace, yet your every movement remains seamless—a perfect blend of dedication and adrenaline.
“Thank you so much for coming, everyone!” you shout, your voice filled with both sincerity and practiced showmanship. You break into a run along the extended platform, your arms wide open to embrace the audience's roaring response. Your hair whips around with your momentum, strands catching the light like threads of gold.
The final leg of the tour ends in a swell of lights, cheers, and adrenaline. Backstage, the buzz still lingers in the air, but you barely register it. Your knees give way under the weight of exhaustion as you slump into a chair, head tipping back and eyes fluttering shut. Your chest rises and falls in labored, uneven breaths, the rush of the last performance still echoing faintly in your veins.
Behind you, the staff moves in methodical motion—someone's packing up the clothes you wore onstage, another carefully wipes down your makeup kit, brushes clinking lightly in a tray. Murmured conversations drift around you, but they're muted, like you're underwater.
Minutes tick by. Maybe more. You finally peel yourself from the seat, your joints ache as you change into a loose hoodie and sweatpants—soft fabric a relief against your skin. It's over, you remind yourself. No more rehearsals. No more back-to-back interviews. No more forced smiles through sore muscles and sleepless nights. Just home. Rest. Silence.
Inside the company car, the city lights trail past the window. You lean your head against the glass, eyes half-lidded, until the fatigue pulls you under completely. The world fades.
You're shaken gently awake.
“We're here, [Name].” your manager says, voice low but kind.
You blink groggily, momentarily disoriented. The familiar street outside your condominium slowly comes into focus. With a tired smile, you mumble your thanks and goodbye, stepping out into the quiet night.
Your feet drag with every step toward the door. The building feels colder, lonelier than usual—but you're too tired to care. Once inside, you flip the locks shut with muscle memory, double-checking windows out of habit. Then, finally—blessedly—you collapse onto your bed without changing, face buried into the pillow.
Sleep claims you before you even have the chance to exhale.
♪Ahh, I think I can do it!
I feel like my heart's going to burst, it's overflowing so much;
so can I steal yours away?♪
You hum the song you sang for last night's encore, sinking deeper into the couch, limbs draped over the cushions like a marionette with its strings cut. Late afternoon light filters lazily through the blinds. The air is quiet, broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird outside the window. Peaceful. Almost unreal.
You savor it—the absence of rehearsal schedules and call times. It's been a few months since your last album dropped. Then came the tour. And now, this calm—a fleeting pause before the storm. Soon, it'll all begin again: writing lyrics until dawn, agonizing over harmonies, producing track after track until your ears ring. The music videos—early morning shoots, intricate choreography that leaves your muscles screaming, take after take until every frame is flawless. And the promotion: endless radio shows, chaotic variety appearances, back-to-back live performances. The thought of it all hovers in your mind like an incoming tide.
You exhale sharply through your nose and flick the thought away like an annoying gnat. Not now. Not today. Today is yours.
Phone in hand, you scroll aimlessly, your thumb moving. Headlines stream by unnoticed—celeb scandals, beauty trends, someone's dog becoming the next viral sensation—until one particular story catches your eye.
“Blue Lock stuns Japan in shocking match result—”
Your brows knit together slightly, interest piqued. You tap on the article. The title expands into a flurry of images and fan reactions: grainy screenshots of the match, a clip of a player weaving past defenders with near inhuman agility, and a trending tag that still glows hot even a day after the game.
Your lips part slightly in surprise.
Blue Lock? That training program for forwards? You'd heard about them in passing—mostly whispers in variety show green rooms and excited chatter from makeup artists—but you never paid attention. Sports weren't exactly your thing. But something about the energy of the comments—the awe, the disbelief—pulls you in.
You start to read, skimming the play-by-play. Apparently, Blue Lock had gone up against Japan's U-20 in a televised exhibition match—and won. Not just won—dominated.
Your eyes narrow, scrolling faster now, devouring names you've never heard before. Isagi Yoichi. Itoshi Rin. Nagi Seishiro.
The corner of your mouth quirks.
There's a video embedded at the bottom. You tap it. The screen lights up, and you watch, transfixed, as Isagi Yoichi—dark-haired, sharp-eyed—lurks just outside the goal area, unnoticed, before launching a direct shot that tears through the net, securing Blue Lock's victory.
U-20 Japan (3) vs. Blue Lock (4)
The final score: 3–4. Blue Lock takes the win.
The crowd erupts, a thunderous roar shaking the stadium. The commentator nearly shouts himself hoarse, voice cracking with disbelief and excitement.
Your reflection stares back from the dark screen when the video ends, lips slightly parted. You blink, and suddenly, you're sitting a little straighter.
Maybe you're just imagining it. But for a second, it feels like watching someone onstage—commanding the spotlight, playing to the crowd, stealing breaths with every movement.
Your thumb pauses over the screen. You hesitate for just a beat before typing his name into the search bar. Isagi Yoichi.
Curiosity hums in your bloodstream like a low bassline.
Just a little peek won't hurt, right?
Let's just say, because of that, you start getting curious about the whole Blue Lock project.
At first, it's just a passing interest—something you thought you'd glance at once or twice. A passing mention of Blue Lock here and there, an offhanded comment during an interview, the way your staff couldn't stop talking about “that insane match-winning goal.”
You didn't think much of it at first. But now, the seed has been planted.
And, just like that, your temporary break vanishes beneath the tidal wave of work. You're back under the spotlight. Buried beneath an avalanche of rehearsals, shoots, and press appearances. Your phone stays silent in your bag for most of the day, untouched. Sleep becomes a luxury. You're running on caffeine, adrenaline, and stubborn willpower.
After the album release, there's no time to breathe. The promotions begin. Every second of your day is carved out—radio shows, music programs, meet-and-greets. And when you finally come home after another excruciatingly long day, your shoulders drop as soon as the door shuts behind you.
You tug off your shoes, toss your bag by the door, and collapse onto the couch with a sigh that echoes in the quiet apartment. Groggy fingers swipe at your phone screen out of habit.
A single notification glows on the screen.
Blue Lock TV.
You blink.
“What's this...?”
You tap into the app out of idle curiosity. A sleek interface greets you. Football matches. Player cams. Commentary. Replays. All for 500 yen a month?
You snort softly. Cheap entertainment. You subscribe on a whim.
The next day, after promoting your album at a high-profile radio show, you exit the recording booth and finally get a moment of peace in the hallway. You glance at your phone again.
Live Match: Bastard München vs FC Barcha – Now Streaming
Something about those names feels oddly familiar. You open the stream.
A high-speed match flashes to life on your screen.
“Huh?” you breathe out, surprised.
A sudden tap on your back jolts you.
You jump and whip around to find your manager behind you, brow arched, clipboard in hand.
“Everything okay?” she asks, peering at you questioningly.
“Yeah—yeah,” you say quickly, locking your phone and tucking it back into your pocket. “All good.”
She nods. “You can head to the car first. I need to speak with one of the hosts for a minute.”
You offer her a grateful nod. “Got it.”
You bow deeply to the radio staff, thanking them politely before darting toward the door.
Outside, a wall of fans immediately floods your vision. Dozens of phones are raised, faces beaming, voices calling out your name.
You smile, pushing the weariness down as you wave brightly. With a bow to the crowd—every motion precise and familiar—you slip into the van waiting at the curb. The door clicks shut. Silence.
You exhale, shoulders slumping with relief. Without hesitation, you pull your phone out again.
The match is still going.
Bastard München vs FC Barcha.
You scroll briefly. Bastard München—Germany. FC Barcha—Spain. Both professional teams.
You press play, and the game fills your screen.
Almost instantly, one player draws your attention like a magnet.
Number 10.
Blonde hair streaked with metallic blue at the ends, fluttering as he darts across the field like lightning. His movements are sharp, aggressive—yet smooth, like water cutting through stone. Even surrounded by defenders, he remains untouchable.
Your jaw parts slightly.
Your breath catches as he slips past two defenders with a feint, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—smug, confident, utterly in control. The ball sticks to his feet like it belongs there.
You squint to read the name on his back.
Kaiser.
This Kaiser guy doesn't just play the game—he owns it.
You watch, transfixed, as his teammates orbit around him. Especially Number 8—Ness, who passes to Kaiser again and again, the two moving with uncanny synchronicity.
Kaiser lingers at the edge of the play, positioning himself perfectly. He's bait. A trap. A blade waiting to be drawn.
Your eyes narrow as your brain starts to catch up, connecting dots from the countless soccer videos you've binged during sleepless nights.
He hasn't wasted a single movement.
Not one.
He moves like he's already ten steps ahead, always in the right place, always ready.
Then it happens. Ness approaches the goal area, making a quick feint—an illusionary pass—and Kaiser, like a predator sensing blood, moves.
In a split second, he traps the ball, body angled like he's going for a direct shot.
“Oh—?”
And the net ripples.
You stare in stunned silence.
You didn't blink. You know you didn't. And yet you missed it.
He spreads his arms wide in victory, expression dripping with superiority. A slow, condescending smirk stretches across his face—as if this was inevitable. As if he was always meant to score.
Your skin prickles with something you can't name.
“Oh... my.” you whisper, eyes wide, heart pounding like you've just witnessed something divine.
And for the first time in weeks, you're not thinking about music, or cameras, or sold-out stages.
You're thinking about him.
Kaiser.