Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The summons came like a knife to the throat.
A shrill alarm sliced through every stratum at 4:17 a.m., jolting the Neo Egoist League players from their fitful sleep. It wasn’t the usual match-day chime — too urgent, too guttural. Not a tone designed to awaken athletes, but one built to summon soldiers.
And Ego never sounded that alarm unless the world was shifting.

Isagi Yoichi sat bolt upright, heart pounding, a sharp exhale cutting through the darkness. He wasn’t fully awake — not yet — but the residual weight of a dream clung to his spine like sweat. “...Again?” Kurona muttered, voice gravelly as he rubbed at his face. His hair stuck up in one horned tuft. “It’s too early for this bullshit.”

On the bunk above, Hiori groaned into his pillow.
“Is this another ‘philosophy of ego’ lecture? I swear, if Ego woke us up for a metaphor…”

“He wouldn’t set off the war alarm for a metaphor,” Isagi said, already pulling on his training shirt. “Don’t underestimate that man’s dramatics,” Yukimiya muttered, adjusting his eye patch as he turned toward the mirror. “Last time he made us run drills because someone ‘wasn't radiating enough aura.’”

A loud THUD echoed from down the hall. “OI! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? A FIRE DRILL?!” Raichi. Obviously. The scent-neutral mist hissed from the vents, but Gagamaru barely stirred. “Mmnn. Let me sleep inside the wall,” he mumbled, arm draped over a plush fox pillow. No one questioned where he got it.

Kaiser cracked one eye open, irritated. “If Ego thinks I’m getting up before five, he’s lost his mind.” Ness was already dressed, checking his collar for neatness. “You think it’s because of the bond spikes last match? Your scent nearly triggered the whole midfield.”

“That’s called dominance,” Kaiser snapped. “Not a crime.” Kurona passed by their room with Isagi, both exchanging tight nods. Kaiser grinned wide.

“You smell nervous, Japan.”
“Must be the stench of your ego,” Isagi shot back.

——————————

Rin Itoshi had already laced his boots by the time the others stirred. His crimson hoodie was zipped halfway, damp strands of hair still clinging to his forehead. He hadn’t slept long. Or well. “Get up. Now.” Shidou groaned, half-dressed, flipping a cabinet open with a bang.

“If this is another heat check, I’m going feral. I just came off suppressants.” Karasu yawned into his sleeve as he dragged a hoodie over his lean frame. “This feels bigger than a routine scan.” Nanase stumbled out of the bathroom, hair still dripping. “Did anyone else feel the walls shake? Or was that just me?”

Tokimitsu sat in the corner with wide, terrified eyes.
“W-What if… it’s a rogue bond spike? Or a coach death? Or— or the ghost of a failed striker?!” Zantetsu tripped over his shoelaces trying to calm him. “No one’s dead. Probably. I think.” In the far corner, Charles leaned against the window, arms crossed. “Hmph. Whatever it is… I bet it involves one of us.” Rin’s hand clenched.

——————————

“Reo, you’re drooling,” Nagi mumbled, half-conscious, still wrapped around his best friend like a lazy vine. Reo wiped his mouth and scowled. “You’re the one sleeping on my chest like a weighted blanket. Move.” Chris Prince strode in shirtless, a towel thrown over his shoulders. “Good morning, gentlemen. The alarm is either a hallucination… or something far more delicious.”

“It’s not delicious,” Chigiri grumbled from under his blanket. “It’s obnoxious. And I swear, if this is another ‘body compatibility’ workshop I’m going to break the testing stick.” Reo blinked. “What kind of dream were you having?”

——————————

Otoya flexed dramatically in the hallway mirror. “If I die today, at least I die looking hot.”

“Dude. Put a shirt on,” groaned Bachira, spinning around in a circle with his arms flared like wings.

“Maybe Ego wants us to fight. Survival of the fittest.”
Lavinho popped his head out of his own room, sunglasses already on. “Did someone say fight? Or was that just the sound of fragile Alphas breaking down?”
“I’M NOT FRAGILE!” Otoya barked. “...Yeah you are,” Bachira muttered. “In the heart.”

——————————

Aiku was already dressed, standing in front of the locker cubbies like a captain awaiting formation. His Beta signature kept the others steady, even as something oppressive hung in the air. Barou snarled, storming past him. “I don’t get up before five for anyone.” Aryu followed close behind, hair perfectly slicked despite the hour. “Then why are you up?”

“Because I felt something.” Sendou grumbled, lacing up his boots upside down. Don Lorenzo stomped out of his room in full gear. “Did I miss breakfast or did the building tremble?”

“Probably both,” Aiku muttered. “But stay sharp. This isn’t normal.” Niko lingered near the door, fingers twitching at the edge of his sleeve. He said nothing, but his eyes kept flickering toward the walls. “Something’s here,” he whispered. “Something alive.”

——————————

The hallways filled fast. Like blood rushing to the heart, every stratum’s best — and worst — converged toward Blue Lock’s beating center. Instincts stirred. Suppression collars tingled against skin. It wasn’t just adrenaline anymore. There was a pull in the air. A low, humming note only second genders could feel.
And somewhere — deep in the central complex — something was crying.

——————————

The hallways were too quiet for how many feet echoed across them. Lined with sterile steel walls and slick digital panels, the Blue Lock facility had never felt more like a prison than it did now. The emergency lights cast long shadows across the floor, turning every player into a distorted reflection of himself. No one was speaking at first.

They all felt it — that pressure. That pull. Isagi kept his pace even, jaw tense, eyes scanning every corridor like a striker reading the field. Beside him, Kurona matched his stride. Their footsteps were eerily in sync. “You’re overthinking again, again,” Kurona murmured, hands in his pockets.

“And you’re underreacting,” Isagi muttered back. “You don’t feel that?” Kurona’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Of course I do. The air’s heavier than it should be. Even Ness looked rattled. And that guy never breaks character.”

“...It feels like something’s watching us.” Just a few paces behind them, Yukimiya adjusted his collar and clicked his tongue. “No one better blame me if this turns out to be an Omega scent leak. I took my suppressants on time.”

“It’s not scent,” Hiori said softly. “It’s… older than that.” Up ahead, Rin Itoshi walked with his hands in his pockets, calm but calculating. The others at PXG kept glancing his way — some out of habit, others out of unspoken fear. Karasu caught up to him, walking backwards for a few steps. “Think it’s a hostile?” he asked. “Someone got into the facility?”

Rin didn’t answer at first. His teal eyes flicked sideways.
“If it is, they’re already inside.” Zantetsu shivered. “Why do you talk like that? That’s such a creepy way to say ‘I don’t know.’” Shidou whistled low. “Bet you it’s one of ours who snapped. Someone finally cracked during scent suppression week.”

“If it’s you, I’m calling it,” Karasu replied dryly.
“Oh baby, if it were me, you’d already be on your knees.” Tokimitsu made a strangled sound. “C-Can we not say things like that before sunrise?! Please?!”

From the back of the pack, Manshine City moved at their own pace. Chris Prince led the group like it was a fashion runway. “I hope the lighting’s good in the command room. I don’t need footage of me yawning on camera.”

“You’re not the star of the show,” Reo muttered. “I’m always the star of the show,” Chris replied with a wink. Chigiri glanced at Nagi, who was dragging his feet like a sleepy sloth. “If you don’t keep up, I’ll leave you behind.”

“Please do,” Nagi mumbled. “Then I can nap in peace.”
“This isn’t a joke,” Reo snapped, fists clenched. “You feel that pressure, right? It’s like walking through fog.” Nagi blinked slowly. “...Maybe it’s ghosts.” Reo visibly twitched.

From the Barcha side, Bachira twirled on his heel mid-walk, humming quietly. “Something’s crying. Can’t you hear it?” Otoya glanced around. “There’s no one here except us.”

“Exactly,” Bachira grinned. “So who’s making the sound?”
Otoya’s smirk faltered. Ubers kept formation like a military unit. Barou stalked up the hallway like a lion freshly uncaged, arms crossed, glare sharp. “I don’t like this. Feels like a trap.” Aryu flipped his hajr with a sigh. “You don’t like anything unless it bleeds.”
“Exactly.”

Aiku walked beside Niko and Sendou, scanning the shadows. “This many second genders in one place… if someone spikes, it’s gonna be chaos.”

“If someone spikes,” Niko said softly, “it won’t be from their own bond.” Don Lorenzo tilted his head, eyes flicking up toward the walls. “Then what?”

“Something’s reacting,” Niko murmured. “Not one of us. But… to one of us.” They reached the last corridor before the central arena. The doors loomed ahead — sterile white, with a faint blue glow underneath. No one had passed through them yet. And then the sound started.

Soft. Uneven.
A child crying.
Not a recording.
Not a simulation.
But real.
Just a few sobs.

Just enough to freeze every player in place. Isagi’s heart skipped. “Did you hear that?” Kurona nodded. Yukimiya went still. Rin’s eyes narrowed — and for a moment, flicked upward like he could sense something from the ceiling itself.

“Tch.”

A mechanical hiss — the doors began to slide open.
And the scent that spilled out was unlike anything they’d ever felt. A mix of Alpha, Omega… time, and something sacred.

They weren’t ready.
None of them were.
But the bond had already begun to react.

——————————

Before football.
Before Blue Lock.
Before even the notion of striker and ego—
there were secondary genders.

Alpha. Beta. Omega.

A design of the body older than empires. A calling of the soul deeper than bloodlines. Forged in instinct and devotion, it was a system not only for survival — but for fate. Long before men kicked a ball on the dirt, bonds were forged under moons and firelight.

In the world’s forgotten corners, ancient tribes whispered stories of fated mates — two souls tied across lifetimes, destined to complete each other.

Alphas who carved kingdoms from stone when their mates were threatened.

Omegas who quelled revolts with a touch of their voice and the scent of their bond.

Betas who stood sentinel between worlds, holding the line between instinct and reason.

Some legends spoke of bond-children — rare offspring born only from true fated pairs. Children touched by time itself. Children who could traverse it. Appearing across generations, these children were believed to be omens of imbalance, sent to mend broken threads before destiny unraveled completely.

And when one appeared, it meant that a bond — somewhere — had frayed too far. But the world changed.
Rituals were buried beneath science. Instinct was smothered beneath regulation. And the sacred became inconvenient. The rise of civilization replaced soul-bonds with contracts.

Heats and ruts were managed with injections, scent-masking agents, social protocols. Mating marks were outlawed. It became shameful to believe. Dangerous to feel. And laughable to speak of fate.

Even in Blue Lock — Japan’s most controversial football project — the rules were clear: “You may be an Alpha. You may be an Omega. But in here, you are a striker. Nothing else matters.” But it did matter. Even when Ego Jinpachi declared Blue Lock a battlefield free of bias, the scent of hierarchy clung to the walls.

Scouts still favored dominant Alphas. Sponsors still sexualized rare-performing Omegas. Cameras still lingered too long when tempers flared, when pheromones slipped past suppressant barriers. No one said it aloud, but everyone knew what to look for.

What to fear.
What to deny.

And then—at 2:08 a.m., in the absolute dead of night—
a child appeared.

Not born.
Not delivered.
Not accompanied.
Appeared.

Curled up in the central core of Blue Lock’s labyrinthine complex, wrapped in a too-large hoodie that smelled like someone familiar, the child was no older than five.
And they were crying. Not loud. Not wild. But with the raw, choked sobs of someone lost between timelines.
The security footage went static when they arrived.

The doors never opened. No one entered, and no one left. And yet the child was there — breathing, trembling, clutching something small to their chest: a pendant with two initials burned into it. Initials no one could read. But the system reacted.

The facility's biometric sensors glitched. The scent-suppression vents failed. The digital locks reset. Because this wasn’t just any child.

This was a bond-child.

And the moment they arrived, the entire system knew:

Their parents were here.
One Alpha. One Omega.
Fated. Strained. Not yet marked.

The bond had been severed in time. And the child had come to find them — to fix what fate no longer could.

——————————

The walk to the central hall was tense. Corridors that once smelled like soap and shampoo now reeked faintly of ozone and pheromones — filtered, suppressed, but still there. The walls buzzed. Not loud, but low. Like humming. Like breathing.

Every player noticed.
Every player felt it.

Kurona’s shoulder bumped against Isagi’s. “You feel that, feel that?”

“Yeah,” Isagi murmured, jaw tight. “Like something’s watching.” Even Gagamaru paused mid-yawn, eyes narrowing at a blinking vent overhead. By the time they reached the main control chamber, all five teams were there. FC Barcha stood back-to-back. Manshine City kept close, even Nagi looking unusually alert. Paris X Gen’s players stood in two separate clusters — Rin alone at the edge, Shidou leaning against a wall like he owned it.

Barou cracked his knuckles. Karasu was the first to speak. “…Ego’s never called us all here like this during the league,” he said. “Not since Phase One.” No one answered. Because the longer they stood there, the louder something became.

A sound.
Muffled.

From beyond the reinforced walls of the observation deck. From deeper inside the facility’s central AI control chamber.

A child. Crying.

The sound was distant, like it was being piped through layers of metal and code. And yet—every Omega in the room flinched.

Reo’s eyes widened.
Chigiri turned sharply.
Niko’s hand curled at his side.
Even Rin… stiffened.

Kurona whispered it first: “Was that… a kid?” The sound came again. Broken sobs, hitting on the edge of real. The reinforced steel doors slid open with a hiss of pressure. And there, flanked by flickering surveillance screens and a hundred dead-silent systems, stood Ego Jinpachi. Expression unreadable.

Glasses reflecting the sterile blue light of the monitors.
A datapad in one hand. A clipboard in the other.
Behind him, Anri Teieri trailed in slowly — clearly out of breath, hair a mess, and clutching a thick folder to her chest like it might explode. Ego didn’t wait for silence.
He commanded it. “Gentlemen,” he said crisply. “Congratulations. One of you just became a parent.”

A beat.
And then— “WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?!” (—from Otoya, predictably.) “Ego-san, what kind of announcement is this?!” Anri hissed behind him, mortified. Ego raised a hand for silence, and when it came—unwilling, stunned, electric—he exhaled like a man cracking his knuckles before war.

“I suggest,” he said, eyes scanning the room, “you all shut up and listen. Because this is bigger than Blue Lock. Bigger than football. Hell, it’s bigger than me.”
He paused, then added, “Barely.”

“Let me explain this in words even Barou can understand.” Barou growled. Ego ignored him. “There exists a phenomenon known in obscure A/B/O studies as chronological mate stabilization. In simpler terms: when two people are fated mates—soul-linked, genetically bound, whatever fairytale word you prefer—there is a point at which their bond begins to fracture.”

“The cause?” he continued, stepping down the platform. “Instinct denial. Marking resistance. Distance. Interference. Misalignment of timing.”

“Fated bonds, despite what romance novels tell you, don’t automatically work. Sometimes they fail. Sometimes they become dangerous. And when that happens—when the bond destabilizes enough to risk long-term damage to both parties…”

He turned sharply.
“The child appears.”
Silence.

“You heard me. The universe, the genome, God, whatever the hell you believe in—sends their future child back in time to catalyze the bond. Not consciously. Not intentionally. But biologically. Temporally.”

The silence twisted into unease.
Reo looked visibly pale.
Nagi blinked slowly.
Rin’s arms were crossed, but his jaw was tight.
Isagi… said nothing.

Anri finally spoke up, nervous: “The child manifested at 2:08 a.m.—alone, in the Blue Lock AI cradle chamber. No entry logs. No surveillance glitches. One minute there was nothing. The next…” she swallowed, “a small child was standing on the tiles. Crying.”

“Age is approximately four,” Ego added. “Omega. Intelligent. High scent compatibility with multiple individuals in this room.” He turned on his heel.
“And before any of you get smart—no, we are not revealing who the biological parents are. Not yet.”

“WHY NOT?!” Shidou barked, half-laughing. “That’s insane! If someone here got—what, magically knocked up in the future—don’t you think they deserve to know?!”
Ego smiled darkly. “Oh, they’ll know. When the child chooses.”

Rin’s voice was quiet but razor-sharp. “You’re telling us we’ve been pulled from sleep and summoned like lab rats... because a kid from the future time-traveled here to fix their parents’ love life?” Ego clicked his tongue.
“Don’t insult the process, Itoshi. This isn’t about love. This is about evolutionary imperative. This child appeared because, without intervention, their parents' bond will collapse. Possibly for good. Possibly before they’re even born.”

“And we are on a timeline,” Anri said softly. Everyone turned to her. She looked up, nervous but clear-eyed. “The bond-child’s presence in this timeline… is unstable. They won’t survive here forever. The more time passes without identification or stabilization, the greater the emotional and physical strain. On them. On their parents.”

“On the rest of you,” Ego added grimly. “You don’t want to be in the same facility when a soul-bond implodes.”
“So what now?” Aryu asked. “We just… wait for the kid to come out and play guessing game?”

“You’ll wait,” Ego said, stepping back toward the screens. “And they’ll choose. It may be instinct. It may be words. It may be a scent, a reaction, a moment. But once the child identifies their parents, the bond will either stabilize… or shatter completely.”

“And if it shatters?” Isagi asked quietly. Ego looked at him. “Then the child disappears. And the future with them.” The silence after that was a void.

No one moved.
No one spoke.

Somewhere behind the glass, deeper in the lab, a small whimper echoed. Ego smiled faintly, tapping his clipboard. “Welcome to Phase: Bond Collapse,” he said.
“And may the most dysfunctional pair survive.”

——————————

There was a sound. Soft at first. Fragile. Like the hiccup of a frightened animal. Barely audible through the sterile quiet, but sharp enough to make every head turn toward the sealed chamber. Someone shifted. Cleats squeaked. A hush descended like frost.

Then a sudden metallic hiss — the airtight seal disengaging — and the secure chamber’s inner doors slid open on their own. The child did not wait. “Shit—” Anri started, reaching for the override key. “They’re not stabilized—!”

Too late.
The child ran.

A blur of motion. Small limbs. Tear-streaked cheeks. Big eyes wide in blind panic. The instinct came first. The fear second. And all at once, the tension shattered. “Oi—whoa—what the hell is that?!” Raichi barked, shoving past Karasu.

“Was that the kid?!”
“Why’re they running?!”
“Stop them—!”
“Wait—don’t touch them—!”

The players moved too late, too slow, still trying to decide if this was real. But the child didn’t stop. They had picked up a scent. Their Omega parent’s scent. Not strong. Barely a wisp in the sterile hall. Muted by blockers and distance.

But still there.
Still theirs.

And instinct—raw, ancient, deeper than thought—kicked in like a tidal wave. They tore across the central arena floor, weaving through startled strikers and stunned coaches. A mess of stammering bodies and reflexes too slow to react.

Gagamaru lunged and missed, arms comically outstretched. Kunigami hesitated, instincts clashing with uncertainty—protect or step back? Tokimitsu yelped and nearly sat down on the floor. Aryu shrieked, “THEY’RE WEARING A MUJI ONESIE—THIS ISN’T SAFE—” and clutched his face like it was a horror film.

Bachira started spinning, trying to guess where the kid would go, half-laughing in disbelief. Kaiser snarled under his breath, “What the actual—” and stepped aside like the child was a stray ball about to hit his shin. Shidou blinked slowly, eyes flicking from the kid to the room to Ego, as if wondering if this was some kind of hallucination. Isagi nearly stepped into their path, heart hammering—something in his gut twisting—

But the child swerved.
Straight past Kaiser.
Straight past Shidou.

Straight past Rin, whose lips parted for just a second—something flickering in her eyes— And launched themselves into Reo Mikage’s legs with a muffled sob—

“Mama!”
Dead silence.
Not even breathing.
Reo froze like he’d been tasered.

“…M-Mama?” he echoed, looking down, mouth parted.
The child clung tighter. “Mama! Mama—I found you—!”
A hush fell over the room like a funeral dirge. Nagi stared. Bachira gasped, crouching beside them like he wanted to touch the kid but didn’t dare.

Charles blinked like he’d just suffered a concussion.
Tokimitsu whispered, “Wait, does that mean—Reo…?”
Zantetsu dropped the water bottle he’d been holding.
Snuffy, from where he stood among the coaches, muttered something that sounded disturbingly like, “Ah. One of the children of fate.”

Ego, on the observation platform, just grinned. “Well,” he said dryly, adjusting his glasses, “looks like someone’s instincts work faster than the rest of your neurons.” Reo dropped to his knees slowly, as if moving too fast might break the moment. Or break him.

The kid looked up at him—big watery eyes, cheeks blotchy, nose running. Sniffling. Trembling. Pressed into Reo like he was a harbor in a storm. They looked nothing like him.

And yet...
He felt it.

That distant ache in his chest. Like a thread had been pulled tight. Like something inside him had answered.
Reo’s hands trembled as he touched their back, unsure, afraid, then helplessly protective. His fingers curled instinctively—not to hold, but to shield.

“I’m—” he tried, voice rough. “I’m not your mama. I mean—maybe, but I don’t—”

“You’re my mama,” the child insisted, like it was obvious. Like it was truth. There was no scent mismatch. No confusion. Only the deep, undeniable resonance of an Omega’s blood being recognized. The bond tug in the air was nauseatingly strong.

Ancient.
Unfulfilled.
Incomplete.
Reo’s breath caught.

His mouth opened to protest again—some logical retort, some legal denial, anything— And failed. “Shit,” Nagi muttered, crouching beside them. His brows were furrowed, eyes locked on the tiny, clinging bundle attached to his best friend. “Reo. You okay?”

Reo stared at him. Then stared at the kid. “I think I’m gonna throw up,” he whispered. More players had begun to step forward now. A half-circle of confusion and disbelief. Isagi, heartbeat deafening in his ears, watched from the side—something twisting in his chest, not quite fear. Not quite awe.

Chigiri whispered, “...They’re actually real.” Karasu scoffed, too shaken to hide it. “This is insane.” Rin didn’t say anything. Just stood still, lips drawn tight, one hand curled in his sleeve. And from somewhere near the door, Shidou muttered under his breath, “...So the game’s really starting now.”

Reo couldn’t move. The child was still clinging to him, warm and shaking, heart beating like a hummingbird. His knees had gone numb, but the weight of the kid’s little arms around his neck kept him rooted. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

Because everything he’d been avoiding, denying, mocking in quiet conversations about fated bonds—it was happening. To him. He was an Omega. And he was a parent. Somehow. But he wasn’t even fully bonded. He wasn’t even… wanted like that. The thought hit him like a gut punch.

I didn’t do this alone.

His fingers curled against the fabric of the kid’s onesie, crinkled soft cotton with a fading cartoon egg print.

Someone else was there.
Someone touched me like this child exists.
Someone I trusted enough to let close. Close enough to make a life

His stomach churned. “Mama,” the child whispered again, eyes fluttering closed against his shoulder, soothed just by being near him. Reo flinched. Nagi was crouched beside him, staring—not at the kid but at him. Like Reo was becoming something unrecognizable right before his eyes.

Nagi’s world didn’t shatter. Not loudly. It just… shifted.
Tilted off its axis. Slipped. Like gravity had flipped and he was floating and sinking at the same time. He had thought—maybe foolishly, maybe selfishly—that he and Reo would always be two halves of the same coin. Separate, but orbiting. Functioning. He’d let Reo drive. Let Reo plan. Let Reo believe in the shape of their future like it was written.

And now there was a child.
A child that ran to Reo.

A child that looked up at him and didn’t say Papa or Dada or you—just “Mama,” with the clarity of someone who knew. And Nagi felt— Not jealousy. Not panic. But something like being erased.

This happened. Without me knowing.
Or maybe… without me trying to know.

He hadn’t wanted to get caught in instinct. He hadn’t wanted to follow fate. He had just wanted—Reo. As they were. But now Reo’s hands were shaking and his voice was breaking and— “I think I’m gonna throw up,” Reo whispered again, but this time the words were thinner. Closer to a cry than a joke.

Nagi opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Across the circle of stunned strikers, Chigiri stepped forward.
His red hair fell into his eyes as he crouched slightly, looking at the child with a quiet intensity. Something was shifting in his expression—curious at first, then unsure, then stunned.

“…They look familiar,” Chigiri murmured, brows drawing together. “That hair. Those eyes. I’ve seen them before.”

A beat.
A hush.
Then—

“They look like Nagi.”
The silence exploded.

“HUH?!”
“You’re joking—”
“Wait—WHAT?!”
“You mean Nagi Nagi?!”

Heads turned.
Eyes locked.
And Reo’s blood ran cold.

Nagi blinked slowly. His gaze drifted to the child, who was now peeking up at him with round, unguarded eyes. There was nothing calculating in them. Just raw, instinctual recognition. And something in Nagi’s chest twitched. Familiarity. Echoed. Returned. “…I…” he said, barely audible. He reached out on impulse—only for the child to twist away slightly, holding tighter to Reo’s coat.

Reo felt it like a knife.
The child had chosen.
And Nagi—
Nagi had waited too long.

Up in the observation deck, Ego’s grin stretched into something knife-sharp. “Well, well,” he said. “That’s one fated pair confirmed.” Anri turned sharply to him. “They haven’t bonded yet—”

“No,” Ego agreed. “Which is why this is going to be so fun.”

“They look like Nagi,” Chigiri had said. And the room hadn’t breathed since. Reo sat frozen, the child still clinging to him. Nagi hadn’t moved either, eyes fixed on that tiny face—like if he stared long enough, the truth would undo itself.

"No way..." Kunigami whispered.
“So they’re…” Karasu trailed off, horrified.
“A child from the future?”

“They’re Reo and Nagi’s kid?!” Otoya blurted, flailing so hard he nearly tripped over Raichi. Bachira was practically vibrating. “Wait, wait—like your kid? Like from later later? Like time warp anime style?” Isagi didn’t speak. His fists were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight. His gaze had locked on the child ever since they’d run across the room, ever since the word Mama cracked the walls of reality.

Something about it itched under his skin.
That feeling again.
That… scent.
That pull.
A warning, maybe.
Or a countdown.

“So—so you’re from the future?” Reo finally managed, voice cracking. The child sniffled loudly, rubbing their face into Reo’s shoulder. “Mhm.”
“…And you’re ours?”
A pause.

Then a small nod. “Mama and Papa. You’re my Mama and Papa.” Another hiccup. “Even if you’re mad at each other.” Reo went rigid. Nagi blinked. “…We’re mad at each other?” he asked softly. The child nodded again, little fingers clutching tighter. “You—Papa left.” The air fell silent again. Reo’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Nagi just stared, pale. “…Why?” he asked. It came out too quiet. Like he was asking the child why he would ever do something like that. But the kid only shook their head, curls bouncing. “Dunno. I was little. You were sad. Mama cried lots.”

Another hiccup. “Mama always smiles. Even when they’re sad. But I can smell it. I’m not dumb.” That one hurt. That one—stung. Reo inhaled sharply. “And… and where did you come from?” he asked, because the alternative was falling apart in public.

The child pointed upward. Everyone looked. But there was only the ceiling of Blue Lock. “Not there now, dummy,” they said seriously. “Before. Before I was here. I was with the angels.” Someone laughed weakly. Maybe Otoya. Or Bachira. Nervous, disbelieving.

The child frowned at the reaction. “It’s true. They were real pretty and white and shiny and big. And they told us—told me—I had to go back. To help.”

“Help?” Isagi asked before he could stop himself. “Help what?” The child tilted their head, like it was the dumbest question on earth. “The bond, duh.” Isagi’s heart skipped. He glanced—briefly—toward Rin. Then looked away.

“Bond?” Reo echoed. “But we’re not—bonded.” The child nodded solemnly. “That’s why I came.” Another hiccup. “‘Cause if you don’t fix it, I might not exist.” Dead silence.

“It’s like…” the child struggled, words tangling. “It’s like a butterfly… thingy. The wing thing. Papa left in the past, so Mama got sad in the future, so I got lost. So the angels said I had to go back back, so you don’t do the bad thing again.”

Reo felt like he’d been dropped underwater. Nagi wasn’t breathing. “And if we don’t fix it…?” Reo asked slowly. The child leaned in, wide-eyed and dead serious. “…You won’t hear me next time.” That one cracked the room open. Like a seam had torn through the air. Like fate had stepped into the spotlight.

Bachira whispered, “That’s so sad.” Aryu wiped a tear. “This is worse than season two of Love’s Garden, I swear.” Barou made a strangled noise. “This is why I don’t want kids.” Shidou muttered, “This is the hottest drama I’ve ever watched live.”

Isagi… Isagi was staring at his own hands. As if something invisible had started threading through his skin. Something warm. Dangerous. Familiar.
Rin hadn’t said a word. But his scent—soft, cool, delicate—was just strong enough to make his pulse stutter.

The bond, duh.
If you don’t fix it… I might not exist.

Reo hadn’t moved. His hand rested gently against the small back curled into his chest. The child had quieted now, breathing uneven, sniffles fading into silence — but the tremble in Reo’s shoulders remained. Nagi still crouched beside them, one hand braced on the floor, knuckles pale. “…You left,” Reo finally whispered, voice hoarse.

Nagi flinched.
It wasn’t an accusation.
It wasn’t even loud.
But it split the room clean.

“I don’t know why,” Nagi said after a moment. “But I guess I did.”

“You did,” the child confirmed, like it was a weather report. “But I still loved you.” Reo’s breath hitched. And Nagi looked—small. For once, he didn’t have an easy escape. No screen to hide behind. No game to grind. No silence long enough to protect him from the weight of this. Of them.

“It wasn’t that simple, was it?” Reo asked, quietly. “In the future. You… left. And I stayed. But I—I named him, didn’t I?” Nagi blinked. The child perked up, like they’d been waiting for someone to ask. “My name’s Ren.”

He beamed, like the name alone was magic. “Mama picked it!” he added proudly, tugging on Reo’s sleeve. Reo let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a sob. “Ren…” Nagi echoed, slow. The name tasted foreign on his tongue.
Familiar and unfamiliar at once. “Why that name?”

Reo bit his lip, looked away. “…Because it means lotus,” he said. “Something beautiful that grows out of the mud.” Nagi went still. Ren looked between them, oblivious. “I like it. It’s pretty. And easy to write. Papa always said big names were a pain.”

Reo let out a breathless laugh. Nagi choked on a sound that wasn’t a laugh at all. “Why’d I leave?” he asked, barely audible. Ren frowned. “Dunno. You were sad. You said you couldn’t breathe anymore. You said—” he hesitated, chewing his lip like he was trying to remember perfectly. “You said… being Papa meant forgetting who you were first.”

Nagi’s eyes widened. Reo looked stricken. The silence after that was sharp enough to cut skin. Ren yawned suddenly, breaking the tension like a slap of cold water. Then he plopped down into Reo’s lap without warning, head against his stomach.

“‘M tired,” he mumbled. “Hey—wait, don’t sleep here—” Reo panicked. But Ren was already dozing. “Mama smells safe,” he said, voice muffled. Nagi looked at him. At Reo. At the child curled between them. And something in his expression cracked open — slow and soft and terrified. Like a boy realizing he’d already made the mistake once. Like he didn’t want to do it again.

The silence hadn’t even settled before the speakers clicked on again. That familiar, drawling voice slid through the arena with the grace of a blade. “Alright,” Ego said, tone as bored as ever, “breaktime’s over.” Everyone jumped. Even Reo, whose fingers were still tangled in the child’s messy hair. Even Nagi, who had finally — finally — touched Ren’s shoulder with the hesitant wonder of someone feeling gravity for the first time.

“Let me make this perfectly clear,” Ego continued, now descending the steps with Anri trailing behind, tablet in hand and worry in her eyes. “You’ve got two weeks. That’s the maximum duration the child can remain in this timeline before the temporal bond destabilizes permanently.” Whispers broke out. Anri winced.

Ego’s voice cut clean through the panic. “If you want them to survive the trip home, your bond has to stabilize before then. That means whatever psychological, emotional, biological garbage is screwing up the connection between you and your mate?” He pointed a single, gloved finger at Reo.

“Fix it.” He pointed to Nagi. “You too, gamer boy. Figure it out. You don’t have forever.” Ren blinked sleepily from Reo’s lap, tugging at his shirt. “Why’s that man yelling.”

“Not now, sweetheart,” Reo muttered, pale. Ego clapped once. Sharp. “Furthermore, as of this morning, a child wing has been approved. Temporary rooms will be fitted near the east hallway. Basic supplies are arriving by 0600 — formula, toys, scent blankets, onesies, etc.”

“...Toys?” Otoya whispered like he’d been told they were harboring aliens.n“Clothes?” Yukimiya repeated, dazed. “Scent blankets?” Isagi echoed, sounding like someone had set his instincts on fire.
“This won’t be the only child,” Ego added, flatly.

“More will come. And when they do, the rest of you better be ready.” He turned and walked out, coat sweeping behind him like he hadn’t just declared the literal future was collapsing in on itself. Anri lingered, softer. “I’ll help organize the wing,” she said gently. “And… we’ll have an emergency counselor on call. If anyone—”

She glanced at Reo, at Nagi. At Ren. Her voice faltered. “If anyone needs it.” Then she followed Ego out, heels echoing down the corridor. Around the room, no one spoke.

Barou crossed his arms with a deep scowl. Chigiri looked like he was doing mental math on scent compatibility. Kunigami had turned faintly green. Charles was whispering violently at Niko. Bachira was vibrating with barely-contained glee. And Isagi?

Isagi was sweating. Hard. Because the kid had said Mama with such instinctual certainty. And if that was how this worked…who the hell was going to run into him screaming Papa? He didn't want to know. Not yet.

——————————

The walls feel thinner than usual. The corridors echoed with too-loud footsteps and the hush of instincts scrambling to make sense of something bigger than strategy or form. The players dispersed, but no one walked casually. No one shoved or jeered. It wasn’t just exhaustion—it was awe. Dread. Something ancient curled in every chest, pressing against their ribs like a truth too old to unlearn. No one was really dismissed. Not from this.

——————————

They didn’t speak. Not at first. Just walked. Like strangers. Like echoes of the teammates they’d been before the universe caved in and handed them a child with silver hair and eyes too big for his face. The hallway was quiet—too quiet. Reo could hear the whirr of the ceiling vents, the sharp tap of their soles on the linoleum, the rustle of Ren's shallow breathing against his chest. Each sound felt magnified. Exposed. Every step felt like walking toward something that would break them both.

Nagi hadn’t even looked at Ren. Not once. He hadn’t asked to carry him. Hadn’t said a word. Just walked beside them like a ghost tethered to a memory he hadn’t caught up to. Reo didn’t offer to hand Ren over. He didn’t trust his own hands to let go. There was a line between them now. Invisible. But it might as well have been a wall of glass. Sharp as a broken pass. Wide as a goal missed by inches.

They reached the stratum door. It opened with its usual hiss — but this time, it sounded like judgment. Like something exhaling disappointment. And just like that, the silence cracked. Not violently. Not loudly. Just the sharp click of something unsustainable beginning to fracture.

“Are you gonna say anything?” Reo’s voice was quiet. Flat. Tired in the way that wasn't sleep-deep, but soul-deep. There was a bitterness under it. Not rage. Just something raw, too worn down to burn anymore. Nagi scratched the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere over Reo’s shoulder. “Dunno what to say.”

“You always don’t.”
“You always say too much.”

The silence that followed was sharper than the words.
Reo let out a humorless laugh. It was dry. Brittle. Like something breaking under its own weight. “You know what’s funny? I always imagined you as the one who’d take this well.” Nagi’s brows furrowed, just a twitch.

“What, having a kid?”
“Being bonded.”

Nagi didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know if he could. Because part of him wanted to say yes. Because part of him wanted to say no. Because part of him didn’t want to be seen at all. Reo sat on the edge of his bunk, slow, careful—like one wrong move would wake the sleeping future curled in his arms. Ren had dozed off, finally, face pressed against his collar, one tiny hand curled in the fabric like he’d known Reo forever.

It made Reo’s chest ache. It made his throat burn. “You don’t look like someone who cares,” he said, almost a whisper. “You didn’t even look at him.” He hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation. But it was. And Nagi… flinched. The smallest movement. Like a wound reopening. But he didn’t deny it. Didn’t even blink. “That’s not fair,” Nagi said at last. “I don’t know how to look at him without messing this up more.”

“Then try.” Reo’s hands curled around Ren. So gently. So afraid. “You’re his—” His voice cracked. He swallowed. “You’re his dad, Nagi.” Nagi looked down at his feet.
There was a shadow in his eyes now. One even he couldn’t ignore. “I don’t feel like his dad,” he muttered. The words came out soft, but defensive. Like he knew how ugly they sounded. “I don’t even feel like yours.”

The air turned bitter. Cold. Like something sacred had just been spat on. Reo stiffened. His jaw clenched. “We’re bonded.” A beat. Then: “Are we?” Nagi’s voice wasn’t cruel. It was lost. And that somehow made it worse.

Nagi dropped into a crouch on the floor across from him. Legs folded under, arms over his knees. He didn’t look up. He just sat there like a boy caught in a storm he couldn’t control. “If this is real,” he said slowly, “then it’s forever. Right?” Reo didn’t respond. Couldn’t. “I’ve never had anything forever,” Nagi said, quieter now. “Not family. Not friends. Not a team. I drifted into your life like it was a save point. And now—now there’s a kid who smells like both of us and you’re telling me I can’t respawn.”

Reo’s throat burned. He held Ren tighter. “I wanted it to be you.” Nagi’s eyes widened. Just a little. That hit harder than Reo meant it to. And Reo couldn’t stop himself now. The dam was cracking. “Even before this. Before the kid. Before fate or the bond or whatever the hell this is—I wanted it to be you. I used to lie awake thinking maybe, just maybe, you’d look at me and choose me one day. Not by instinct. Not by fate. But because you wanted to.” Nagi looked away.

That silence—that goddamn silence—stabbed deeper than any insult. Reo laughed, brittle again. “But you didn’t. You looked at me like I was a teammate. A shortcut. A cheat code.” He stood now, shaking, voice rising. “And I let you. Because I didn’t want to push you away. Because I kept thinking, ‘maybe he’ll see me if I just wait a little longer.’ But now I’m holding our child, and you’re standing there like this is just another patch update you didn’t read.” The room was still. Too still.

Nagi sat back, palms pressed to the floor. His head was tilted toward the ceiling, eyes distant. “I’m tired,” he whispered. “Of what?”

“Of not knowing what the hell I’m supposed to do with something I didn’t ask for—” He looked at Reo finally. Really looked. “—but don’t want to lose.” And in the space between them, a sleeping child breathed softly. And the bond, frayed and ancient, waited to see if they’d hold on or let go.

They hadn't moved in a while. Reo was still sitting on the bunk, muscles sore from holding Ren so long. Nagi sat on the floor across from him, knees drawn to his chest, head tipped back against the wall. Neither spoke. But neither had left, either. The silence had become a third presence. One that didn’t scream or accuse — just waited. Hovered. Like something watching to see what they'd do next.

A small yawn. A warm breath against Reo’s throat. Tiny fingers stretching. A wriggle. “Mama…?” Reo blinked. Looked down. Ren was awake. Eyes still heavy with sleep, cheeks flushed, hair sticking in every direction like dandelion fluff.

“I’m here,” Reo said softly, adjusting his hold. Ren blinked up at him, squinting a little in the low light. Then, turning his head groggily— “Papa too?” Nagi froze.
Reo looked over, uncertain. Ren followed his gaze. His small body shifted, a hand reaching lazily toward the crouched figure across the room.

“Papa’s there,” Ren murmured, like it was obvious. Like he hadn’t noticed Nagi’s absence at all. “I want both.” Nagi stared at him. The words shouldn’t have meant so much. But something in his chest squeezed — not painfully, just tightly. Like a thread being tugged from the inside out. “Okay,” Reo said after a beat. He stood, wincing a little from the weight in his arms. “We’re both here.”

Ren’s stomach growled audibly. He blinked again, then looked up at them in faint confusion. “…Hungry.” They weren’t the only ones there. Most of the players hadn’t eaten — hadn’t wanted to — but the auto-meal system ran 24/7, and a few stragglers hovered around the drink dispensers or nursed reheated protein bars in silence.

No one was loud. No one was joking. It was the quietest the cafeteria had ever been. Reo and Nagi entered side by side, Ren cradled on Reo’s hip. The child had his head on Reo’s shoulder, eyes wide with sleep but alert enough to scan every unfamiliar face. Heads turned. Eyes followed.

Someone near the back dropped their chopsticks. Reo kept his chin up, even as his cheeks burned. He moved like someone who’d spent years holding babies, even though every step made his arms ache with uncertainty. Nagi walked just half a pace behind. Close. Not touching. But when they reached the food panel, he stepped forward first.

“What does he eat?” he asked, voice low. Reo blinked. He hadn’t expected that. He didn’t even know what he expected. A joke? Shrugging? Disinterest? “I… I don’t know. Something soft?” Nagi tapped the touchscreen.
A moment later, a tray slid out — eggs, rice porridge, a cup of cut fruit, and a warm soy milk pouch. Reo blinked again. “…How did you—”

“I eat like that when I’m too tired to think.” It wasn’t an apology. But it wasn’t nothing. They sat in a corner booth, away from the others. Ren curled into Reo’s lap, content with his meal, clumsily scooping porridge into his mouth with one hand and holding a napkin in the other like a makeshift blanket. “He’s coordinated,” Nagi murmured, watching. “Not messy.”

“Must’ve gotten that from me,” Reo said, quieter than usual. Nagi huffed. And then, without being asked, he reached forward and gently wiped a bit of soy milk from Ren’s chin. Reo stared. But didn’t say anything. Ren blinked at Nagi, then grinned. “Papa has sleepy eyes,” he said, pointing. “Like when he cuddles Mama before training.”

Nagi’s hand paused in midair. Reo turned pink. “You remember that?” Ren nodded seriously, spoon in his mouth. “You were warm.” The silence between them now… wasn’t painful. Just confusing. Heavy with something unspoken. Fragile. Like glass pressed between palms — beautiful and too easy to shatter.

Nagi looked at Reo.
Reo looked back.
Neither said a word.
But this time, they didn’t look away.

——————————

Bastard Munchen – 7:12 a.m.

Isagi was pacing like a man possessed. Hair wild. Eyes wide. Scent spiked with stress and disbelief, barely masked by the scent blockers he’d reapplied twice in the last hour. “This is real, right? That happened? That bond snap—that wasn’t placebo. The kid knew Reo. They matched scents. There was that sound. Like a wire snapping.”

Kurona leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded, still nursing the same protein drink he’d been holding since Ego’s announcement. Calm as ever. “You’re spiraling, spiraling, ” he said plainly. “I’m processing.”

“Out loud. Loudly,” Yukimiya muttered from the couch, an arm thrown dramatically over his face. “Some of us are trying to die quietly.” Isagi ignored him and whirled toward Hiori, who was seated at the corner desk, typing aimlessly on his tablet — not working, just… tapping.

“You’re the Omega here. Shouldn’t you be, like, freaking out with me?” Isagi asked. Hiori looked up slowly. Calm. But not unaffected. “I am. I’m just not doing it loudly.” Isagi groaned. “What happens when more kids show up? What if one of them runs up to me and calls me Daddy? What if I forget how to tie their shoes or—”

“You don’t even know how to tie your own shoes, shoes properly,” Kurona deadpanned. Hiori’s tone softened. “If it’s real, it’ll hurt. If it’s not real, it’ll still hurt. You’ll just get to pretend it didn’t.” Isagi stared.

Yukimiya sighed into his pillow. “He means we’re all doomed either way.” Kurona tilted his head, eyes sharper now. “No. He means we’ll see which of us is cracked enough to break fate... and who’s not, who's not.”

FC Barcha – 7:15 a.m.

The mood in Barcha’s stratum was… vibrant chaos, as always. Otoya had his shirt off, sitting on the backrest of the couch like a cat. “I’m just saying,” he drawled, stretching lazily, “if a kid from the future calls me ‘Papa,’ I’m suing someone.”

“You wouldn’t sue,” Bachira chirped, arms looped around a throw pillow on the floor. “You’d ask them if their other parent was hot.”

“...Fair,” Otoya admitted. Lavinho had long since retreated to his private quarters, muttering about “emotional turbulence clashing with aesthetics.” The remaining boys had taken over the space like a jungle gym. “But seriously,” Bachira added, eyes wide now as he sat cross-legged, “what if the kid smells like you? You can’t fake scent. Not that deep kind. You can’t lie to instinct.”

Otoya’s smirk faltered, just slightly. “…I mean, I guess…” He ran a hand through his hair, uncertain. “I’d like to know, y’know? Who the other person is. Who I end up… trusting like that.” Bachira smiled, a little too brightly.

“Maybe it’s not about who you end up with. Maybe it’s who you keep choosing every time your bond almost breaks.” Otoya blinked. “You’re freaky deep for someone who eats his cereal dry.”

“So,” he said. “Wanna tell me what’s going on in that little goblin head of yours?” Bachira blinked at him. “Do you think the kids remember pain?” Otoya paused. “…Sorry?”

“From the future. Do they remember why the bond broke? Or do they only remember love?” Otoya didn’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Bachira smiled faintly. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I think it hurts more if they do remember.” Otoya stepped closer, brows furrowed. “You scared?”

“Nah.” Bachira hopped down lightly, brushing past him. “But I think you are.” Otoya’s smirk didn’t hold as well this time.

Paris X Gen – 7:22 a.m.

“So let me get this straight,” Karasu said, staring blankly at the ceiling. “The universe sends kids to fix emotionally constipated soccer players before their bonds collapse?”

“Hell yeah it does,” Charles chirped from the foot of his bed, chewing on a lollipop he absolutely wasn’t supposed to have. “Like some dramatic romcom anime bullshit.”

“Shut up,” Rin muttered, massaging his temple. Shidou cackled, sprawled upside down in a chair. “Yo, Rinny—what if you get a kid next? That little stick up your ass gonna pop out when a mini-you calls you Mama?”

“I will break your jaw,” Rin said calmly. Zantetsu blinked. “Why would a kid call a male Alpha ‘Mama’? That’s biologically inconsistent.” Everyone paused. Tokimitsu flinched. “W-what if I do get a child though—what if they hate me—what if I mess up and the world ends—”

“Nanase, hold him,” Charles grinned. Nanase didn’t even hesitate. He wrapped Tokimitsu in a firm hug while Tokimitsu visibly panicked into his hoodie. Karasu scratched his chin. “Honestly, I’m not worried about the kid. I’m worried about what bond they’re trying to fix. Like… what if the version of me that broke it deserved to?”

That silenced the room. Shidou’s grin faltered. Rin didn’t look up, but the faint shake in his fingers gave him away. Charles slowly unwrapped another lollipop. “Well,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll find out who the disasters are soon enough.”

Ubers – 7:34 a.m.

The Ubers common room was dead quiet. Except for Don Lorenzo slurping noodles out of a golden bowl like it was his last meal. “I think the child was cute,” Aryu mused, combing through his bangs. “But frankly, their outfit needed color.”

“You think this is about fashion?” Barou barked from the corner, eyes wild. “A fated kid from the future just materialized and all you care about is color theory?!”

“I care about aesthetic,” Aryu corrected. “And children.”
Niko sat stiffly in the window seat, one hand clenched over his mouth. “This changes everything,” he muttered. “What if you’re bonded to someone who’s not even in the same stratum? What if you already messed it up?” Sendou winced. “That means you could have a future kid and not even know until they show up sobbing.”

“Holy hell,” Aiku groaned, dragging both hands through his hair. “I didn’t sign up for this emotional circus. I play defense, not dad.” Barou stood abruptly, knocking over his water bottle. “I’m not gonna be some Omega’s fated babysitter,” he growled.

“You say that,” Aryu sang, “but imagine the child has your eyes~” Barou’s scent flared dangerously. Aryu flinched back. Don Lorenzo laughed. “I bet mine would steal your wallet before nap time.” Everyone paused.
That… actually tracked.

——————————

The air in the high-security control room was cold — but not from temperature. Tension laced every breath. Before them, the digital display flickered, pulsing blue light across the glassy black of the conference table. Across multiple monitors, biometric readouts rotated: heart rate, scent fluctuation, neurological sync patterns, a ripple of destabilized quantum markers — and at the bottom right corner, the line that no one could look away from

BOND CHILDREN CONFIRMED: 1
PROJECTED TOTAL: ???

Anri Teieri stood beside Ego, arms crossed tightly. Her eyes hadn’t left the screen since Ren first appeared at 2:08 a.m. They still hadn’t. “We have no idea how many will come.” Her voice was quiet. Not uncertain — just... aware. Haunted. Ego didn’t look at her. He adjusted his glasses, expression unreadable. “Doesn’t matter. We prep for ten”

Behind them, the Master Coaches stood in a loose semicircle — all summoned minutes after the players were dismissed, none particularly thrilled to be here this early. Chris Prince was doing shoulder rolls like he was warming up for a match. “So what’s our role in this again? Babysitting duty? Diaper drills and alpha-meltdown mitigation?”

Ego didn’t blink. “Psychological stabilization.” Then, more pointedly: “You’ll assist in emotional containment. Or at the very least, shut up and not make it worse.” Chris raised both brows and smiled, not entirely ironically. “Cheerful as ever.” Snuffy was more serious. He had his arms crossed, brows furrowed, eyes locked on the readouts. “Are we even sure the children are real?” he asked flatly. “This could be a hormonal projection. A mass-instinct trigger. We’ve seen this kind of imprinting error before—”

“We’re sure,” Anri cut in, calm but firm. She pointed to the pulsing energy graph — the strange, low hum still resonating from the child’s arrival site. “Their scent signatures are biologically consistent with known bond phenomena. Ego’s timeline markers confirm: their point of origin is at least ten years ahead.”

A long breath. Then: “They are not hallucinations. They’re time-locked anchors.” Lavinho, lounging with all the seriousness of a surfer on break, twirled a sleek stylus between his fingers. “So what, we raise ’em on charm and raw talent?” he grinned. “If they inherit our dribbling genes, we’re golden.”

Noa scoffed, folding his arms. “Tch. Waste of energy. They’ll be distractions. Worse — emotional leverage. Sentiment kills clarity.” Ego turned slightly at that. “Then don’t get attached.” Loki, leaned forward with a thoughtful glint in his eyes. He was the youngest Master, but his presence was anything but boyish.

“What happens if they fail?” he asked, genuinely curious. “If the bonds don’t stabilize? If the players don’t fix whatever broke their future?” Anri hesitated — just a moment. Enough for the weight of the question to sink in. Ego didn’t. “They disappear.” Silence fell. Like glass cracking over still water.

The Masters looked at each other — even Chris stopped stretching. Even Noa frowned. Even Lavinho stopped twirling his pen. “You mean—” Loki began. “Gone,” Ego clarified. “Not dead. Not exactly. But their timeline collapses. Like it never happened. And the memory of them will fade. Slowly. As if they were never born.”

Anri’s voice was quieter now. “That’s why they were sent back. The bond — however damaged — still exists. And it’s calling to them.” Snuffy ran a hand over his mouth. Chris let out a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding about the therapy arc.” Ego clapped once — sharp and deliberate.

It echoed through the sterile room like a starter whistle.
“A special child wing is already under construction. Dorms will be scent-neutral and temperature regulated. We’ve ordered full-time scent medics, neural stabilizers, and bonding support staff.” He turned toward the wall monitor, where schematics of the child wing began to load.

“Clothing, food, and personalized supplies will be distributed by nightfall. Expect a new delivery team every six hours. Each team will receive assigned protocols tailored to their strikers’ psychological profiles.” Anri nodded, typing notes into her tablet.

“We’re prioritizing play spaces, low-stim learning environments, and emergency bonding thresholds. All players with known secondary gender trauma are flagged for mediation.” Noa narrowed his eyes. “And the players?” Ego’s smile curled like a knife. “They have two weeks.”

He stepped back into the center of the room, arms folded. “Two weeks to stabilize their bonds. To remember whatever the hell they forgot. To fix the cracks before another child appears.” A long pause. Then softly — dangerously— “Or they say goodbye to the only future that still wants them.”

——————————

Ego & Noa – Core Systems Room, 2:54 a.m.

Hours before the players were summoned. The room was dark, lit only by the cold blue glow of the mainframe. Code streamed across the central monitor like falling rain — data from the child’s arrival being processed in real time. Ego Jinpachi didn’t move from where he stood, fingers poised over the console. His glasses caught the light, but his eyes were unreadable.
Behind him, the door hissed open.

He didn’t need to turn around. He knew the scent before it reached him. Crisp. Controlled. Cool like alpine wind over steel turf. Alpha. Noa. The only one who ever entered without knocking. “So it’s true.” Noa’s voice, quiet. Heavy. As if it cost him something to say. Ego didn’t answer. Just kept typing.

Lines of scentwave data plotted across the screen. Readouts of bonding thresholds. Emotional spike patterns. The child’s first sob, isolated into a sound file, now looped softly in the background — a ghost of heartbreak in digital form. Noa stepped closer. He didn’t touch him. Never did. But the tension shifted. The air thickened. Ego’s jaw clenched. “You built the whole system around it,” Noa said finally. “This… Blue Lock. The fated mate theory. The time destabilization. You knew.”

Still, Ego didn’t turn. “Of course I knew.” The admission dropped like a blade. Noa exhaled, slow. “How long?” A beat. Then another. “Since you walked into that locker room in Paris,” Ego said. “Since I looked at you and felt my instincts claw their way out of the cage I’d welded shut.” Noa didn’t respond. Didn’t react. Not outwardly.
But his hand — the one at his side — curled into a fist.

“You never said anything.”
“Neither did you.”
Silence.

Their bond — if it could still be called that — pulsed faintly beneath the surface. Long-dormant. Untouched. An ache woven so tightly into their identities it felt like bone. Ego finally turned. Their eyes met. And for a moment, it wasn’t the Head of Blue Lock and the world’s best striker. It was two souls who’d recognized each other long ago — and chosen silence over surrender. “I couldn’t afford to have a bond,” Ego said, voice low. “Not when everything depended on remaining objective. Unattached. Purely efficient.”

“So you buried it.”
“I dissected it.”
Another silence.

Noa stepped forward, close enough to smell the synthetic graphite on Ego’s skin, the faintest thread of emotion buried beneath the antiseptic scent-blockers. “Is that what this project is?” His voice was quieter now. Not accusing. Almost… bitter. “An excuse to study what you refused to feel?” Ego didn’t deny it. Because yes. And no. Because he needed to know. What made bonds snap? What preserved them? Why did the universe tether souls together only to let them rot in silence?

Why did he never say the words?
Why didn’t Noa?q

“I thought maybe… if I understood it fully…” His voice faltered for the first time in years. “...I could find a way back.” Noa closed the distance between them — not quite touching, but enough that Ego could feel the weight of him in the air. The intensity. The restraint. “Then say it now.” Ego looked up, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. “I was afraid.” Noa’s jaw tensed. “So was I.”

They stood like that — mirror images of brilliance and fear — caught in the crossfire of their own genius.
“I joined your madness, Jinpachi,” Noa said, voice lower than before. “Not because I believed in it. But because it was the only way I could be close to you.” Ego blinked. He had suspected. He hadn’t dared hope.

“This bond won’t fix itself,” Noa added. “Even ours. Especially ours.” A sharp breath. “Then we build something that can.” Ego’s voice was steady again. Sharpened by resolve. “We teach them what we couldn’t say.”

“And if they succeed?” Noa asked. A pause. Ego turned back to the screen. Ren’s data flickered. A blip. A pulse of soft affection captured in neural light. “Then maybe,” he said, “they’ll rewrite everything we ruined.”

——————————

Master Lounge – 8:45 a.m.

Post-briefing. Pre-breakfast. The calm before the emotional hurricane. The air still stank of caffeine and pheromones. It was too early for this kind of psychological warfare — and yet, here they were. Half-sitting, half-sprawled across Blue Lock’s "neutral" Master Coach lounge, pretending like they hadn’t just watched a toddler call a teenage striker mama and detonate the fragile mental stability of everyone under 20.

Chris Prince was upside down on the armrest of the lounge chair, long legs dangling, hair falling toward the floor like a shampoo commercial gone feral. “I swear to God,” he said, waving a granola bar for emphasis, “Ego blushed.” Snuffy didn’t look up from the digital tablet he was scrolling through, but the faint flicker of an eyebrow gave him away. “Ego doesn’t blush,” Lavinho deadpanned from the kitchenette. “He evaporates emotion on sight.”

“I’m serious.” Chris rolled upright dramatically. “Noa leaned in. Said something real low. And Ego twitched. Twitching. Like a freaking anime character whose crush just sat on their desk.” Lavinho, mid-sip of protein shake, nearly choked. “Don’t put that image in my brain.”

“They’ve got history,” Chris said, more seriously now. “The tension between them could compress carbon. I’m just saying—”

“Tension doesn’t mean fate,” Snuffy muttered. Lavinho snorted. “You ever seen Noa listen to anyone else? That man doesn’t take coaching from God. But Ego opens his mouth and suddenly Mr. Iceberg’s taking notes like a rookie.” Snuffy’s brow furrowed. The tablet slipped to standby in his lap.

“Do we have confirmation on Ego’s secondary gender?”
Chris raised a hand. “Omega. Confirmed. Locked in. Registered in the Federation logs — and it explains so much.” A beat of silence. Lavinho turned slowly. “And Noa’s the poster Alpha.”

“An Omega-Alpha bond,” Chris said, voice dropping with dramatic gravity, “buried under years of football systems, sublimated trauma, emotional dysfunction, and weaponized genius.”

“Jesus.” Lavinho leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Do you think they ever...” He trailed off. Chris made a vague gesture. “Emotionally? Intellectually? Physically? Psychically? Doesn’t matter. That bond was real. Still is. You could feel it in the room.” Snuffy finally set the tablet aside. Folded his hands. Thoughtful.

“Maybe the kid wasn’t the first timeline accident,” he murmured. Chris’s smile faltered. “...You think Ego’s trying to fix his bond?” Lavinho looked up sharply. The implications hit all at once. The obsessive tracking of scent fluctuations. The fixation on psychological instability. The emergency protocols. The way Ego’s voice almost cracked when describing what happens if the bond can’t be salvaged.

Chris sat up fully now. No sarcasm. No teasing. Just quiet, rare empathy. “Shit. No wonder he’s so cold about it.” Lavinho muttered, “That’s not cold. That’s... grief in advance.” Another long silence. Snuffy tapped his fingers once. Twice. Then said, quietly:

“I thought Noa never bent for anyone.” Chris glanced toward the closed doors of the observation deck. “Maybe he still hasn’t.” Lavinho leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Do you think... they ever tried?”
Chris’s laugh was short. Sad. “No. That’s the tragedy. I don’t think they even said the words.”

Down the Hall – At that same moment

Noa walked alone. He didn’t look back. Didn’t slow down. But the muscles in his jaw were clenched. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides. From one of the overhead cameras, Ego watched. His expression unreadable. The bond still hummed like an old war drum— faint, distant, bruised from misuse. But not broken. Never broken. Not yet.

——————————

Master Strategy Room – 10:12 a.m.

Emergency meeting. One child in. Nineteen hormonal disasters left to trigger. The holo-display flickered as another emotional stability chart flatlined across the screen. Snuffy pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s the fifth one this morning.”

“They’re teenagers,” Lavinho muttered. “We’re lucky none of them have run into traffic yet.” Chris sprawled across a chair with his usual feline grace, spinning a pen between his fingers. “So what do we do with the ones who don’t want to fix it?” Anri looked up from her clipboard. “You mean the ones who reject the bond entirely?”

“Yes. The Reo-Nagi types. Or worse — the Charles types.”
“Or Rin,” Lavinho added helpfully. Snuffy’s brow furrowed. “We can’t force a bond.”

“We also can’t let it rot,” Anri replied. “If they don’t stabilize their connection, the child destabilizes too. It’s a feedback loop.” Chris raised a hand lazily. “I vote sedation. Or sex therapy. Whichever comes first.”
“You’re not voting on anything,” Ego said flatly from the side of the room. He hadn’t moved since the meeting started. Arms crossed, eyes sharp, mouth like a guillotine waiting for someone to slip.

“The protocol is emotional confrontation. We don’t fix the bond for them. We give them the mirror and make them look.” Lavinho grinned. “So, tough love therapy.”
Chris leaned forward with faux innocence. “And what about the players who are... emotionally repressed? Stubborn? Cold, detached geniuses who reject fate and claim to function on logic alone?”

“Hypothetically,” Lavinho added. “If one of them were, say, the Omega architect of this entire nightmare.” Ego turned to them slowly. His eyes glinted like a scalpel under fluorescent lights. “Hypothetically,” he said, voice smooth as poison, “if a player was repressing a bond for over a decade, they wouldn’t need a child to destroy them.”

Beat. “They’d already be a walking corpse.” Silence. Snuffy exhaled, long and low. Chris blinked. Lavinho visibly gulped. And in the back corner — quiet as a ghost — Noa stood with his arms crossed, saying nothing.
But his gaze never left Ego. Not once.

Chris cleared his throat. “…So, uh. Just regular therapy, then?” Anri scribbled something aggressively on her clipboard. “We’ll have scent-calming kits distributed by tomorrow,” she said briskly. “We’ll prep for confrontation-based interventions. Emotional bottlenecks. Sleeplessness. Heat triggers. You know. Standard football problems.”

“And what about the players who run away?” Snuffy asked. Ego didn’t blink. “Then they lose everything.”

——————————

Blue Lock Central Wing – 11:17 a.m.

Status: Quiet. Too quiet. It started innocently. Ren had woken up from his nap in the new temporary “child-safe room” with his mama’s jacket clutched to his chest. The room was stocked with blankets, plushies, juice boxes, and an age-appropriate scent diffuser. But neither of his parents were there.

And Ren, for all his baby cheeks and sleepy eyes, was still a bond child — guided by instinct, gut-deep emotion, and a tiny, tragically overburdened heart. So he toddled out the door. No one stopped him. Because no one expected it.

Ren didn’t mean to escape. Really. He just pressed buttons. One beep. Two beeps. And suddenly, the door unlocked. No one told him not to wander. No one was there to stop him. So naturally — as any future-defining metaphysical toddler would — he went exploring.

Blue Lock Cafeteria – 11:24 a.m.

Status: Unprepared for toddler infiltration. Isagi nearly screamed. “WHAT THE—?! Kurona! There’s a KID on the counter!” Kurona turned slowly. There was, in fact, a toddler on the cafeteria counter. Standing. Holding a banana. Looking mildly victorious. Ren blinked up at Isagi, cheeks puffed. “You smell like bark.” Isagi choked. “I—what?!” Hiori froze mid-bite. Yukimiya stood halfway out of his chair. “Where are his parents?” Yukimiya asked, horrified. “Why is he unattended?”

“You’re so loud,” Ren muttered, pouting at Yukimiya. Then, with great judgment: “You smell like money and shampoo. But no soul.” Yukimiya actually gasped.
Hiori looked like he might dissolve from stress. “Okay, someone please call Anri—”

“NO!” Ren shouted suddenly, clutching the banana like a grenade. “NO MORE LADY WITH THE NEEDLES.” Isagi tried to coax him down. “Hey, buddy. Wanna—uh—go back to your room? Maybe draw something?” Ren pointed dramatically at Isagi’s face. “You smell like Alpha drama.” Kurona snorted.

Bastard München Hall – 11:31 a.m.

Kaiser blinked as the door whooshed open mid-laugh. “What the hell—”

“MAYHEM!” came a shrill voice. Ren launched into the hallway. Running at top toddler speed, trailing spaghetti and rage. “HE’S COMING THIS WAY—” Ness yelped. Kaiser caught him mid-air like a football.

Ren blinked. Squinted. Sniffed. “…You smell like ego issues.” Kaiser stared. Kunigami wheezed. Kiyora laughed so hard he choked. Noa, from the shadows, quietly walked away.

FC Barcha Dorms – 11:43 a.m.

Bachira opened the door to find Ren sitting outside with a cup of pudding and a spoon. “Oh hey, little guy!” Bachira squatted. “Did you crawl here or teleport?” Ren offered him pudding. Otoya appeared behind him and flinched. “That’s the kid, right? The one from the future?!”

“Yep!” Bachira chirped. “Reo and Nagi’s love child from the timeline that collapsed like a sad soufflé.” Ren blinked up at Otoya. “You smell like… accidents.”
Otoya pointed at him. “I like this kid.”

A few minutes later....“Why is he in the laundry chute?!” Lavinho yelled, chasing Ren with a bib. Ren clung to a sock like it was treasure. “This smells like toes.” Bachira dangled upside-down beside him. “He’s just like me fr.” Otoya tried to use hair gel as bait. It didn’t work.

Ubers Stratum – 11:39 a.m.

Aryu shrieked. “THERE IS A TODDLER IN MY SHOWER MIRROR!” Barou marched in, shirtless. “What the hell are you screaming about—” Then he saw him. Ren. Standing in the hallway. Holding a hairbrush. Don Lorenzo peeked around the corner. “We keeping him?”

“No,” Aiku groaned. Ren pointed at Barou. “You smell like you shout a lot. Are you always angry?” Barou scowled. “That’s none of your business, you feral soccer dumpling.” Ren nodded solemnly. “You need a nap.” Sendou actually laughed.

Paris X Gen Hallway – 11:57 a.m.

Ren turned a corner and ran straight into Shidou’s legs.
Shidou looked down. Blinked. Then grinned. “Ohhhh. You’re Reo’s kid. That explains the eyes.” Charles poked his head out. “Is he dangerous?” Ren sniffed. Looked between them. Then nodded seriously. “You smell like… yelling. And slime. But nice slime.”

“Aww, he likes me!” Charles beamed. Shidou squatted. “Yo, kid. Want a tattoo?” “NO—” Rin thundered from behind him, grabbing Ren under the arms like a crisis response unit. “He’s not yours. Stop talking to him.” Ren blinked up at Rin and tilted his head. “…You smell like cold noodles.”

Ren teleported into Charles’s bed, nobody knew how. “MY BLANKET!” Charles shrieked. “He’s got my limited-edition sheep throw!” Shidou, laughing like a gremlin, crouched beside the kid. “Say it with me, Ren: bullsht.*”
“Buh… buhsh—”

“SHIDOU—” Rin roared, snatching the child away like a parent at Disneyland. “You smell like freezerburn,” Ren said, blinking up at him. Zantetsu was crying from confusion. Tokimitsu had a panic attack. Nanase tried to read him a picture book upside-down. Karasu took a video.

Central Observation Deck – 12:02 p.m.

Ego stood still, watching security footage stream across eight monitors. “How long was he unsupervised?” Anri grimaced. “Thirty-eight minutes.” Ego pinched the bridge of his nose. “And in that time, he managed to emotionally insult seven Alphas, judge three Omegas, infiltrate four stratums, and steal pudding?”

“Technically five puddings,” Anri corrected. A pause. “...We’ll need more staff.”

——————————

Blue Lock – Child-Safe Room – 11:15 a.m.

Reo pushed open the door, humming softly, a carton of apple juice in hand. “Ren? We got your snack—” Silence.
His smile froze. The jacket on the bed was folded neatly. The blanket was half-off the mattress. The scent diffuser still hummed faintly. But the room was empty.
“Ren?” Nagi peeked in behind him, blinking. “…Where’s the kid?”

Reo’s breath hitched. The apple juice slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull thunk. “He was sleeping. He—he was here ten minutes ago—” Nagi looked around dumbly, then checked behind the play tent. Blankets. No Ren. Reo’s eyes scanned the room like a crime scene profiler. His voice was thin. “The door was locked.” Nagi pointed at the glowing console by the entrance. “Not anymore.”

Blue Lock Central Wing – 11:16 a.m.

Reo bolted into the hallway like a man on fire. His scent spiked with Omega-level panic — high, distressed, overwhelming. “REN?! BABY?! WHERE ARE YOU—” He turned left. Right. Left again. “He can’t have gone far—he’s five years old!”

“He’s our kid,” Nagi muttered behind him, more shaken than he’d ever admit. “We broke time. He probably unlocked the vents.” Reo grabbed Nagi by the collar, eyes wide and wet. “THIS ISN’T FUNNY.”

“I’m not joking.” And he wasn’t. Nagi was pale. His voice low. For once, no drawl, no detachment. He looked scared. Truly scared. Reo let go, hands shaking. “Check the cafeteria. I’ll take the east corridor. We meet at the main security desk in five.” Nagi hesitated. Then nodded. They ran.

PXG Hallway – 11:58 a.m.

Meanwhile: Ren is in Charles’ bed yelling “bullsh—” while Shidou cheers him on and Rin has a meltdown.

Central Observation Deck – 12:01 p.m.

Reo burst into the control room, nearly bowling over an intern. Nagi was already there, panting, hair askew, clutching a half-crumpled hallway map. “Nothing in the cafeteria. Not the common areas either,” Nagi reported, breathless. Reo slammed his hands down on the table. “Why didn’t anyone stop him?! There’s supposed to be a goddamn security lock—he could’ve been hurt—he could’ve—”

“He’s fine.” Anri appeared, holding a tablet. Ego followed, deadpan. “He’s not fine. He’s renegade.” He turned the tablet toward them. Footage played. Ren stealing pudding. Ren riding a laundry cart like a warhorse. Ren clinging to Charles’ sheep blanket. Ren calling Barou “a feral soccer dumpling.” Reo covered his mouth with both hands. “He’s loose.”

“He’s rampaging,” Ego corrected. Nagi stared in silence. Watching his child teleport across five rooms, insult three national athletes, and attempt to eat spaghetti with his hands. “…He’s just like you,” Nagi mumbled. Reo turned, shocked. “What?!”

“Chaotic. Stubborn. Scary good at getting into places he shouldn’t.”

“…You really think so?” A pause. Then: “No. He’s scarier. That’s you in a pudding-fueled rampage.”

Paris X Gen – 12:05 p.m.

Rin sat in the corner of the PXG lounge, Ren asleep beside him on the couch, clutching Charles’ blanket like a trophy. He stared blankly ahead, muttering, “He insulted my scent. Then called me freezerburn. This is what we’re protecting?” Zantetsu offered tea. Tokimitsu was still on the floor hyperventilating. Charles beamed. “I kind of love him.”

“He licked the wall,” Karasu reported. “Right before telling me my eyebrows look like lies.” Shidou was still cackling.

Ren had finally worn himself out. Charles’ blanket was now a toga. He was curled on the PXG couch like a gremlin prince, thumb in his mouth, clutching a single sock and a stolen juice pouch with the straw bent the wrong way. Everyone around him was staring, half in awe, half in fear.

Karasu whispered, “...I think he’s meditating.” Tokimitsu was hiding under a beanbag. Nanase held out crackers like an offering. Zantetsu was googling "how to emotionally support a metaphysical toddler." Then the door slammed open.

“REN—!”
“REN, BABY—!”

“HOLY—” Charles yelped. “They look like they’ve been through hell.” Reo stumbled in first, eyes wide and glassy, the very picture of a disheveled Omega on the edge. Nagi followed half a step behind, pale and breathless, clutching the wall like he’d just sprinted through war. Ren blinked up. Then perked. “Mama? Papa?”

Reo choked on a sob and practically dropped to his knees. “Oh my god. You’re okay—you’re okay—” He pulled Ren into his arms, hugging him so tightly the juice box was a casualty. Ren squished against his chest with a soft “oof.”

“Where were you?! You can’t just disappear like that, you scared the hell out of us—!” Ren patted his mama’s cheek gently. “You took forever,” he said solemnly. “I ran out of juice.” Nagi let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a broken whimper. He dropped beside them, wrapping his arms around both of them with a rawness he didn’t bother to hide. “You little idiot,” he muttered, voice thick. “Don’t ever do that again.” Ren tilted his head. “I only went out a little.”

“You infiltrated four teams,” Reo gasped. “I saw you call an Barou a dumpling—!” Ren blinked. “He was shouting. He needed a nap.” Nagi buried his face in Ren’s hair and groaned. Reo just clung tighter, trembling. “You still love me?” Ren asked.

Both of them froze. Then Reo kissed his head so hard it made Ren squeak. “Always.” Nagi’s voice was quieter. But solid. “More than anything.” They sat like that for a long time. Three tangled souls. One collapsed timeline. Zero remaining juice boxes.

Emergency Tactical Debrief – 12:47 p.m.

The conference room lights flickered ominously as the Masters gathered — reluctantly, guiltily, several still picking Ren’s spaghetti off their shirts. Ego stood at the front of the room like a man possessed. Hair messier than usual, glasses askew, teeth clenched like a man forced to watch tactical incompetence unfold in real time.

Behind him, eight monitors looped security footage of the past hour like surveillance horror:
— Ren climbing a vending machine.
— Ren declaring Noa “smelled like taxes.”
— Ren yeeting himself down a slide made from cafeteria trays.

A red blinking line scrolled across the main screen:

SECURITY BREACH: AGE 5. ESTIMATED DAMAGE: EMOTIONAL.

Anri sat beside Ego, furiously typing. Her coffee cup read “#1 in Crisis Containment” and it was shaking.
Ego turned slowly to the room. Then exploded. “WHICH ONE OF YOU INCOMPETENT BASTARDS BUILT A TODDLER-SAFE ROOM WITH A DOOR THAT OPENS FROM THE INSIDE?” Chris flinched. “Technically—”

“I DON’T WANT TECHNICAL. I WANT LOCKS. REAL LOCKS. LOCKS THAT CAN WITHSTAND A BABY POWERED BY SOULBOND INSTINCT AND STOLEN PUDDING.” Lavinho raised a finger. “To be fair, I did warn you that the kid had game.”

“HE TELEPORTED TO FOUR DIFFERENT STRATUMS, LAVINHO.” Snuffy rubbed his temples. “We were told the room was secure.”

“IT HAD PLUSHIES, NOT INFRASTRUCTURE.” Ego slammed the remote on the table. The screen switched to footage of Ren yelling “Alpha drama!” at Isagi while holding a banana like a divine artifact. “Do you understand the optics of this?!” Ego barked. “This is a three-year-old with metaphysical trauma and questionable snack discipline. And we let him freestyle through the most elite soccer facility in Japan.” Chris muttered, “He was surprisingly agile.”

“HE CALLED DON LORENZO A FUNGUS.”nNoa, silent and glacier-like until now, raised one brow. “He’s not wrong.” Everyone turned. Even Ego blinked.n“...Thank you, Noa,” he muttered. “Still doesn’t help me with the part where he bypassed five biometric scanners using TOE BEAN JAM HANDS.”

Loki wandered in late, holding a clipboard and half a muffin. “Did he actually climb into a laundry chute or was that hallucinated?” Anri answered without looking up. “Confirmed. He declared the sock pile smelled ‘like destiny.’”

“Cool,” Loki nodded. Ego seethed. Then turned to the whiteboard. He clicked a marker. Wrote in all caps:

“NEVER UNDERESTIMATE TODDLER WITH EMOTIONAL DAMAGE.”

Underlined it five times. “From this moment forward,” he said darkly, “all child-safe rooms must be reinforced with lockout systems, triple-sealed doors, Omega-grade scent recalibrators, and a literal leash if necessary.” Lavinho raised a brow. “Isn’t that a bit excessive?”

“HE TRIED TO TATTOO HIMSELF WITH A SPORK, LAVINHO.” Chris, whispering to Loki: “I thought it was kind of impressive.”

“NO VOTES FROM THE PEANUT GALLERY,” Ego snapped. “This is not a democracy. This is Blue Lock. And now, apparently, a daycare for temporal anomalies. I am not losing a future World Cup because a toddler made friends with the cafeteria’s fire suppression system!”

Silence.
Then Snuffy coughed.
“...So. Updated protocol?”
Ego breathed deeply.
Clicked the remote again.
And the screen changed to a list titled:

CHILD-PROOFING PHASE 2:
• Reinforced containment doors
• Location tracking wristbands
• Master-only override keys
• 24/7 surveillance and scent barrier fields
• Banana rations locked behind retinal scan

He turned to them all, voice deadly calm. “Fix it.”
“Or he’ll be inside your bathroom next time.”

Blue Lock Observation Chamber – 2:11 p.m.

The lights were low. The table was too big. The silence was thick enough to choke on. Ego sat at the far end of the conference table like a tyrannical judge at a custody hearing he never wanted to attend. Anri typed notes on a tablet beside him, lips thin with restraint. A massive screen behind them played looped security footage of Ren’s earlier "walkabout." (Ren dragging a blanket like a ghost down the hallway. Ren yelling "YOU SMELL LIKE TAXES" at Noa. Ren eating pudding on Charles's bed.)
Reo and Nagi sat on the opposite end like they were waiting to be executed.

Ren, mercifully, was asleep in the other room — supervised by no less than two scent-matched caregivers, an emotional regulation bot, and the entire kitchen staff. Ego pushed his glasses up and began:
“So. Which one of you left your genetically-coded child unsupervised with a blanket, a banana, and full access to the facility’s main biometric doors?” Reo flinched. Nagi blinked. Anri sighed. “Technically, it was both of you.”

Ego smiled. It was terrifying. “Excellent. Mutual incompetence. Makes the guilt easier to share.” Reo opened his mouth. “We didn’t—”

“Finish that sentence,” Ego cut in. “Please. I want to hear you try to justify why a five-year-old with attachment trauma wandered into Ubers, infiltrated Paris X Gen, emotionally devastated Yukimiya, and tried to base-jump off the vending machine.” Nagi looked down. “...He said he was bored.”

“He also said Kaiser smells like ego issues,” Anri added helpfully. “I rest my case,” Ego snapped. “You two are not off the hook because your child is gifted in insult-based telepathy.” Reo gritted his teeth. “We didn’t mean to leave him. We were practicing.” Ego’s eyebrows didn’t even twitch. “Practicing?”

“Passing drills,” Nagi mumbled. “He was napping.”
“Was,” Ego repeated, deadpan. “And then he woke up, realized he was emotionally abandoned, and decided to search the complex like a scent-powered Roomba looking for his parents’ emotional baggage.” Reo curled his fists. “He’s ours. We know. We’ll do better.”

“‘Better’ isn’t a metric, Mikage,” Ego said coldly. “This isn’t an anime redemption arc. This is time-sensitive, fate-bound psychological reparation. Your child came here from a timeline that collapsed. That means he’s here to prevent your bond from failing again.” Nagi looked up. Paler than usual. “You mean… we already failed? In his time?” Ego stared at him. “Yes.”

“And we might fail again?” Reo whispered. Ego didn’t blink. “Statistically probable. Emotionally inevitable. But not irreparable.” He stood, pacing slowly. “You two are soul-bonded. Fated mates. A pairing encoded by metaphysical law. And instead of syncing like your instincts demand, you're treating each other like a laggy co-op team trying to pass a boss fight.” Nagi winced.

Ego turned to Reo. “You’re trying to be everything at once. Partner, parent, solution, sacrifice. It won’t work.”
Then to Nagi. “And you? You’re terrified. But you’re also lazy. Not in talent — in effort. You’ve coasted on instinct your entire life. But this? This needs work. This needs choice. You don’t get to quit just because you’re scared.” Nagi looked stunned. Reo… just looked tired. Ego sat again.

“You have twelve days,” he said evenly. “Twelve days before the bond destabilizes. Twelve days before your son is pulled back into the timeline with no guarantee of return. Fix it. Or don’t. But stop acting like this is someone else’s responsibility.” Silence. Then, softer: “Ren’s only here because some version of you didn’t figure it out. You’ve been given a second chance. Try not to fumble it.”

Anri cleared her throat. “We’ll assign you a bond specialist. Someone trained in Omega-Alpha emotional dynamic repair.” Ego stood up. “Until then, Ren’s tracking bracelet has been upgraded. One more solo infiltration, and I am microchipping him.” Reo and Nagi stood, silent and shaken.

And as they left the room — still not speaking — Ren stirred in his sleep from the other chamber, curled in a blanket with the word “PROPERTY OF PXG” scribbled on it in marker.

Manshine City Dorms – 3:04 p.m.

The door hissed shut behind them. Neither spoke. The walk back had been silent. Every footstep echoing too loud against sterile floors. The kind of silence that wasn’t just absence of noise — it was weight. Pressure. A thick fog of unsaid things that filled the air between them like static.

Ren was still asleep. Still tucked in the PXG blanket he’d stolen, still curled up on Reo’s bunk. The blanket rose and fell with each soft breath. He looked peaceful.
It only made the quiet worse. Reo sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. His chest was tight. His stomach was twisted into a knot. His brain wouldn’t stop replaying Ego’s words:

“You don’t get to quit just because you’re scared.”
“You’re treating each other like a laggy co-op team trying to pass a boss fight.”
“Stop acting like this is someone else’s responsibility.”
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t untrue, either.

Across the room, Nagi stood still — just stood. Eyes on the floor. Hands in his pockets. Like if he didn’t move, this wouldn’t be real. Like maybe he could rewind the last few hours. Pretend this wasn’t happening.
But it was. Ren was here. Real. Breathing. A literal child from the future — their child — had walked into Blue Lock and flipped everything upside down. And Ego had laid them bare with surgical precision, like he’d known all along how fragile they really were.

Reo exhaled slowly, fingers dragging down his face. He didn’t look up when he spoke. “...You should say something.” A beat of silence. Then Nagi, soft: “I don’t know what to say.” Reo laughed under his breath — bitter. Hollow. “You never do.” He didn’t mean for it to sound like a slap. But it did. Nagi flinched like he’d been hit. And still… said nothing.

Reo stood abruptly, pacing throughout the room . The mirror reflected him — pale, exhausted, eyes rimmed red. Not from crying. He wasn’t even sure if he could cry anymore. “Do you know what it’s like?” Reo asked quietly. “To hold a child that’s yours, and feel like a stranger?” Nagi didn’t answer. Reo pressed his forehead to the glass.

“He called me Mama. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I hadn’t failed him yet. Like I was already enough.” His voice cracked. “But I’m not. I’m not. I don’t even know how to be someone’s partner, let alone someone’s parent.” Nagi’s fingers twitched at his side.

“You are,” he said hoarsely. Reo turned. “Then why does it feel like I’m doing this alone?” That landed deep. Nagi looked away. His jaw clenched. He wanted to answer. He really did. But the words felt like rocks in his throat.

Because he didn’t know how to do this either. He’d spent his whole life avoiding complications, avoiding emotional weight. And now? Now he was standing in a room with the person he was supposed to love — the person fate said he was meant for — and all he felt was lost.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Nagi said finally, voice like crushed paper. Reo stared at him. Hard. “Then why the hell didn’t you say that earlier?” Nagi blinked. “I would’ve helped you,” Reo snapped. “I wanted to help you. I wanted to do this together. I’m not asking you to be perfect — I’m asking you to show up.”

And Nagi— For the first time in hours— Let it show. The fear. The shame. The deep, gut-punch ache of never being enough. “I’m scared,” he said again, more broken now. “I’m scared that I’m gonna ruin it. That if I try, I’ll just mess it all up worse. And then you’ll hate me. And then I’ll lose both of you.” Reo’s expression fractured. “I could never hate you,” he whispered.

Nagi sat down across from him on the bunk. Finally. Their knees almost touched. “Even if I fail?” Reo met his eyes. “Especially if you try.” The silence stretched. This one was gentler. They both looked at Ren — still sleeping, unaware that the two people who made him were trying not to shatter in front of his tiny, trusting face.

Reo reached out. Tentative. Fingers brushing Nagi’s wrist. Nagi didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean in either. But the contact stayed. Small. Fragile. A beginning. They didn’t say everything.

The quiet this time feels different. Not the choking silence of before. But a hush. Tentative. Hopeful. Heavy in a gentler way. The lights in the shared dorm were dimmed to a soft yellow. Ren sat on the floor in the middle of a mess of socks, juice boxes, and building blocks. One sock was on his head. Another was being used to swaddle a tiny plastic giraffe.

Reo sat cross-legged nearby, watching. Not like a babysitter. Not like someone monitoring an unstable time traveler. But like a parent. A confused, exhausted, still-shaky parent. Nagi had returned with snacks — mostly bread, and a half-eaten protein bar he shoved in his mouth on the way back. Now he was awkwardly crouched beside the little boy who carried his eyes and Reo’s cheeks and just enough chaos to match both of them.

Ren looked up. “Snack?” Reo nodded. “Want the strawberry one or the sweet potato?” Ren pointed. “That one. The pink.” Reo unwrapped it. Nagi watched quietly, expression unreadable but soft. When Reo passed the snack over, Ren didn’t take it right away. He held out his arms instead — and Reo blinked in surprise before realizing. He wanted to sit on his lap.

And so Reo pulled him close. Ren curled into him like it was the most natural thing in the world, arms around Reo’s middle, cheeks still warm from naptime. He bit into the snack and hummed contentedly. Nagi’s gaze lingered. Still kneeling. Still at a distance. Ren reached out, mouth full, and grabbed Nagi’s sleeve. “Papa too,” he mumbled. Nagi blinked. “Huh?”

“Sit. Right here,” Ren insisted, patting the fuzzy blanket beside them. For a second, Nagi looked like he might bolt — but he didn’t. He sat. Reo was silent. But not cold. Not distant. He shifted slightly to make space between his bent legs — and just like that, the three of them were settled in a lopsided triangle. Reo’s back against the side of the bunk. Ren on his lap. Nagi curled nearby, closer now, arms resting loosely around his knees.

The quiet stretched again. Not awkward. Just… safe.
“You were gone too long,” Ren said after a while, poking Reo’s chest gently. “I ran out of juice.” Reo chuckled softly. “Sorry, bud. We’ll keep some next to your pillow next time.” Ren nodded like this was a Very Good Plan™. He turned to Nagi next, eyes big and sleepy. “You smelled like gone.”

Nagi’s breath hitched. “…I’m not gone anymore,” he said quietly. Ren blinked. Considered. Then leaned forward to press his forehead gently to Nagi’s. Nagi froze. Reo watched him — carefully, reverently — as something in Nagi’s shoulders finally began to unclench. Ren grinned. “Now you smell like here.”

And just like that, Nagi Ren — the boy who ran from pressure, who glitched under expectations, who never asked for fate to knock on his door — smiled. Barely. Quietly. But real. Reo reached over and placed his hand on Nagi’s. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to.

Chapter Text

Blue Lock – Day 3

East Observation Deck – 9:43 a.m.

Ren was in good hands today. At least, that’s what Anri muttered when she handed him off to Chigiri Hyoma, who — while not officially certified in childcare — was the only one Ren consistently referred to as “Auntie.”

“Aunt Chi~!” Ren beamed, running full speed across the deck and flinging himself into Chigiri’s legs. Chigiri, dressed in his training gear with his hair in a loose bun, nearly toppled. “Whoa—! You little missile!” Ren just hugged harder. “You smell like strawberries and running.” Chigiri blinked. “...That’s oddly accurate.”

He scooped Ren up with surprising ease and set him on the railing bench (securely inside the safety rails, of course). “Alright, sugar gremlin. You’ve got me for the morning. Mama and Papa are training, and you promised not to bite anyone unless they really deserve it.” Ren nodded solemnly. “Only if they touch my pudding.”

“Fair.” Chigiri offered him a juice pouch. “Want apple or grape?”

“Apple.” Pause. “No, grape. No—apple. Grape.” Ren frowned at the betrayal of his own brain. Chigiri raised an eyebrow. “You can just have both, you know.”.Ren’s eyes widened like that was the greatest wisdom he’d ever heard. “You’re the best aunt,” he declared, wrapping his arms around Chigiri’s waist. “Still not a girl, by the way,” Chigiri muttered, fondly exasperated. Ren just shrugged. “You’re too pretty to be an uncle.” Chigiri choked on his juice.

They sat there a while — Ren swinging his legs, sipping grape juice, chattering about colors and clouds and a dream he had where he rode a tiger to the moon. Chigiri listened, nodded at all the right places, and tied Ren’s shoelaces twice when he undid them “just to see how fast they could untie.” Down on the field, Reo and Nagi were running drills together. It was obvious, even from a distance, that something had shifted.

Nagi actually moved without complaining. Reo was coaching him, not scolding. They looked like teammates again..Or maybe something even stronger. “Papa’s trying really hard,” Ren said, watching them with wide eyes. “He doesn’t like running but he does it anyway now.” Chigiri smiled, brushing Ren’s hair out of his face. “That’s because he loves you.”

“And Mama?” Ren asked, voice soft. Chigiri nodded. “Loves you more than anything.” Ren looked back at them, thoughtful. “They’re still fixing the string,” he mumbled, touching the space over his chest. “But it’s getting brighter.” Chigiri blinked. “The string?” Ren nodded. “The red one. It used to be fuzzy and gray. Now it’s warm.” Chigiri stared at him for a moment. Then, very quietly: “...You really are from the future, huh.”

“Yup!” Ren grinned and held up a drawing he’d done earlier — a stick-figure version of Nagi, Reo, and himself, all holding hands. Chigiri was there too, labeled “AUNT CHI” in backwards letters. “I put you in because I like you.” Chigiri ruffled his hair, voice unsteady from affection. “You’re gonna destroy me, you tiny menace.”

“I love you too,” Ren said. Later, Chigiri would carry him back down to the dorms when he fell asleep on the bench. Ren snored softly against his shoulder, sticky with juice and dreams, a crayon still clutched in one hand. When Reo and Nagi returned from training, flushed and panting but closer than ever, they found Chigiri already waiting — Ren bundled under his jacket, snoozing peacefully in the sun. “He didn’t throw pudding at anyone today,” Chigiri reported proudly. “Progress.”

Reo melted. Nagi actually smiled. And somewhere, softly, something between them tightened — a bond still fragile, still healing.

Blue Lock Courtyard – 5:26 p.m.

Golden hour. The wind was soft. And for once, the chaos had stilled. Ren was napping again — curled up on a futon in the child-safe room after a full day of juice, crayons, and philosophical toddler wisdom. Nagi had wandered off to shower. And Reo? Reo sat on the low bench near the sakura trees, hoodie tugged around his knees, arms resting loosely at his sides. He wasn’t crying. Not really. But the tightness in his chest hadn't gone away since morning. Chigiri found him there. Quiet. Still.

“Hey,” he said, voice light as breeze. “Did he tucker you out?” Reo gave a half-smile. “He tackled a vending machine for a third pudding cup. I think I’m the one who needs a nap.” Chigiri chuckled and sat beside him. They watched the clouds move. Shadows stretch. The late summer sun painting everything in soft gold. Then: silence. The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… heavy. Until Reo finally said: “I’m scared I’m not enough.”

Chigiri didn’t look at him right away. He just let the words hang, waiting. Letting them settle in the quiet. Reo kept going. Slowly. Like it hurt to peel the truth off his chest. “I tried so hard to keep us together. Me and Nagi. Even before all of this. Even when it wasn’t romantic or bonded or—anything. I just wanted to stay close.” His voice cracked. He swallowed it down.

“And now there’s proof. A child. A bond. A future where I get everything I ever wanted. And I’m still scared he’ll leave.” Chigiri looked at him now. Eyes soft. Steady. “Because he left before?” Reo nodded. Just once. “Because he didn’t chase me.” Chigiri leaned back slightly, one leg drawn up onto the bench. “You know,” he said, “I was supposed to quit football. Back when I tore my ACL. Everyone thought that was it. Even I did.”

Reo turned to him, confused but listening. Chigiri smiled faintly. “But I didn’t. Not because I wasn’t scared — I was terrified. But I realized something. You don’t always fight because you’re brave. You fight because the alternative is worse.” He glanced over at Reo. “Nagi might not always know how to say it, but he’s fighting too. You’re not doing this alone.” Reo exhaled. Shaky. “Sometimes it feels like I am.” Chigiri didn’t argue.

Instead, he reached over, gently touched Reo’s wrist — grounding him. “You’re a good mama,” he said with a smile. “Fussy. Loud. Maybe a little dramatic. But that kid adores you. And Nagi’s trying. And you—” He paused. Tilted his head. “You don’t have to be perfect to be enough. You just have to stay.” Reo let out a wet laugh, blinking fast. “God, you’re good at this.”

Chigiri shrugged. “Pretty boys make excellent therapists.” They sat there a while longer. Reo eventually leaned his shoulder against Chigiri’s. Just for a minute. Just long enough to breathe. Reo had stopped shaking. He wasn’t smiling, not really. But he was breathing easier — shoulders less tense, the pressure in his chest dulled to a quiet ache.
Chigiri sat beside him, chin propped on his knees now, eyes on the horizon.

They’d been quiet again for a few minutes. The kind of silence that followed truth, not before it. Then, out of nowhere, Chigiri said— “I don’t think I’ve really processed any of this.” Reo looked over. Chigiri’s voice was even. Calm. But his eyes didn’t match it. “The kid. The bond system. The fated mates. I keep acting like it’s fine, like I’m watching a documentary or something. But inside…?” He exhaled, slow. “It feels like I’m dreaming through someone else’s life.”

Reo blinked. “Chigiri…” Chigiri gave a small, almost guilty smile. “I’ve spent my entire career trying to prove I could outrun fate. That I wasn’t weak. That I wasn’t fragile. And now? Suddenly fate is back. With rules. With children. With bonds that no amount of speed or talent can outrun.” He stared down at his own hands. “It’s terrifying. Because what if fate wants something from me I can’t give?”

Reo didn’t respond right away. He just leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, letting the weight of the words sink in. Then, softly: “You don’t have to run from this one, Chigiri.” Chigiri blinked. “I mean it.” Reo looked at him, earnest. “We’re all caught in it together now. No one has it figured out. Not even the people with the bond kids. But you—you’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to not know.” He smiled faintly. “Just don’t shut down. Okay? You’ve got people here. Me included.”

Chigiri’s gaze dropped. Then he nodded, very slowly. “Thanks, Reo.” A pause. Then, mischievously— “For a dramatic omega with parental anxiety, you’re weirdly good at pep talks.” Reo scoffed. “Rude. I’m maternal and deeply charming.” Chigiri laughed. Quiet and real. And for a moment — just a moment — everything felt like it might be okay. Even if it wasn’t. Yet.

——————————

Nagi stood under the spray with his eyes half-closed. The water wasn’t hot enough to burn, but it scalded anyway. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until now. Until the quiet made it impossible to pretend otherwise. Without Reo’s chatter. Without Ren’s voice. Without the distraction of everyone else spiraling around their bond drama.

Just him. Soap in hand. Shampoo forgotten. His own scent curling up in the steam. His own heartbeat, loud in his ears. For once, he didn’t move on autopilot. Didn’t hold out a towel for Reo. Didn’t lean into him, ask for help rinsing his hair, pretend he didn’t like it when Reo fussed. It was just him. Just Sei. And it felt like standing in the ruins of a game he didn’t realize he was losing. “…We’re bonded.”

Reo’s voice, from dats ago, echoed in his skull like a glitch he couldn’t debug. “Are we?” His own words. So thoughtless. So real. He tilted his head back, let the water wash over his face. He didn’t cry. He didn’t know how. He just felt. Uncomfortable. Too full. Like his chest wasn’t big enough to hold the pressure building behind his ribs. He remembered the look in Reo’s eyes. That break in his voice when he whispered: “You left. In the future. And it broke everything.”

That… haunted Nagi. More than anything else. He didn’t remember leaving. Hadn’t even done it yet. And still— He already felt guilty. Because he knew himself. Knew his flaws. The way he disengaged when things got hard. The way he ran from emotions, not toward them. The way love felt like a fire alarm—loud, disruptive, and always demanding something from him he didn’t know how to give.

And now there was a child. A son with Reo’s dramatics and his own deadpan chaos. A living echo of a bond he’d never properly accepted, walking around in tiny socks and calling Reo mama. And despite it all… Despite his fear. He didn’t want to lose them. Not Reo. Not Ren.

Not this strange new life that terrified him down to the bone. He stood there until the water ran cold. Not because he liked it. But because he needed to feel something real. Because if he let himself think too hard, he’d run again. And this time, someone would actually break.

Manshine City Dorms – 8:37 p.m.

“Okay, lights out, Ren.” Reo’s voice was firm but warm — the same tone he used when Nagi forgot to eat for ten hours straight. He pulled the blanket up to Ren’s chin with practiced precision, smoothing his hair and tucking in the edges like he was wrapping fragile glass. “No more storybooks. No more juice. Time for sleep.” Ren beamed up at him, cheeks flushed pink, eyes glowing with the kind of mischief usually reserved for large raccoons or disaster-prone demigods. “I’m not tired.” Reo blinked. “You yawned seven times during the last page.”

“That was fake,” Ren said solemnly. “To manipulate your expectations.” Reo’s smile froze. “…I’m sorry. What?” Ren sat up dramatically, voice gleeful: “Chris Prince taught me that!” Reo visibly paled. “...Of course he did.” Then Ren flopped back onto the pillow, arms splayed. “Also, I had four juice boxes. Aunty Chigiri said not to tell you.” Reo stared. His eye twitched. “You WHAT—”

From the hallway: “I REGRET NOTHING!” Chigiri’s voice rang, bright and unapologetic. A second later, Chigiri poked his head in the room, wearing a guilty expression that immediately contradicted the sparkle in his eyes. “Okay, look—before you judge me—I panicked. The apple juice box had a boring label, and the grape ones had glitter.”

“You panicked and gave a five-year-old four juice boxes?!” Reo hissed. “He called me ‘Aunty’! What was I supposed to do, say no?!” From the bed, Ren chimed in helpfully: “He also let me jump off the bench!”

“TRAITOR,” Chigiri snapped, pointing. “WHY IS THERE A TODDLER DOING PARKOUR AT BLUE LOCK?!” Reo wailed, collapsing dramatically onto the bed.

Ten minutes later, the dorms had devolved into chaos. “I told you not to give him the second juice box,” Reo gasped, running behind Chigiri through the hallway. “I thought it was apple!” Chigiri shouted. “Not rocket fuel!”

“It was mango-cherry power boost!” Nagi muttered behind them, jogging half-heartedly in slippers. “It said ‘turbo sugar’ in bold.”

“WHY IS THAT EVEN LEGAL?!” Reo barked. The shrieking sound of toddler glee echoed ahead of them like a warning siren. “I’M A METEOR!” Ren shouted at full volume. “ZOOM ZOOM ZOOOOM—!” Down the hall. Around a corner. Blurring through the air like a sugar-powered ghost. Something crashed. A weight rack toppled. Someone screamed.

Chris Prince stood in the middle of the wreckage, holding a very sticky Ren upside-down by the back of his hoodie. “He nearly knocked over my protein bar altar,” Chris deadpanned. “That thing took years to curate.” Ren beamed like a gremlin. “You smell like grapes and sparkles.” Chris blinked. “...He’s weirdly accurate.”

“Put him down,” Reo wheezed, skidding into the room with Nagi and Chigiri in tow. “Please put him down,” Chigiri echoed, collapsing against the doorframe. Chris stared solemnly. “You don’t know what you’ve unleashed.”

“Try us,” Nagi replied, monotone, as he took Ren gently into his arms. Ren immediately wrapped around his neck like a sleepy lemur. “I’m sticky,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I’m a mango sloth now.” Reo pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m filing a complaint with Anri.” Chris stretched lazily. “File it with the gods, sweetheart. That kid just transcended sugar. He’s vibrating on a cosmic frequency.” Ren kicked his little legs. “Why can’t I stay up? The moon is lonely.”

“No, baby,” Reo said gently. “You’re lonely. The moon’s fine.”

“I’m not sleepy,” Ren added, yawning in the middle of his sentence. “You’re vibrating,” Nagi replied, voice flat.

Wrestling him into pajamas was a battle of slippery resistance. Ren escaped twice. Hid under a bunk once. Bit Reo’s sleeve. Nagi nearly got kicked in the chest. Chigiri got hit in the face with a sock. Eventually, sock puppets were deployed as a peace offering. Nagi created one with a hole in it.

Ren named it Souta. Souta told terrible bedtime jokes. None of them made sense. Ren laughed so hard he fell off the bed once. No one had the heart to stop him. Finally — finally — he settled. Curled up under two blankets. Clutching a plush bear Chigiri had “borrowed” from Anri’s restricted stash. Reo held him close, gentle hands stroking his hair. Nagi sat at the foot of the bed, rubbing tiny feet with one hand and holding Souta with the other.

The room was warm. Calm. Dim. “Tomorrow,” Ren mumbled sleepily, voice already slurring, “I wanna see the Alpha with the eyeliner. He smells like… snacks.”

“You mean Barou?” Reo asked, confused. Ren nodded solemnly. “You’re not meeting Barou alone,” Nagi muttered. “Souta says he’s trustworthy,” Ren yawned. “You can’t trust Souta,” Reo whispered. “Souta’s a sock.”

“Souta’s a vibe,” Chigiri said from the doorway, barely holding in his laughter. When Ren finally drifted off — cheeks flushed, hair a mess, snoring softly — the silence that followed was soft. Not strained. Not distant. Just… full. The kind of quiet that felt like a reward.

Reo brushed a kiss to Ren’s forehead. Nagi leaned into his side. Their shoulders touched. Chigiri leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smiling like a tired aunt who knew damn well he was the reason bedtime lasted an hour. No one said anything. But for the first time, the night didn’t feel so heavy.

Blue Lock Conference Room – 11:17 p.m.

The fluorescent lights buzzed. The air conditioning hissed faintly. A single screen flickered at the end of the table, cycling through security footage — most of which featured a very small, very fast child causing mayhem at impossible speeds. Chris Prince sat slouched in his chair, shirt half-buttoned, hair still slightly damp from his post-weight room meltdown. A protein shake sat untouched next to his report tablet. “I want it on the record,” he said, pointing at the screen, “that he had both feet on the squat rack before I stopped him.”

“Duly noted,” Anri muttered, typing fast. Noa was standing with his arms crossed, scowling like the footage had personally offended him. “You were supposed to be monitoring the gym.”

“I was monitoring the gym. The squat rack is sacred, thank you very much,” Chris snapped. “I didn’t know we needed toddler-proof barriers for it.” Lavinho raised a brow. “Honestly? I’m more impressed than mad. The kid’s got reflexes. He’s five and did a flying leap off a bench like it was a runway.”

“That’s because Chigiri let him,” Anri muttered.

“Chigiri is twenty percent legs and eighty percent impulse control problems,” Chris said. “Don’t blame the kid.” Snuffy exhaled through his nose. He hadn’t touched his coffee. “Do we even know where the next child is coming from?”

“No,” Anri said flatly, “because we weren’t supposed to have any yet. Ren’s early arrival already threw every predictive algorithm out the window.” Loki, lounging in his chair with an apple in hand, smirked. “And yet we’re holding clandestine meetings like a toddler cracked the Pentagon.”

“Because he did,” Anri snapped, pulling up a chart. “Ren accessed five restricted areas in under thirty-eight minutes. That’s more than some of you managed during your striker trials.” Chris whistled low. “He’s my spirit animal.”

“Chris, he called you ‘grapes and sparkles.’”
“And I will treasure that forever.”
Noa rubbed his temple. “This is exhausting.”
“And it’s just day three,” Anri sighed.
A long pause.
Then Snuffy looked at her.
“How’s Reo and Nagi?”

“They’re… stabilizing,” Anri said, glancing at her tablet. “We’ve seen a notable reduction in stress scent spikes. Reo’s bond scent synced with Ren’s during bedtime, and Nagi is maintaining proximity with visible signs of emotional reciprocity.” Chris blinked. “English, please.”

“They’re being dads,” Anri said.

“Oh.” Chris grinned. “Cute.”

“Don’t romanticize it,” Noa muttered. “This isn’t a soap opera.”

“It’s Blue Lock,” Chris replied. “It’s a soap opera with cleats.”

Loki took another bite of his apple. “Do we have a count yet? On how many children might appear?” Anri’s voice went quiet. “No. But Ego estimates between ten and twenty. Maybe more. It depends on how many bonds remain unresolved across all strata.” The silence that followed was heavier. Lavinho broke it first. “We’re not ready for that many.”

“We weren’t ready for one,” Chris said. “Exactly,” Lavinho muttered. Anri stood straighter, tablet glowing in her hands. “We’re installing child-proof locks. Updating security protocols. And assigning all of you rotating observation duty for the children’s wing.” Snuffy frowned. “We’re babysitters now?”

“You’re protectors,” Anri corrected. “They’re not just kids. They’re extensions of these players’ futures. Their instincts, their mistakes, their truths.” Noa didn’t look away from the screen. Chris reached for his protein shake, finally taking a sip. “…He called Barou ‘always angry,’ by the way,” he said, voice light.

Loki snorted. Lavinho smirked. “Let’s hope the next one doesn’t call Don Lorenzo sketchy spaghetti,” Chris added. Anri deadpanned. “We’ll need more juice-proof socks.”
“More like scent-proof dignity,” Lavinho muttered. Noa exhaled hard. “Then we start preparing. Properly this time.” Anri nodded. “And pray,” she added, “that the next toddler doesn’t like energy drinks.”

The master meeting had ended thirty minutes ago. The corridors were dark. Quiet. Except for the central tower—where Ego’s office pulsed dimly with blue light, screens flickering like restless thoughts. Noa stepped through the automatic doors without knocking. “You skipped the meeting.”

Ego didn’t turn around. “I briefed Anri. That was enough.” Noa’s jaw flexed. “That’s not the same.” Ego was silhouetted by the glow of the monitors, hands behind his back. Always the same posture — like he was standing in front of a war map, calculating the price of dreams. “You don’t need me in a room full of idiots debating toddler-proof juice box lids.”

“You knew this would happen,” Noa said, stepping further inside. A beat of silence.nEgo finally looked over his shoulder. His eyes gleamed in the screenlight. “Of course I did. Why do you think I wrote the contingency protocols six months ago?”

“Then why do you act like you’re surprised?

“I’m not surprised,” Ego said smoothly. “I’m annoyed. There’s a difference.”

“Annoyed that it worked?” Noa’s voice was low. Cool. Tense. Ego’s mouth quirked. “Annoyed that it’s messy. That it hurts. That you all react like emotions are bombs instead of—data.” Noa crossed his arms. “You sound like you’re talking about them. Not yourself.”

“I am talking about them,” Ego snapped, too fast. A silence bloomed between them. The kind that felt sharp around the edges. Hot under the skin. Noa’s voice softened, but not kindly. “You keep saying this is a system. A test. A calculation. But this bond thing—this child thing—it's not something you can isolate in a lab.” Ego’s gaze turned steely. “And yet here you are. Still playing along.”

“Because it matters to you.” That landed. Ego turned fully now. Slowly. Face unreadable. “You think I built this whole project for emotional closure?”.Noa stepped closer. “Didn’t you?”

“Don't psychoanalyze me, Noel.”

“Don’t give me reason to.”

The air between them cracked like a live wire. Their stares locked — hot and cold, biting and breathless. Two visionaries. Two monsters. Two fated creatures pretending they didn’t want to burn. Ego’s voice dipped low. Dangerous. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Do you?” Noa murmured. “You’re using the children to get close to me again.”

“You’re the one who said bonds were sacred.” Ego’s throat worked. “I said they were useful.”

“Still feels sacred when you look at me like that.” That stopped Ego short. For a moment — just a flicker — his mask cracked. The faintest shift in his expression. A tremor of something that hadn’t been spoken aloud in years.

Then— The door hissed open behind them. Anri walked in holding a data tablet. She froze. “…Am I interrupting something?” Ego blinked once. Calmly. “Only a professional disagreement.” Noa’s smirk was barely visible. “Just aligning our strategies.”

Anri stared. Slowly backed out. “…Right. I’ll just—update you later.” The door closed. Ego turned away again. Noa lingered. Just a second longer. “I’m not going to wait forever, Jinpachi.” Ego didn’t respond. But his reflection in the screen watched Noa leave.

Flashback — Paris FC Locker Room, 12 Years Ago<<<

The moment everything changed. It was supposed to be routine. A tactical debrief. Ego had been flown in by the federation to analyze Paris FC’s play sequences and give a closed-door lecture on AI-driven scouting systems. Nothing emotional. Nothing unpredictable. He hated locker rooms. Too raw. Too hot. Always smelled like testosterone and wet towels.

But when the door opened, he stepped in. And stopped. Noa was there. Leaning against the far lockers. Alone. Shirt off, sweat gleaming over sculpted muscles, water bottle in hand. Alpha scent — dense, controlled, familiar. But sharpened.
Ego’s breath hitched before he realized why. Noa turned.
Their eyes met.

And in that moment, the bond snapped into place — like a noose around the throat of logic. A metaphysical tether. Gut-deep. Spine-wired. Something old and future-bound. Neither of them said a word. Noa’s pupils dilated slightly. Ego’s grip tightened on the data tablet he was holding. The room felt hotter. Air heavier.

Noa took a step closer. Ego did not retreat. He didn’t flinch. But his body betrayed him — Omega scent blooming just faintly at the edges, restrained but unmistakable. Noa stopped two feet away. “...You felt that too,” he said. Not a question. Ego’s reply was cold. Precise. A scalpel between them. “It doesn’t change anything.” Another step. Closer. “It should.”

“I don’t believe in fate,” Ego said tightly. Noa tilted his head. Not touching. But not leaving. “Then believe in this.” Their proximity crackled with something unspeakable. But they didn’t touch. Didn’t reach. Because they were already burning. Ego’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We can’t afford to be weak.”

Noa’s smile was almost bitter. “Then I’ll just be strong for both of us.” Ego exhaled shakily. Then turned. And walked away. But the bond stayed.

Present Day – Ego’s Office

He sat in the dark, back straight, glasses reflecting the monitors. But he wasn’t seeing data anymore. He was remembering heat. The edge of instinct. And a scent he’d never been able to erase from his memory. Noa’s. The world’s greatest Alpha. And the only one Ego couldn’t analyze. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “…Damn you,” he muttered to no one.

Blue Lock Administration Hallway – 12:10 a.m.

The door to Ego’s office hissed open. Anri Teieri stepped out briskly, clutching her data tablet like it was a lifeline. Her face was flushed—too flushed—and she was walking like someone whose brain had blue-screened. Her heels echoed in the empty hall. Her stride? Murderous. Her eyes? Wide. Her breathing? Not regulated.

Lavinho glanced up from his stretch against the wall. “Oho?” Snuffy, sipping decaf from a travel mug, lowered it slowly. “Something happened.” Chris Prince sat backwards on a bench like a teenage delinquent and immediately perked up. “Tea.”

“Miss Anri,” Lavinho said smoothly, falling into step beside her. “You look flushed. All good in there?”

“I’m fine,” Anri snapped. “Absolutely fine. Perfectly—professional.”

“So nothing happened?” Chris asked cheerfully, swinging his legs. “No,” she said too quickly. Lavinho narrowed his eyes. “But you’re walking like you just found a dead body or—”

“—a living one you weren’t expecting,” Snuffy added. Chris gasped, dramatically. “Did you walk in on Ego and Noa kissing?” Anri’s whole soul left her body for a moment. She stopped mid-step. Turned. Very slowly. “I said nothing happened.”

Chris: “Which is exactly what someone would say if something did.”

Snuffy: “So there was a moment.”

Lavinho folded his arms, intrigued. “That explains the flush. Also the pacing. Also the… vibe.” Chris mimed being shot. “Was there tension?! Did they lock eyes?! Was Ego’s hand trembling?! Please tell me someone trembled.” Anri tried to compose herself. It did not work. “Why are the three of you like this,” she hissed. “We’re bored,” Lavinho replied.

“And emotionally starved,” Chris added. Snuffy shrugged. “Also, we saw the way Noa looked at Ego at lunch. That’s not a colleague stare. That’s a ‘you are my lifelong obsession and I don’t know how to love gently’ stare.” Chris clapped. “HE GETS IT!” Anri squeezed the data tablet until it creaked. “…I’m going to bed.” Chris immediately jogged after her. “Just whisper it, then! Was there a hand on the wall? A growl? Did Ego blush?!”

“HE NEVER BLUSHES,” Lavinho shouted from behind. “Was he looming?!” Snuffy demanded. “I bet there was looming!” Anri’s voice echoed faintly as she stormed away: “GO TO BED.”

“YOU’RE DEFLECTING!” Chris yelled after her. Snuffy sipped his coffee again and sighed. “This is gonna be a mess.” Lavinho smirked. “Can’t wait.”

The hallway fell into a still hush. Even Chris Prince—formerly bouncing in place like a caffeinated meerkat—froze mid-spin. Because now the office door opened again. And out stepped Noel Noa. Tall. Calm. Impossibly composed. His hands were in his coat pockets. His expression unreadable. Not a single hair out of place. The kind of unbothered Alpha stillness that made people instinctively straighten their backs.

He paused, eyes scanning the hallway. His gaze landed briefly on the bench. On the trio of Master coaches who were suddenly very invested in the floor. Snuffy, mid-sip, choked slightly. Chris Prince made a strangled squeaking sound in his throat and immediately dropped his voice to a whisper-scream: “...That’s the walk of a man who just won.”

Noel Noa started walking. Calm, slow steps. Each one perfectly measured. Perfectly quiet. But Lavinho couldn’t hold it in anymore. He turned to Snuffy, whispering like a man possessed. “Did you see that?? That micro-smirk?? That was a post-tension smirk.” Chris hissed under his breath, eyes wide. “He lingered. When he stepped out. That was a linger.”

Snuffy clutched his mug like it was shielding him from divine forces. “That’s not just looming. That’s Alpha repression at 300% sync rate. I’m scared.” Noa passed by them without a word. Without even blinking. Chris held his breath. So did everyone else. Then—just as he was almost past—Noa’s voice cut through the air. Cool. Deep. Controlled. “…She’s not as subtle as she thinks.”

The Masters all flinched like they’d been shot. Snuffy stared at him, open-mouthed. “You—wait—did you hear us?” Noa didn’t answer. Just walked. Straight down the hallway. Silent. Powerful. Vaguely terrifying. A man with secrets and zero shame. Chris leaned against the wall with a dreamy sigh. “I’m gonna need ten minutes to emotionally recover from that.”

Lavinho’s hands were on his hips. “We knew something was going on.” Snuffy nodded slowly, eyes wide. “That was not ‘just a meeting.’ That was a 200-page unspoken confession novel with zero punctuation.” Chris’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you think they kissed?” A long pause. Then all three:

“…Nah.”

“Too emotionally repressed.”

“Too cold.”

"Too intense. They probably just stared at each other for five minutes while exchanging data files and thinking about the void.” Chris beamed. “Power couple.” Snuffy grunted. “Disaster soulmates.” Lavinho smirked. “Fated and doomed.” The hallway went quiet again. The scent of tension still lingered in the air. And somewhere—far down the hall—Noel Noa did not smile. But he didn’t not smile, either.

Manshine City Dorms – Day 4, 6:47 a.m.

The morning light filtered in softly through the high dorm windows, painting the walls in washed-out hues of rose and gold. It was too early for chaos. For once, it was calm. Reo stirred first. He blinked blearily at the ceiling, hair fluffed from sleep and collar stretched from where a certain child had clung to it overnight. Ren was sprawled between them like a starfish, dead asleep, one chubby leg across Nagi’s ribs and a juice-sticky hand pressed to Reo’s chest.

Reo didn’t dare move the arm Ren had claimed as a pillow. He just lay there for a while, heartbeat steady, watching the peaceful rise and fall of their son’s breath. Then— From the other side of the bed, Nagi blinked awake. His silver lashes fluttered slightly as he yawned—quiet, catlike—before groaning faintly. “…I can’t feel my spine.” Reo smiled, voice still hushed. “You let him climb on top of you at 3 a.m., remember?”

“Didn’t think he’d be that heavy,” Nagi mumbled, shifting slightly. “Or so limb-y. He sleeps like an octopus.”

“You snore like a jet engine,” Reo shot back with affection.

Nagi huffed. “That’s a lie.”

“You woke Souta.”

“Souta’s a sock, Reo.”

“A sock with trauma.”

They both snorted quietly. AA long beat passed, then Reo carefully disentangled himself from Ren’s hold. Nagi did the same with practiced care, pulling the blanket back up over their son with a fond glance before the two of them tiptoed out of bed like co-conspirators sneaking from a heist.

The warm water hit like relief. Steam curled in the tiled space, muffling the world, and for a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Nagi stood under one of the showerheads, lazily letting the heat soak into his hair, arms loose at his sides. Reo, nearby, scrubbed shampoo into his own hair, eyes closed. Eventually, Reo broke the silence. “…It’s weird, right? How this is starting to feel kinda… normal.” Nagi’s eyes opened slightly. “Yeah.”

“Like... waking up next to you. Having a kid between us without it being awkward.” Nagi turned toward him, water dripping down his shoulders. “I mean, we used to shower together at scholl all the time.”

Reo gave a snort. “Yeah, but I wasn’t in love with you back then.” Nagi blinked. His mouth opened. Closed. Then— “Oh.” Reo rinsed the shampoo out with a sigh, eyes still shut. “Not saying I’ve got everything figured out. Or that I’m not still scared out of my mind. But this—whatever it is—it’s starting to hurt less.” Nagi leaned against the cool wall tiles. “Yeah.”

Another pause. “I keep thinking,” Nagi said slowly, “about how easy it would be to mess this up again. How one wrong move could make the bond snap worse. And the kid disappears. And you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Sei,” Reo said softly. “I never could.”
Nagi looked down at his hands. “I hated me,” he admitted. “For walking away. For not being ready. For wasting the time we could’ve had.” Reo shut off the water. He stepped out into the steam-heavy room and reached for a towel.

“…Then let’s not waste today.” Nagi followed him, barefoot and dripping, eyes soft. “Okay.” They dried off in silence. But it wasn’t tense. It wasn’t heavy. It was the kind of quiet that felt like a sunrise — new, raw, but finally warming the skin.

Blue Lock Hallway, Day 4 – 7:21 a.m.

The hallway lights buzzed low in the early morning dim. Most of Blue Lock was still asleep — the kind of hush that made even the air feel slow, heavy with stillness.

SLAM.

A door burst open. Tiny feet slapped the floor in a frantic rhythm. Nagi Ren barreled out into the hallway, tears streaking his cheeks, breathing fast and shallow. His tiny fists clutched a crumpled corner of Reo’s hoodie like it was armor, his socked feet skidding on the smooth floor. His voice cracked, half-sob, half-wail: “Mama—!”

But it echoed, empty. No answer. So he kept running. Down one corridor. Past a vending machine. Another corner. A flickering sensor light flared as he passed, too bright on his teary face. And then— He collided into something solid. Like a wall made of grumbling and abs. Ren fell on his butt with a soft “oof,” blinking up through watery eyes.

“Oi,” grunted a low voice above him. “Watch it, you feral dumpling.” Barou Shouei stood there in full sweatpants menace, towel slung over his neck, fresh out of training and already annoyed. His sharp red eyes looked down at the kid sprawled on the ground like a dropped plushie. He was about to bark something else when he actually saw the tears.

The blotchy cheeks. The quivering lip. And the tiny, shaking fingers holding onto Reo’s hoodie like it was life itself. Barou crouched. “…Hey.” Ren sniffled. A hiccup escaped. “Why the hell are you crying at this hour?”

Ren opened his mouth to answer. What came out was:
“There was—the —they were—Mama—he said—the and—he—Papa–he left —AND Grandpa WAS MAD—” Barou blinked. “…The hell?” Ren wailed louder, fat tears dripping off his chin now. Barou scratched the back of his head, scowling like he was being punished by the gods. “Tch. Okay, okay. You—stop that. No more… dream stuff.”

Ren just kept babbling, big words mixed with sniffles and hiccups, each sentence less intelligible than the last.
Barou stood awkwardly. Then, with a mutter of “Shit,” he bent down and picked Ren up under the arms like a sack of emotionally unstable potatoes. Ren immediately clung to him, pressing his tear-wet face into Barou’s shoulder.

Barou twitched. “You’re leaking. Stop that.” Ren sniffled. Then hiccupped. Then whispered, tiny and trembling: “Mama’s not there.” Barou stilled. His grip adjusted. Gentler now. More secure. “…Yeah. Okay. Let’s go find him, crybaby.”

Blue Lock Cafeteria – Day 4, 7:32 a.m.

The cafeteria buzzed with the low clatter of trays and the rustle of early morning chatter. Players from every stratum had filtered in by now — FC Barcha clustered near the smoothie bar, Bastard München half-asleep with cereal, PXG looking like they were about to start a turf war over toast. Even Ubers was seated in their eerily well-organized corner, sipping black coffee like a mafia brunch.

Then the door hissed open— And every conversation halted. Barou Shouei walked in like a grim reaper dragging fate behind him. Only this time, fate had short legs, puffy eyes, and was sniffling into Barou’s hoodie. Barou, for his part, looked like he’d been personally cursed. He held Ren against his chest with a single muscled arm, like the world’s most reluctant babysitter.

Ren. Crying. Wailing. Tiny fists twisted in the neck of Barou’s hoodie like a lifeline. And just like that— The entire room froze. Chopsticks mid-air. Words stuck in throats. Cups paused halfway to lips. Even Chris Prince blinked like someone had just slapped his favorite mirror. Aryu whispered reverently, “It’s the barbarian prince holding a baby…” The child was clearly mid-breakdown, cheeks red and blotchy, tiny hands gripping Barou’s shirt with silent desperation. All eyes followed.

Barou ignored everyone. His expression was a tight snarl — not from annoyance, but from something deeper. Protective. Almost worried. Ren, red-faced and shivering with hiccups, suddenly screamed: “MAMA!!!” It was a raw, primal sound. Reo’s head whipped around. “Ren—?!” The boy launched out of Barou’s arms and collided into Reo’s chest like a meteor, almost knocking the Omega off balance. Reo instinctively caught him. “What’s wrong? What—Ren, baby, breathe—!”

Ren clutched Reo’s shirt with trembling hands, face crumpled in despair. “You were crying—” he choked, voice breaking like glass. “You were crying so much, Mama! And Papa was gone! I was big, and the room was huge and cold and your Mama and Papa were yelling—” Reo’s heart dropped. “Ren—”

“They said you had to marry someone else! They said Papa was wrong for you! That it would be better for the business if you forgot him—!” The words slammed into Reo like a punch to the gut. His mouth fell open—but nothing came out. All around them, silence stretched tight like piano wire. Even the air stopped moving. “They lied, Mama. They lied to you! They said Omegas don’t get to choose! And Uncle Lexis and Aunt Chi said—said they were trying to erase Papa.”

Reo staggered back a step, clutching Ren tighter. His breath was gone. Stolen. Nagi stood beside him now, wide-eyed, pale. “What is he talking about…?” Ren’s cries grew more frantic, less coherent. “You were gonna forget him! They tried to make you forget! And I didn’t know what to do—I didn’t know how to help you! You were so sad and I—” He broke off in a wail. Nagi reached out—“Ren—” Ren flinched. Reo turned away.

His eyes—shining, glassy, stricken—looked down at the boy sobbing in his arms like a memory given shape. “He’s remembering,” Reo whispered. “That… that actually happened. Or… it will.” Barou stood awkwardly to the side, arms crossed now. “…He mentioned something about ‘purple moons’ and ‘bad suits’ earlier. Thought it was just a sugar crash. Guess not.” Reo didn’t laugh. He was trembling.

Across the cafeteria, Hiori rose quietly and turned off the TV. Isagi sat frozen, hands white-knuckled around his cup. Kurona moved to the door, shutting it slowly. Even Chris Prince had gone silent, leaning forward, brow furrowed in rare seriousness. Because toddlers don’t lie. Not like that. Not from dreams. Not from nothing. And certainly not with tears like these — heavy, painful, remembered.

Ren was still sobbing into Reo’s neck, the words spilling out in gasps and broken images. “Uncle Lexis and Aunt Chi were trying to help, but your mama said Omegas don’t get to choose—only rich Alphas do—and they said you had to marry a proper Alpha with business contracts and boring teeth—” Reo’s arms stiffened. His blood ran cold.

“…Uncle Lexis?” he repeated, barely breathing. Chigiri — seated at a nearby table, frozen halfway through a bite of toast — blinked. “Wait—he means me, right?” Ren nodded miserably. “Aunt Chi tried to stop it! But Mama and Papa—they said they’d take everything away from you if you didn’t do it!” Every Omega in the room stilled. Isagi’s hands clenched around his juice carton.

Yukimiya inhaled sharply, scent flaring with anxiety. Across the room, Alexis Ness — silent, unmoving — slowly turned his head toward Reo. His expression unreadable. But his eyes…His eyes shrank. As if a string had been yanked too tight around his chest. “…Uncle Lexis,” he repeated quietly, like the words were foreign on his tongue. Chigiri coughed lightly. “Yeah. That’s me. Aunt Chi. It’s… a long story.” He blinked. “Wait—why are we in this memory together? Ness doesn’t even talk to people unless they’re Kaiser.”

Every pair of eyes turned to Ness. He flinched. “…This is ridiculous,” he muttered, voice flat. “I wouldn’t—there’s no way I’d be involved. I don’t even speak to Mikage.”

“You did,” Ren sniffled, voice small but steady. “In the future. You came to the party. And you stayed after. Because you didn’t want him to cry alone again.” Reo’s eyes widened. His breath caught. Ness stared at Ren like he was staring at a hallucination. “I don’t… I don’t do that.”

“You did,” Ren insisted, pressing his hand to Reo’s chest. “You helped Mama. You said he didn’t deserve to be sold like a product.” Ness took a step back. His pulse roared in his ears. This wasn’t possible. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t close to anyone. He barely knew Reo. He— He remembered seeing Reo laugh once. Full, radiant, head thrown back. He remembered turning away before it could hurt. “I’m not part of this,” Ness muttered. “I’m not—I wouldn’t—”

“You were, you are my uncle Lexis Ren whispered. And then—He turned to Reo, eyes shining with that crushing, toddlerclarity. “You were crying because they didn’t care what you wanted. They said Omegas who dream too loud break everything.” Reo made a sound like choking. He clutched Ren tighter. His hands were shaking. The room was silent.

Not a sound. Not even a chair scrape. Not even a cough.
Because every player, every striker, every Alpha and Omega and Beta in that cafeteria knew what it meant to be told your dreams were inconvenient. But this—this was worse. Reo Mikage, son of the Mikage Conglomerate. The golden boy. The heir. The Omega who had everything. Except freedom.

And now, thanks to a bond-child from the future, everyone knew. Reo stood up abruptly. Ren was still in his arms, but his legs moved on instinct. Away. He couldn’t breathe in this room. He couldn’t think. Behind him, Nagi called softly, “Reo—” But Reo didn’t stop. He pushed past the stares. Past the pity. Past the shattered pieces of a memory he didn’t even own yet. Only one thought echoed in his mind, again and again: “They were never going to let me choose.”

Blue Lock Garden Wing – 7:42 a.m.

The sky was soft above him. Dew still clung to the grass. Somewhere behind the complex, a whistle blew, and a ball bounced. Blue Lock was waking up — drills, diets, danger. The usual. But Reo’s lungs weren’t working. He didn’t remember walking out. He didn’t remember how they got from the cafeteria to the garden. He only remembered the sound Ren made — that wail, soaked in a heartbreak he hadn’t lived yet — and the way it shattered something in him.

Now Ren was curled against his chest, small arms wrapped tight around his neck, nose buried under Reo’s jaw. “Mama smells safe,” he’d whispered. But Reo didn’t feel safe. He felt like breaking in half.

I was crying.

His brain kept looping the image Ren had described: him, sitting alone, crying while someone — Chigiri? Ness? — tried to soothe him. His parents in the other room. Talking about dowries, bloodlines, “reputation.” It wasn’t impossible. That’s what scared him. It wasn’t a memory. But it was close. Too close. Reo squeezed his eyes shut. His heart hurt. His whole chest ached like someone was carving words into it. He couldn’t breathe past the lump in his throat.

He should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve waved it away. “Oh, that Ren! What a vivid imagination!” But he couldn’t. Because part of him knew. Part of him had always known. The Mikage name wasn’t a crown. It was a chokehold. And he’d been slipping from its grip ever since he met Nagi. Ever since he learned he could want something that didn’t come with a price tag.

But freedom was never free. Not for someone like him. Not when every yen tied to his last name came with conditions. Not when his mother had once told him, softly, “It’s time to grow out of these dreams, Reo. You have duties now.” Not when he remembered, with painful clarity, how it felt to be 14 years old, staring out the window of his family estate, wondering what it would feel like to disappear.

“Am I still just a product?” he whispered, more to himself than to Ren. The child stirred against him. Reo brushed his hair back, gently, carefully. Like maybe if he held him tighter, he wouldn’t fall apart completely. “I thought I broke free. I thought I chose this life. Chose football. Chose Nagi.” But what if he didn’t? What if everything — everything — had been orchestrated? What if his freedom was just another pre-approved, parent-sanctioned performance? What if they’d always planned to take it all back?

Ren stirred. His little fingers tugged at Reo’s collar, sleepy and worried. “Mama…?” he mumbled. Reo smiled, cracked and soft. “Yeah. I’m here.” A pause. Then Ren whispered, “Mama’s sad when you cry.” Reo’s chest cracked wider. He held Ren closer. Tighter. Like an anchor. Like a lifeline. Like a future he wasn’t sure he deserved. “What if they’re right?” he wanted to ask.

What if he was just a selfish Omega with no business chasing dreams? What if he was never meant to be anything but a bargaining chip? What if Nagi deserved someone stronger? What if Ren deserved someone better? What if—? “Reo.” The voice came from behind him. Quiet. Familiar. Reo turned. And froze. Because standing in the doorway, still in his training gear, face drawn in quiet understanding—was Chigiri Hyoma.

“Hyo…” Reo breathed. Chigiri crossed the grass, sat beside him without a word, and touched his back gently. “You okay?” he asked softly. Reo laughed — sharp and breathless. “No.” Chigiri nodded. “Thought so.” They sat there a moment, Ren nestled between them, the morning sun warming their skin. Reo wanted to say something.nHe didn’t know what. But maybe he didn’t have to. Because Chigiri stayed. And Ren curled tighter into his chest. And the wind didn’t sound so cruel anymore.

Nagi Seishiro blinked at the empty hallway. No Reo. No Ren. No soft chatter or toddler footsteps or glitter juice spills in sight. Just silence. The kind that pressed in around his ears like static. “…Huh.” He checked the training room first. Then the common room. Then the east wing viewing deck. Nothing.

His walk turned into a jog. Jog turned into a run. By the time he reached the third stratum hallway, his lungs were tight and his chest was burning and— They weren’t there. Not Reo. Not Ren. Just a cold bench, a dropped crayon, and the ghost of a giggle from earlier. Nagi stopped. Froze. Stared at the empty spot where his world should be.

Did I mess it up again?

The thought came sharp. Unbidden. A punch to the ribs.

Did I leave again?

He remembered Ren's crying voice in the cafeteria — raw and panicked — talking about the future. About Reo crying. About Reo being forced to marry someone else. Because Nagi wasn’t there. Because he had left. “Stupid,” Nagi muttered, shoving a hand through his hair. The word echoed back at him from his own head, like a taunt.

You left him. You always leave.

And now— Now the bond was barely starting to mend, and Ren was here, and Reo was right there in front of him, breathing, hurting, and Nagi— He hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t seen any of it. He thought Reo was happy now. Thought maybe the worst had passed. But he should’ve known better. He should’ve remembered: Reo didn’t show pain like others.

He bottled it. Wrapped it in smiles and sarcasm. Wore glitter over bruises. And maybe— Maybe it wasn’t just the past Reo remembered that was painful. Maybe it was the future Nagi didn’t remember. He pressed his palms into his eyes. Hard.

Tried to shake the image Ren described: Reo, crying. Alone. Forced into something by his parents. Something Nagi couldn’t stop. Because he wasn’t there.

Because he walked away.

Maybe that’s why the bond broke. Maybe it was never Reo’s fault. Never Ego’s experiments. Never timing or instincts or scent triggers. Maybe it was just… him. “I was supposed to protect you,” he whispered into the silence. “I promised.”

He remembered something Reo had said once — when they were at Hakuho curled under a blanket after a match, Reo tracing constellations on the ceiling with a laser pointer. “I’ll never be just a Mikage. I want to be me, y’know? Just Reo. Not Reo the heir. Not a number on a spreadsheet.” Nagi had nodded, back then.

He didn’t understand it. But he felt it. He didn’t care about the company. Didn’t care about the expectations. He just wanted Reo. So how did it end up like this? How did Reo cry himself to sleep in a future without him? How did they go from “we’ll make our dream come true” to Ren alone in the hallway, sobbing about Mama and Papa and a wedding that never should’ve happened? He turned a corner. Spotted a flash of purple in the distance. Then a head of pink.

Then — finally — them. Reo was sitting beneath the sunshade by the side garden, Ren bundled against his chest like a fragile bird, and Chigiri was beside them, murmuring something soft. Reo looked broken. Like someone had peeled him open and left him there to bleed.

Nagi stopped walking.
Heart in his throat.
He didn’t know what to say.
Didn’t know how to fix it.
But he knew one thing—
He couldn’t leave again.

Chigiri stood from the bench without a word. He glanced at Reo — curled tightly around Ren, shoulders hunched like a man protecting the last of his heart — and then at Nagi, who sat still as stone, guilt thick on his face. “I’ll give you two a moment,” Chigiri said quietly. He ruffled Ren’s hair gently, nodded once at Nagi, then turned and walked back toward the dorms. The wind caught his ponytail like a silk ribbon trailing behind him.

The silence that followed was immediate. And stifling. The kind of silence that buzzed in your bones. Reo didn’t speak. He just held Ren close, like the warmth of his child was the only thing holding him together. Nagi sat beside them — not too close. Not too far. Just there. Present. Uncharacteristically still. He didn’t know how to start. He never did. So he just said the only word that mattered. “…Reo.”

Reo didn’t look up. But he didn’t ignore him, either. “I’m fine,” Reo muttered. “You’re lying.” A bitter laugh. “Yeah. Well. Get in line.” Nagi looked down at his hands — the same hands that had pulled Reo out of his worst days, that had made him laugh, that had held him after his first heat when Reo had been terrified of his own body. Hands that had scored goals, chased dreams… and somewhere in the space between, let Reo go. “…Did I really leave you?” Nagi asked. The words hurt on the way out, like swallowing broken glass.

Reo didn’t speak. But his arms tightened around Ren, his thumb brushing slowly against the boy’s back. That said enough. “I didn’t want to believe it,” Reo said, barely louder than a breath. “Not even after Ren showed up. But… yeah. You did.”

“I don’t remember,” Nagi whispered. “I don’t remember any of it. Not the fight. Not leaving.”

“I know.”

“But I did it.”

Reo closed his eyes. “Yeah.” A long pause. A leaf tumbled across the stone path. “I thought…” Reo’s voice was trembling now. “I thought maybe I wasn’t enough.”
Nagi’s head jerked up. “What? No. Reo—”

“I thought maybe you outgrew me. Or got tired of me being so… me. Needy. Loud. Always clinging.”

“Reo, that’s not—”

“Let me finish,” Reo snapped. Then softer, “Please.” Nagi shut his mouth. The way he always did when he couldn’t find the right words. Reo breathed in. Out. Then: “My parents used to tell me that my instincts made me weak. That Omegas who wear their hearts on their sleeves get eaten alive. That you — an Alpha — would leave me eventually, because no one stays with someone that intense forever.” Nagi’s hands clenched. Reo kept going.

“And then you did leave in the future. And they probaly said just like always, ‘See? We told you.’” His voice broke. “They arranged meetings. Suit fittings. Marriage contracts. They wanted me to pick a new Alpha like I was shopping for a business partner. Someone who looked good in press releases. Someone who wouldn’t embarrass the Mikage name.” He gave a hollow laugh. “I was a product again. Just an Omega heir to be polished up and traded off.”

Nagi felt like throwing up. “You weren’t supposed to need anyone,” he whispered, barely audible. “You were perfect. Smart. Confident. You were… everything.” Reo finally looked at him. “I needed you.” And that was what undid him. Nagi moved before he could think — reaching out with trembling hands, cupping Reo’s cheek. Reo flinched. But didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” Nagi said, voice breaking. “I don’t remember what that version of me did, but I see the damage now. In your eyes. In the way you hold him like you’re afraid to be alone again.” His hand slipped to Reo’s chest. “I don’t know what went wrong. But this version of me… I would never leave you. Not again.”

“Why?” Reo whispered, eyes glistening. “Because I love you,” Nagi said, and the words came out rough, raw, honest. “I know I’m slow with feelings. I never knew how to talk, how to show you. But it was always you. You made me care. You gave me a reason to want more. You’re not a burden — you’re my beginning.” Reo’s breath hitched. He choked out a shaky laugh.

“You idiot.”

“I know.”

“You’re terrible at this.”

“I’m trying.”

Reo leaned forward, forehead pressed to Nagi’s shoulder, tears soaking into his shirt. “I was so scared you didn’t love me anymore,” he whispered. “That you just… stopped.”

“I couldn’t,” Nagi said. “I can’t. Even when we’re apart, even when I don’t know how to show it… it’s always been you.” A small yawn interrupted them. “…Papa?” They both looked down. Ren was awake, eyes sleepy but bright. His small fingers reached out and touched their joined hands. “It’s brighter,” he whispered. “What is?” Reo asked, wiping his tears.

“The string,” Ren said, touching the space over his chest. “It used to flicker. But now it’s warm. Bright red.” He smiled. “You’re fixing it.” Nagi blinked. “Fixing…?” Reo’s voice shook. “The bond.” Ren nodded. “It’s still healing,” he said softly. “But it’s getting strong again. It’s not scared anymore.”

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Then, wordlessly, Reo reached out and took Nagi’s hand. Nagi gripped it back. Tight. They didn’t kiss. They didn’t make promises. But they chose each other. And Ren, nestled between them, smiled. Because he could see it — even if they couldn’t. The string. Bright. Glowing. Unbreakable.

Blue Lock Cafeteria – 7:38 a.m.

The room hadn't quite recovered. Even with Ren gone — carried out in Barou’s arms, still hiccuping sobs — the air remained thick. Players had resumed eating in halting gestures, conversations returning in cautious whispers. But the tension hadn't lifted. Not really. Ness hadn’t moved from his seat.

His tray of untouched food sat in front of him, cooling. The steam had long since faded, but the way his knuckles curled white around his cup hadn’t. Across from him, Kaiser muttered something to Grim. Yukimiya was muttering about bad timing. Isagi was staring at the door like he could follow Reo out with sheer willpower alone. But Ness…

Ness was still watching the space Reo had vacated. Where he’d stood, trembling, clutching Ren like a lifeline. Where his voice cracked around words that didn’t belong to a child — memories that shouldn’t exist.

When Papa left, Mama cried.
When Mama cried, Grandpa said Papa was a failure.
They tried to make Mama marry someone else.

The echoes played on a loop in Ness’s mind, warped through Ren’s wails but too vivid to ignore. The words hadn’t just cracked Reo open. They cracked Ness, too. He hadn’t meant to care. That was never the plan. Reo Mikage was loud. Flashy. Spoiled in the way only the rich could be — all pastel suits and designer sneakers and hearts too bright for the world they were dropped into.

Ness had assumed he’d hate him. And at first, he kind of did. But then— He saw it. The way Reo listened. The way he poured himself into others — not just Nagi, not just Ren, but everyone he dared to care about. The way his emotions were uncontrolled, unstrategic, raw.

It was everything Ness had taught himself to avoid. And yet, the chaos of it drew him in. He remembered the first time Reo had dragged him into a conversation after a Bastard München match — loud, obnoxious, asking too many questions, not letting him leave. He’d been so angry about it. So… rattled.

Reo hadn’t noticed how Ness flinched at too much noise. He hadn’t even cared that Ness barely responded.
He just kept showing up. At breakfast. In the hallways. After practice, with two bottled teas and an energy bar shoved into Ness’s hand without explanation. “You need to eat more,” Reo had said one time, frowning. “You’re always pale. Don’t tell me Kaiser’s got you surviving off air and discipline.”

Ness had stared at him, baffled. He didn’t remember the last time someone had said something like that to him and meant it. He wasn’t sure if he liked it. But he remembered that night. Because it was the first time he’d sat down and actually drunk the tea. Without calculating the sugar-to-caffeine ratio. Without measuring the benefit.

He drank it because Reo gave it to him. He trusted him. And now— Now he watched Reo crumble, undone by the future he’d been forced to shoulder alone. A future where Ness wasn’t even there. Not as a friend. Not as a shield. Not as anything. And it made his hands shake.

I should have been there.

The thought hit like a stone in water — rippling out and fracturing something Ness had locked away. He wasn’t Reo’s Alpha. He wasn’t Ren’s uncle. He wasn’t anyone important in this timeline. But he wanted to be. He didn’t understand why. But he wanted to. He clenched his jaw, pressing his fingers to his temples as if he could crush the rising ache before it bloomed. He couldn’t afford this. Affection led to vulnerability. Emotion led to noise.
And yet—

That sound. Reo’s voice breaking. Ren sobbing for a family being torn in half.

They tried to make Mama marry someone else.

Ness knew the weight of expectations. He knew what it was like to be treated like a pawn on someone else's chessboard — to be told who to be, who to serve, who to love. He thought he’d chosen his role freely. Loyal. Composed. Useful. But now… Now he wasn’t so sure. He swallowed hard.

Maybe loyalty wasn’t about serving power.
Maybe it was about standing beside someone who needed you — even if they didn’t know it yet.

Reo had looked so small today. And Ness hated that more than anything. Because somewhere deep, beneath layers of strategy and silence, he realized: He wanted to protect that boy with the too-bright heart. Not because he was ordered to. But because for once… He wanted to choose someone, too.

Blue Lock Cafeteria – 7:43 a.m.

The silence was still rippling, even though Ren’s cries had faded into soft hiccups across the room. Over at Bastard München’s corner of the cafeteria, the atmosphere was… cracked. Not loud, not calm — just fractured. No one quite looked at each other. Not at first.
Then— Kurona leaned forward on his elbows, staring blankly at the remnants of his toast. “…So. That happened,” he said. Then blinked. “That really happened.”

Yukimiya adjusted his glasses with a trembling sigh. He looked exhausted already, despite being perfectly groomed as always. His voice was clipped, like he was forcing his emotions to stay caged behind protocol.
“Future memories,” he muttered. “What kind of sci-fi hell is this?”

“Alternate timelines. Fated pairs. Visions of trauma. Next thing you know, there’ll be flying robots,” Hiori murmured from his seat beside him, voice soft but haunted. “Or a clone of Ego with laser eyes,” Kurona added, nodding solemnly. “Don’t give him ideas,” Isagi said sharply, pacing back and forth with his hands tangled in his hair. His whole energy was static — spiked, restless, too many thoughts slamming together behind wild eyes.

“I knew fated bonds were intense,” he said, nearly tripping over Raichi’s foot. “But I didn’t know we were dealing with curse-level generational trauma. Like… that was straight out of a drama special.” He spun on his heel and pointed at the ceiling. “HE SAID 'MY PAPA LEFT AND MAMA WAS CRYING’. That’s—! That’s—!!”

“Spiraling,” Ness cut in, cold and precise. His tone was calm, but his hands were folded too tightly on the table. The faintest tremor rode through his knuckles. “You’re spiraling again.”

“Out loud,” Hiori added, almost a whisper. “Again.” Raichi, as always, chose violence. “Hey, what if our bond-kid shows up with my criminal record? Like some future version of me where I finally snap and deck a referee.”

“You don’t have a record,” Gagamaru said without looking up from his cereal, blinking slowly like a puzzled animal. Raichi jabbed a finger at him. “YET, Gagamaru! YET.” Kurona nodded gravely. “Not yet. But one day. Someday. Maybe Tuesday.” Isagi groaned. “Why are you all like this?! That kid was crying about corporate forced marriage and emotional abandonment—”

“And?” drawled a familiar voice. Kaiser, draped lazily over the bench with a croissant in one hand and juice in the other, looked utterly unmoved. His eyes were half-lidded, voice dry. “…So Reo’s parents are villains now? Figures.” He took another bite, slow and pointed. Isagi’s head snapped around.

“Shut up, Kaiser,” he snapped. “Yeah, shut up, asshole,” Raichi barked. “You’re the last person allowed to comment on emotional stability,” Yukimiya added coolly.
Kaiser just shrugged and smirked. “I’m just saying — I called it. The rich ones always crack first.” Across from him, Ness didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He was silent — but something subtle shifted in his posture. Stiff. Still.

His eyes, usually flat with unshakeable calm, briefly flicked toward where Reo had stormed off with Nagi and the child. Then away. Like looking too long might burn. Kurona, who’d been watching Ness with his usual sleepy stare, tilted his head. “…You okay, Ness?” A pause. “I’m fine,” Ness said flatly. Kurona blinked. “Fine-fine? Or Ness-fine?” Ness gave him a thin, polite look. “The second one.”

“Cool-cool,” Kurona nodded. “So not fine. Not fine at all.” Gagamaru finally looked up. “Do you think we’re gonna have kids showing up for all of us?” Isagi froze mid-step. “Don’t say that.”

“But what if,” Gagamaru said seriously, “my kid inherits my jump and accidentally crashes through the ceiling?”

“…Okay that one’s fair,” Hiori muttered. Kurona perked up. “I want a kid with matching hair. Like me. Mini-me. But quieter. Way quieter.” Yukimiya stared at him. “Do you want a child or a pocket mirror?” Kurona shrugged. “Same vibe. Less talking.” Kaiser tossed his crumpled juice carton into the bin without missing a beat. “None of you are ready for fatherhood,” he said, still smirking. “Half of you can’t even commit to brushing your teeth before 10 a.m.”

“Excuse you,” Yukimiya snapped, “I floss daily.”
“I said what I said.” But behind the jokes, something had shifted. They’d all seen it. Ren’s trembling lip. Reo’s frozen face. Nagi’s panic. The raw, unbearable weight of a child remembering a version of their lives none of them had lived yet. And more than that— They all realized they weren’t immune.

Tomorrow, their bond-child could show up. Hurt. Haunted. Shaped by every mistake they hadn’t made yet. It wasn’t about Reo and Nagi anymore. It was a mirror. And for once, even Kaiser didn’t have a comeback for that.

FC Barcha Table

"That kid," Bachira said, upside-down in his chair, legs draped over the backrest, head hanging like a bat. His eyes were wide and sparkling. "That kid was like a tiny thunderstorm. Waaah! Boom! Boom! Secrets! Trauma! Future juice box crisis!" Otoya blinked, still half-chewing his banana. “...Are you sure you didn’t dream all that?”

“Nope!” Bachira grinned, teeth flashing. “That was real. My monster felt it.” Otoya stared. “You mean your gut?”

“No, my monster,” Bachira said, poking his own chest like a drum. “It was crying too. Like eeeehhhghhhh! Just like the kid.” He made a noise somewhere between a pterodactyl screech and a malfunctioning vacuum.
Otoya rubbed his temples. “Please. It’s too early for your sound effects.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Well. A version of silence. Bachira was humming. Still upside-down. Otoya stared at the far wall, a slow frown forming on his usually laid-back face. “…That whole marriage thing,” he said at last. “Reo’s parents forcing him to bond for business… That’s messed up.”

“Super duper yucky,” Bachira agreed, now stacking jam packets into a tiny pyramid. “That’s why I’m never letting anyone pick my pair.” He blinked. “Unless it’s someone with cool hair.”

“Or fangs,” he added a beat later. “Or big scary eyes. Like a bat demon!” Otoya looked at him, genuinely disturbed. “What kind of Omega are you into?” Bachira grinned and pointed at himself. “The kind that makes the monster purr.”

“…You ever think about it?” Otoya asked after a beat.

“Huh?”

“Like—your fated pair. What if they show up?” Otoya tilted his head, playing with his earring. “What if they’re annoying? Or clingy? Or Reo’s kid drops a trauma bomb on your lap next week?” Bachira sat up suddenly, expression thoughtful in a way that rarely happened. “…I dunno,” he said. “I think I’d still want to meet them. Even if they’re messy. Even if I’m not ready. ‘Cause… I think that’s what makes it real, right? Not being perfect. Just choosing each other anyway.”

He offered Otoya a crooked smile. “Besides. I’ve already been called annoying my whole life. I’m used to it.” Otoya laughed. Loud. Real. “God, you’re so weird.”

“I know, right?” Bachira chirped. Then paused. “…But hey.”

“What?”

“If it was you,” Bachira said casually, “who had a bond-kid show up with the ‘you broke their Omega parent’s heart’ drama arc…”

“…Yeah?”

“I’d sit next to you while you cried. Even if your mascara ran.”

“I don’t wear mascara.”

“You would if I did your makeup.”

“…I hate how fast that makes sense.” They laughed. And even though the rest of the cafeteria buzzed with tension and panic, for a second—FC Barcha felt a little more sunlit. Because if the future was coming for them, it was gonna have to face two certified chaos gremlins with great hair, way too much confidence, and a weird amount of emotional resiliency.

Ubers Table

A heavy silence lingered over the Ubers breakfast table, thick as molasses. No one touched their food. Well—except Don Lorenzo, who was munching cereal directly out of a bowl-sized protein shaker like a cryptid who wandered in from a swamp gym. “Kid’s got lungs,” he said finally, milk dribbling down his chin. “You hear that scream? Top five decibels. Easy.” Sendou was visibly pale. “I felt that scream in my bones. I thought he was possessed! What the hell kind of bond-kid memory trauma was that?”

“Deep,” Don Lorenzo said, slurping. “Corporate drama. Big boss moves. Gilded cages and betrayal. Your classic rich Omega angst.” Sendou blinked. “…How do you say things that make sense and don’t at the same time?”
Aryu was sprawled elegantly in his chair, cheek propped on his manicured fingers. “A child appearing with perfectly blown-out curls and generational trauma?” he mused. “Fashionable and cursed. I adore the aesthetic.” “Didn’t you say kids give you wrinkles?” Niko muttered under his breath.

Aryu gasped. “I said badly styled kids give me wrinkles. This one was an accessorized disaster.” A tense sigh cut through the air. Aiku rubbed his temples, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s recap,” he said, tone dry. “A five-year-old appeared from the future. Exposed a corporate arranged marriage scheme. Had a breakdown in Barou’s arms. And now half the cafeteria thinks we’re next.” A beat. Barou slammed down his water bottle. “I ain’t touching no kid,” he grunted. “Just ‘cause I caught him doesn’t mean I wanna be involved in that crap.”

“...You picked him up like a baby goat,” Sendou pointed out. “He was sobbing,” Aryu added helpfully. Barou scowled. “He looked like he was gonna faint. What was I supposed to do, leave him on the floor?”

“You cradled him.”

“I carried him. Like luggage.”

“You rocked him.”

“Shut your sparkly mouth.”

Niko stared into his porridge with a thousand-yard stare. “…What if my bond-child shows up with trauma I caused?” Aiku raised a brow. “You? Trauma?”

“I say ‘sorry’ too much. That’s trauma.”

“You do apologize to furniture,” Aryu muttered.

“Once!”

“Twice,” Sendou said.

Niko whimpered. Silence fell again. Just long enough for one of them to sigh. This time, it was Aiku. He looked down at the table, brows furrowed faintly, eyes sharper than usual. “…I didn’t think we’d be the ones watching the fallout.” Barou grunted. “What, you expected a happy welcome parade?” Aiku shook his head slowly. “No. But I didn’t expect it to hit that hard.”

He stared at the cafeteria entrance, where Reo and Nagi had disappeared minutes ago. His jaw flexed. “I thought fated bonds were bullshit.”

“And now?” Aryu asked, voice quieter. “…Now I think they’re bombs waiting to go off,” Aiku said. Don Lorenzo leaned back, drink in hand. “Well,” he rasped, “hope none of us lit the fuse.” He tipped his cup. Milk sloshed. “Cheers.”

PXG Table

Chaos had a sound. It was the clatter of Zantetsu’s spoon falling into his cereal bowl after Ren’s breakdown. It was Tokimitsu’s quiet sobbing into his banana. It was Charles stage-whispering “dramaaa” like a reality show villain watching a live breakdown.It was Rin’s silence. The dangerous kind. Karasu was the first to speak. “I feel like I just witnessed a f***ing novella.”

“Right?” Charles said brightly. “Rich Omega heir. Secret arranged marriage. Traumatized toddler straight outta a sci-fi fever dream? Ten out of ten. Peak television.”

“This isn’t a show, Charles,” Rin muttered. Charles blinked innocently. “It’s not?” Shidou kicked his chair back and whistled low. “Damn. Baby Bling had lore.”

“Reo,” Nanase corrected automatically.
Shidou pointed. “That one. Sparkly. The ‘I-just-got-trauma-dumped-on-by-my-own-kid’ guy. Purple Bun”

“That’s… kind of all of us now,” Tokimitsu said shakily, hands trembling. “What if our kids come back with nightmares, too?”

“They will,” Rin muttered darkly. “Everyone in this program’s emotionally repressed and one bad touch away from snapping.”

“Yeah,” Shidou smirked. “Speak for yourself, Ice Princess.” Rin’s glare could melt glaciers. Karasu leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. “…What I wanna know is how the kid knew all that. Like, exact memories? Future feelings? Eavesdropping on private convos from a timeline that doesn’t exist anymore? That’s quantum physics-level nightmare fuel.” Nanase made a soft wheeze. “I just passed my physics exam. I didn’t sign up for existential paradox children!” Zantetsu furrowed his brows. “…Wait. If the kid remembers the future, but the future hasn’t happened yet—”

“Don’t,” Charles said, placing a gentle hand over his mouth. “You’ll rip a hole in space-time.” Tokimitsu burst out, voice high and panicked. “What if our bond-children hate us?! What if I messed them up?! What if I left them at a train station and forgot about them forever and now they don’t speak to me and—”

“Take a breath, man,” Karasu muttered. “I AM!” Tokimitsu squeaked. Charles sipped his juice with elegant disdain. “At least Reo’s kid was cute. If mine shows up looking like my sixth-grade school photo, I’m deleting my DNA.”

“Genuinely what the f*** are you even talking about?” Karasu said. “I peaked at twelve, Karasu.”

“That’s depressing.” Meanwhile, Rin sat perfectly still, eyes locked on the door. His mind was racing. That breakdown. The sobbing. The way Reo had trembled. The look in Nagi’s eyes. It clawed at something Rin didn’t want to name. Because if Reo and Nagi — flashy, perfect, untouchable Reo and emotionally obtuse god-tier Nagi — could fracture like that…

Then what about him?
What about his bond?
What if he already broke it?

“Hey, Lashes," Shidou drawled, mouth full of toast. “You look like someone just told you you’re gonna have to babysit.”

“Shut up, Shidou.” Charles elbowed him. “You do look nervous. Did your soulmate ghost you already or something?” Rin’s grip on his fork tightened. “I said shut up.” A pause. Charles blinked. “…You’re not denying it.” Off to the side, Loki leaned against the wall with his usual unreadable expression — coffee in hand, black turtleneck, eyes like winter stars. He said nothing. But he was watching Rin very, very closely. Almost like he knew.

Blue Lock Conference Room – 9:04 a.m.

The atmosphere was electric. A long table dominated the command room. Screens flickered in the background, displaying security footage, heart rate data, and one very frozen image of Ren sobbing into Reo’s chest. The silence was thick — until it shattered. “So!” Chris Prince clapped once, all fake brightness and muscle-tight tension. “Do we wanna talk about the actual toddler with time travel trauma screaming about forced marriage in the cafeteria?”

“Chris,” Anri sighed, rubbing her temple. “No, no, Miss Anri, don’t ‘Chris’ me—there’s a toddler. He cried. The entire Ubers team froze. Don Lorenzo dropped his spoon. That doesn’t happen unless he’s scared.” Snuffy exhaled through his nose. “He’s not wrong.” Lavinho leaned back with a groan, tossing a lollipop into his mouth. “You all said this would be good for them. Bond-children, fated mates, ancient instincts—great PR, Lavinho! Now I’ve got Bachira asking if his kid will have antlers.”

“He asked me that too,” Loki murmured, deadpan.
Lavinho blinked. “…Wait, really?” Across the room, Noel Noa stood with arms folded, jaw clenched. He hadn’t spoken yet. But his presence was loud. Too loud. Ego sat at the far end of the table, spinning a pen between his fingers, face unreadable under blue glow. The silence buzzed. Then— “Explain,” Noa said at last, eyes narrowed. “Why weren’t you at the last briefing, Ego?”

Anri froze mid-scroll on her tablet. Ego didn’t look up. “I was busy,” he said coolly. “Monitoring the string’s reaction post-Ren's outburst. Cross-referencing metaphysical patterns against hormonal surge data. Someone has to do the real work around here.” Noa’s brow twitched.

“Don’t get self-righteous,” he said flatly. “You knew something like this would happen. You sent no warning. You didn’t show up.” Ego’s smile was sharp. “I wanted unbiased data.” Chris barked a disbelieving laugh. “Unbiased?! We had a baby sobbing about corporate betrothals in front of twenty emotionally constipated teenagers! We’re past data, man!”

“Ren is not just a child,” Anri added, voice calm but firm. “His memory was from the future. A timeline that might’ve existed—still might—depending on the state of Reo and Nagi’s bond. If this continues, others might start having visions, echoes, emotional collapses—”

“They’re already having collapses,” Loki muttered. “Have you seen Tokimitsu?” Snuffy shook his head. “We’re asking too much of them, too soon. They’re kids. Soldiers. Strikers. Not parents.”

“They’re Omegas and Alphas,” Ego said simply. “Their biology doesn’t care about their age.” Silence. Then Noa spoke again. Low. Controlled. “I’m warning you.”

“Oh?” Ego smirked, standing slowly. “You gonna punish me, Noel?” The temperature dropped. Anri made a strangled noise. “Ego-san!" Chris choked on his water. Loki raised an eyebrow. Snuffy pinched the bridge of his nose. Lavinho whispered, “Are they flirting or threatening each other again?”

“I can’t tell,” Loki said, sipping black coffee. “Either way, we’re all doomed.” Anri stood abruptly, cheeks flushed. “We need a plan. Not ego battles. These children — these players — need guidance. Structure. Nagi and Reo were just the first crack. There will be more.” Ego tilted his head. “Good.”

“Good?!”

“It means the system’s working. The bonds are forming.”
Noa scoffed. “And if it breaks them in the process?” Ego’s gaze sharpened. “Then they weren’t worthy of the future in the first place.” The room fell silent. Even Lavinho had no comeback for that.

Only Anri remained standing, clutching her tablet like it could protect her from the raw, painful truth unspooling between them. Somewhere outside the room, the sounds of breakfast laughter returned to normal. But inside this cold glass box— The real war was just beginning.

Blue Lock Garden Wing – 9:37 a.m.

The air was gentler now. The grass still held morning dew, and the sun filtered in through the edges of the trees. Reo and Nagi sat on the stone bench, Ren nestled asleep between them again — tired out from crying and healing. Nagi’s hand rested lightly against Reo’s, thumb brushing in slow, rhythmic motions. Neither of them spoke. Until a shadow stretched across the gravel. “Yo.”

Chris Prince leaned against a nearby column, a rare stillness in his stance. No flashy grin. No overbearing swagger. Just him — quiet, observant. Reo blinked. “Coach?”

“Didn’t wanna interrupt your moment,” Chris said casually, folding his arms. “But I figured if I waited for you two to stop brooding, I’d be here till Ren gets his college degree.” Nagi snorted faintly. Reo managed a small smile. “That’s fair.” Chris walked closer. “I saw what happened. Not all of it, but enough.” He looked at Ren, then at them. “You doing okay?” There was a pause. “…Getting there,” Reo admitted.

“Yeah,” Nagi murmured. “Trying.” Chris nodded, then tilted his head slightly. “Can I give you some advice? Just this once. No abs, no protein metaphors, no shirtless speeches. Just… a guy who’s seen some shit.” Reo blinked again, surprised. Nagi actually sat straighter. “…Yeah,” they both said. Chris crouched down in front of them. Eyes level. Voice low. “Love’s not supposed to be perfect,” he said. “It’s supposed to be brave.”

Reo’s breath hitched. Chris glanced between them. “You two aren’t broken. You just got scared. And that’s okay. Most people run from this kind of thing. Hell, most people never get this kind of thing. What you’ve got — this bond? This kid? This pull that keeps dragging you back to each other, no matter how hard the world tries to tear you apart — that’s rare.” Nagi swallowed. Reo’s grip on his hand tightened.

Chris smiled, but it was soft. Sincere. “So don’t waste it trying to make it look pretty. Just hold onto it. Talk. Fight if you need to. Cry. Mess up. But don’t let fear write your story.” His gaze sharpened just a little. “You already lost time. Don’t lose each other again.” There was silence. Then: “...That was really cool,” Nagi said. Chris blinked. “Of course it was.”

“Like. No abs. No flexing,” Reo added, dazed. “Just pure mentorship.”

“I have depth,” Chris said, offended. “I do more than moisturize and pose.”

“Sure you do,” Reo grinned. Chris sighed, shaking his head. “Brats.” But he stood, ruffling Ren’s hair as he passed — the kid still dozing. And as he walked away, he tossed over his shoulder: “Remember: brave, not perfect.” The wind carried his words like a promise.

Blue Lock Training Compound – 10:04 a.m.

It started small. Subtle. Like the first crack of sunlight after a long storm. Nagi nudged Reo’s shoulder as they walked, just enough to make him stumble. Not enough to make him fall. Just enough to say I’m here. Reo shot him a mock-glare and elbowed him back, lighter than air. No one spoke. But Ren, walking between them, sensed the shift. He gripped both their hands tightly, as if to anchor it in place. They passed the garden path. The dorm steps. The juice machine Ren had tried to parkour off the night before. Each familiar sight pulling old memories to the surface — both good and bad.

Reo glanced sideways as Nagi scratched the back of his head absently. “…Did you always scratch your head like that when you’re awkward?”

“Huh?” Nagi blinked. “I’m not awkward.” Reo raised an eyebrow. “You just said that while awkwardly scratching your head.”

“…That’s slander.”

“Confirmed slander,” Reo said, grinning faintly. Nagi huffed. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re annoying.” They both stopped. And laughed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But to Ren — walking between them, little hand swinging between two people who had once shattered each other — it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. They ended up on the steps of the dorm, just sitting. Letting the morning move past them. Ren was fiddling with a stick, tracing shapes into the gravel at their feet. Reo leaned back on his hands, squinting at the sky. “You ever think about how weird this all is?” he asked. Nagi tilted his head. “What part?”

“The fact that our kid from the future is here to make sure we don’t mess up our second chance.” Nagi scratched his cheek. “I think about that a lot.”
“…Still weird,” Reo said softly. “Yeah,” Nagi murmured. “But maybe… not bad.” Reo looked at him. “Yeah?” Nagi glanced at Ren. Then back at Reo. “…Not bad,” he said again, voice firmer. Reo smiled. This time, for real.

Later – Common Lounge

Ren had demanded a snack break. ("I'm on a juice detox," he announced solemnly, "for health reasons.") They settled into the common room, Ren cross-legged on the floor surrounded by crackers, a coloring book, and three different plushies — including the infamous sock puppet Gregory, now duct-taped to a popsicle stick like a cursed wand.

Reo scrolled through his tablet, skimming match schedules. Nagi was lying flat on the floor beside Ren, eyes half-closed. Reo glanced at them both. He hesitated. Then—slowly—he set the tablet down and moved to lie next to Nagi, head tilted toward him. “You still want to fly on your own?” he asked, barely above a whisper. Nagi blinked at the ceiling. “Yeah,” he said truthfully. “But I think… I want to come back to you when I land.”

Reo’s breath hitched. And then, gently, he reached for Nagi’s hand. They didn’t lace fingers. Just touched. Barely. But enough. Enough for now. Ren looked up. He blinked. Then beamed. “They’re glowing again,” he whispered to Souta. The sock puppet said nothing, but somehow, seemed smug.

Blue Lock Cafeteria – 6:42 p.m.

The cafeteria was loud. Plates clattered, Raichi and Otoya were arguing over dessert rights, Barou was threatening to destroy a vending machine, and Chris Prince was monologuing about slow carbs to no one in particular. In the middle of it all, Ren was sulking. Not the quiet, sniffly kind of sulking. No.

This was arms-crossed, cheeks-puffed, tear-simmering toddler RAGE. He sat at the center table, surrounded by a plate of untouched rice, five different juice boxes (all confiscated), and the collective attention of every single Blue Lock player. “I miss Theo!” Ren shouted suddenly. The room fell into stunned silence. “Who?” Karasu blinked. “...Theo?” Isagi repeated. “His future goldfish?” Sendou whispered. “No,” Ren wailed, eyes shining. “My big brother!!”

“BROTHER?” Barou thundered. “You got siblings now?!”

“No! He’s not a real brother—he’s my friend—but he’s like a brother—but not like that—but he’s my big brother!!”

“…You’re not making sense,” Niko muttered under his breath. Ren’s face crumpled. “YOU’RE NOT MAKING SENSE!” Reo winced. “Ren—”

“NO!” Ren pushed his tray away with dramatic toddler force. “I want Theo! Theo always shares his cheese fries with me and calls me champ!”

“...That’s cute,” Chigiri whispered to Nagi, who nodded slowly, stunned. Kaiser narrowed his eyes. “Who the hell is Theo?”

“I bet Theo’s not even real,” Otoya said, smirking. Ren gasped. Scandalized. “HOW DARE YOU,” he shrieked. “Theo is the COOLEST person ever!! He has cool hair, and he talks in, like, mysterious riddles! And he taught me how to draw sharks!” Chris Prince leaned in from another table. “Sharks, huh? Can he draw abs?”

“HE HAS ABS,” Ren insisted. “He works out!! He has a punching bag named ‘Regret!’”

“I’m adopting him,” Chris declared. “NO,” Ren snapped. “Only I get to be his little brother! AND—” he jabbed a chubby finger in warning, “—you can’t call him Theo.” Everyone blinked. “Wait… what?” Tokimitsu asked nervously. Ren crossed his arms. “Only his favorite people get to call him Theo. If you’re not special, you call him Magnus.” The room went dead quiet. “…Excuse me?” said Aryu, eyes wide. “MAGNUS?” Yukimiya said, choking on his water. “That sounds like a secret villain name,” Kurona muttered. Then added, “A cool one. A cool one. A scary-cool one.”

“Wait wait wait.” Bachira leaned forward, eyes glowing. “You’re telling me this Theo guy—”

“MAGNUS.”

“—right, Magnus, taught you to draw sharks, has abs, a punching bag called Regret, and doesn’t let people call him by his nickname unless he likes them?” Ren nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”

“I want to meet him immediately,” said Aiku. “Do we have intel on him?” Anri asked from the corner, half-horrified. Ego scribbled on a notepad labeled “Future Interference Threats” with a trembling hand. Meanwhile, Reo and Nagi were trying—and failing—to deescalate the situation. “Ren, baby, please eat your rice,” Reo whispered. “I can’t eat without Theo!” Ren sniffled. “He cuts my fish fillets into stars!” Nagi blinked. “…That’s kind of adorable.”

“I’m gonna cry,” Hiori whispered, genuinely emotional. Ren stood on the bench dramatically, eyes wild. “I WANT THEO!!!” Chris Prince turned, deadly serious. “Boys. We’re finding Theo.”

“MAGNUS,” the room chorused. “…Right,” Chris said. “Magnus. Operation Big Brother Retrieval begins now.” Meanwhile, Ren had started to scribble something on a napkin. It was… a crude sketch of a man with wild hair, starfish abs, and a shark tattoo.

“He’s real,” Ren said, thrusting the drawing in front of them like proof of a war crime. “And he’s waiting for me!” Reo sighed into his rice. Nagi just patted his head.
And every Blue Lock boy in the room had just made it their personal mission to find out who the hell Magnus really was.

Manshine City Dorms – 9:47 p.m.

Night had finally fallen over the Blue Lock facility. But no one—no one—was at peace. Ren was fast asleep.
Tucked neatly between Reo and Nagi, snoring softly, his tear tracks long dried. One fist curled around a tiny plush version of a shark. The other held a crumpled napkin drawing labeled “THEO’S HAIR (COOL)” in shaky handwriting. And meanwhile, the rest of the complex? Unhinged.

Bastard München Dorm – Common Lounge

Isagi was pacing again. This time in pajamas. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t a toddler exaggeration,” he muttered, hands raking through his hair. “The way Ren said Magnus? That was reverence. He worships this guy.” Kurona, half-asleep on the top bunk, murmured, “Magnus. Magnus. Like a Roman god. Or a shampoo brand.” Yukimiya groaned from his desk. “We’re losing sleep over a possibly imaginary six-pack enthusiast named Magnus. This is insanity.”

“Regret was the name of his punching bag!” Isagi hissed. “That means something!”

“I regret still being awake,” Ness muttered. Even Kaiser, now brushing his teeth by the sink, mumbled around his toothbrush, “If this Magnus guy is real, I better not get replaced.”

FC Barcha Dorms

Bachira lay upside-down on his bed, eyes wide open in the dark. “You think Theo can do flips?” he whispered. “…I think Theo’s a hallucination,” Otoya muttered from under his blanket.

“He has shark tattoos, Otoya.”

“That’s not proof.”

“He named a punching bag.”

“…Shut up.”

PXG Quarters

“…You’re telling me that tiny gremlin made us all question reality, cry, and then passed out without giving a single answer?” Karasu said, flabbergasted. “He’s a menace,” Shidou said in awe. “I respect it.”

“I don’t!” Rin snapped from the next bed over, throwing a pillow. “I’ve got a headache. Charles won’t stop humming ‘Magnus the Cool’ in the corner.” Charles beamed, mid-dance. “MAGNUS THE COOL~ WITH HIS SHARKS AND TOOLS~”

“Go to sleep,” Rin growled.

Ubers Common Area

“Bro,” Sendou whispered dramatically to Aryu as they did their skincare routine, “what if this Magnus guy is a time-traveling Alpha protector?”

“Time-traveling?” Aryu said, dabbing serum under his eyes. “Or just future Theo?”

“Same thing!”

Barou, from the hallway, barked, “He’s a punk. Can’t even show up.” Niko raised an eyebrow. “You… mad the toddler has another guy he likes more?” Barou scoffed and turned away, but his ears were visibly pink.

Chris Prince’s Room

Chris leaned back against the wall, towel around his shoulders, hair damp from the shower. He stared at the ceiling like it held answers. “This Theo,” he muttered to himself, “this Magnus… he cuts fish into stars. What kind of culinary genius—?” He rolled over and scribbled a note in his Toddler Bond Nutrition Log.

“Train Nagi in fish sculpting. Compete with Magnus.”

Ego’s Surveillance Office

Ego stood in front of twelve monitors, one still frozen on Ren’s face mid-tantrum. Anri looked up from her data tablet. “We have zero leads,” she said. Ego grunted. “The kid’s an enigma. “What now?” Ego lit a penlight and clicked it on. “We wait.”

Blue Lock Conference Room – 5:30 a.m.

The conference room lights buzzed overhead. A massive touch display glowed dimly in the center of the round table, where Ego, Anri, and the five Masters sat.
Chris Prince lounged with his cheek in one hand, half-awake. Snuffy sipped strong coffee, brows furrowed. Lavinho spun a pen between his fingers, bored. Noel Noa leaned forward in silence, laser-focused. Julian Loki typed rapidly on a tablet, as if the data might somehow make sense of everything.

Ego stood at the head of the room, posture stiff with tension. “—I warned you. If we didn’t stabilize the emotional stress fractures forming between the pairs, more bond-children would be pulled through. And now? Another signal just spiked. It’s already here.” Anri paled. “Here? You mean… in the building?” Before Ego could answer— The air shifted. The lights flickered.

And then— A golden shimmer unfolded in the middle of the room, like mist parting around something ancient, something holy. A ripple in time — not loud, not violent — but inevitable. A boy stood there. Small. Still. Poised. Platinum hair. Blue eyes like frost. A crisp, formal coat that somehow matched Blue Lock’s colors. His presence was regal — spine straight, gaze unblinking, older than his years. He didn’t look confused. He looked prepared. Everyone rose.

“Who—” Noa started, taking a step forward. The boy looked around calmly. Judging. Measuring. And then his eyes landed on Ego. “Are you Jinpachi Ego?” Ego’s brow twitched. “Depends who’s asking.” The boy didn’t flinch. “I’m Magnus Theodor Kaiser. I’m here for the bond correction protocol. My guide said you’d understand.” Anri choked on air. “Kaiser?!” Chris sat up straighter, blinking. “Wait— Kaiser as in—?”

“Michael is my father,” Magnus said crisply, and not once did he call him ‘Dad.’ The name Michael left his mouth like a bitter rind. “And your mother?” Noa asked carefully. Magnus turned to the side where the wall screen flickered faintly with data projections. He touched a finger to a small framed photo of Bastard München’s current lineup. He pointed. To Ness.

“…That’s Mother.” Anri’s hand flew to her mouth. For a moment, no one said anything. Then Snuffy exhaled hard. “Oh. This one’s going to be complicated.” Loki raised an eyebrow. “Another child... born of an Omega and Alpha pair. But this one’s different.”

“He’s too composed,” Noa murmured. “He wasn’t pulled accidentally. He chose to come.” Magnus looked toward him. “I was invited by the Angel of Binding. She said my presence might restore something that was broken. That I could... help him heal.”

“Your father?” Chris asked. Magnus’s expression didn’t change, but his voice chilled. “No. Mother.” Then, after a beat— “Michael doesn’t need help. He needs to answer for what he did.” The room was silent again. Until Lavinho whistled low. “Okay, I’m gonna say it — this one’s terrifying.”

Another child. Another wound dragged into the open.
But this one... Ego knew. He knew from the moment the boy looked at Ness the way Noa sometimes looked at him. That same echo of rage through love. Of fear wrapped in protection. Magnus Kaiser was not a child looking for guidance. He was a weapon— Sharpened by heartache. Sent back by fate. And his target?

Michael Kaiser.

Blue Lock Complex – Day 5__5:55 a.m.

“ALL BLUE LOCK PLAYERS — REPORT TO THE ARENA. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” The alarms didn’t just ring. They screamed. Sirens blared like an air raid. Red lights strobed through the hallways in pulsing flashes. Emergency text crawled across every monitor, tablet, and digital panel like a divine warning:

“YOU’VE SUMMONED ANOTHER ONE.
GET YOUR ASSES TO THE STADIUM.”

Bastard München

Isagi Yoichi shot upright, drenched in cold sweat, the blanket twisted around his waist like a straitjacket of dread. “Not again,” he rasped. “We just got over Ren—!” From the other bed, Kurona sat up mid-chew, a protein bar half-stuffed in his mouth. “I knew that thing tasted like disaster,” he muttered, crumbs everywhere. “I told you. I told you the air was too still yesterday. The bond gods were watching.”

“Dude, it was Leg Day,” Raichi bellowed from the hallway, shirtless and stomping. “WHY ARE WE BEING PUNISHED?!” Hiori was already lacing his shoes with eerie calm. “Because none of us know how to process emotions.”

“Speak for yourself,” Yukimiya huffed, adjusting his sleep mask dramatically. “I journal. With scented pens.”
From across the hall, Kaiser stepped out of his room in perfect form, not a hair out of place. “Tch. More of Ego’s theatrics.” Ness followed silently behind him — ghost-pale, back straight, lips tight. He didn’t speak.
He never did when the air felt like this.

Manshine City

Reo was mid-shirt-tangle, breathing fast. “It’s too soon. This is too soon.” Nagi, yawning, flopped onto Reo’s bed with a grunt. “Do I gotta run again…? Can’t we just die in our sleep and leave a note?”

“Get up,” Reo snapped, voice cracking. “What if it’s another bond child? What if it’s one of ours this time?”
Nagi lifted his head lazily. “If it looks like you, its gonna be cute.” Chigiri kicked open their door already dressed, Ren perched on his hip, wide-eyed and blinking from sleep. “Did someone say bond child?”

Ren lit up. “Another friend?!” Reo nearly fainted. “NO. NO FRIENDS. NO MORE FRIENDS.”

PXG

Shidou burst from his room like a rocket, wild-eyed and shirtless. “IS IT ANOTHER BOND DEMON? LET’S GO, BABY!” Charles leaned out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, foamy mouth screaming: “I HAVEN’T EVEN BEEN MARKED YET, GOD!” Karasu groaned, dragging himself into the hallway with one eye open. “You two are loud at every emergency.”

“I hope it’s mine,” Shidou grinned. “I want a kid who breathes fire and punches.”

“You are the child who punches,” Tokimitsu whispered from behind Zantetsu, shaking like a leaf. “I can’t do this. I’m gonna cry.” Zantetsu patted his shoulder. “It’s okay. If we’re eliminated, I’ll avenge you.”

“How? You forget your own tactics,” Charles wheezed.

Ubers

“First the little purple prince,” Aiku muttered, buttoning up his uniform with a grim sigh, “now what? A time-traveling toddler with a legal team?” Niko sat silently in front of his mirror, tie half-done, hands trembling. Barou slammed his locker shut. “If this one doesn’t breathe fire or do my taxes, I’m out.” Aryu popped his head out, already glamorously dressed. “What if it’s like… a future stylist? Like a mini-me?”

Don Lorenzo peeked from his door with a donut in each hand. “What if it’s mine? What if I have a tiny, rich heir?!” Sendou screamed from the bathroom: “IF IT’S MINE, I’M THROWING MYSELF OFF THE ROOF!”

FC Barcha

Otoya flopped dramatically into the hallway. “If this is another child, I’m suing. I’m too young to be this emotionally bruised.” Bachira, spinning his hair tie, giggled. “Maybe it’s a baby with tentacles. Ooooooh. Or a clone!” Lavinho shouted from his room: “IF IT’S ANOTHER KID, I’M GOING BACK TO RETIREMENT!”

Master Observation Deck – 6:10 AM

Above the stadium, the Masters filed in like generals to a tribunal — already briefed, already bracing. Noel Noa arrived first, silent as ever, his arms crossed tightly. His eyes were unreadable, fixed on the platform below with a soldier’s stillness — not just observing, but waiting.

Chris Prince trailed after him, face drawn with sleepless shadows. He unscrewed the cap on a flask of protein espresso and muttered, “Nine years old and already built like a grudge.” He didn’t smile. Snuffy let out a long breath, rubbing his temples. “Another one already… and this one’s more aware than the last.” He wasn’t just tired — he was concerned. Deeply.

Lavinho stormed in next, barefoot, with a coffee-stained bathrobe and a baguette clenched between his teeth like a sword. “You told me Ren was chaos. This one? This one stares like he’s seen war.” Julian Loki was last — pristine, cold, and composed. He took one long sip of tea before murmuring, “At this rate, we won’t need a striker program. We’ll need a therapist on retainer.”

His eyes flicked down to the center stage — not surprised, not curious — just waiting. “Let’s see how long it takes before they realize who he really came for.”

Blue Lock Stadium – 6:17 a.m.

Every player was seated — backs straight, shoulders taut, barely breathing — like soldiers awaiting a verdict. The arena lights cast long shadows across the pristine floor, sterile and theatrical. Above them, in the elevated glass-paneled gallery, the Masters stood like ancient gods peering down from Olympus. Noel Noa was stone-still, arms folded, unreadable behind that impassive gaze. Snuffy leaned forward with quiet dread, hands clasped together, as if already praying. Chris Prince rubbed his temple with the heel of his hand, muttering under his breath about needing a double shot of protein espresso. Lavinho was crouched lazily against the railing, half-eaten croissant in hand, lips pursed in morbid curiosity. Loki, of course, looked freshly styled and chillingly serene — sipping his tea like this was all a performance staged for him alone.

And at the center of it all, standing beneath a halo of cold spotlight, was Jinpachi Ego. Tablet in one hand. Smirk like a razor. Anri Teieri stood beside him — pale, composed, and far too quiet. Her fingers moved with anxious precision over the scrolling data on her own device. If anyone looked close, they’d see she was holding her breath. The air in the arena was thick. Too still. Like the moment before lightning. Like the moment before something breaks. Ego finally cleared his throat — not because he needed to, but because he liked the drama of it.

“Congratulations,” he said, voice slow and vicious, “you emotionally-stunted disasters.” A few players flinched. Reo exhaled shakily through his nose. Rin rolled his eyes but said nothing. Raichi groaned audibly. “You’ve managed to summon yet another metaphysical bomb from the future.” That caused a ripple. Groans. Gasps. Someone whispered “no way” under their breath.

Isagi’s fingers twitched on his knee. Kurona was blinking rapidly. Yukimiya stared straight ahead like he was trying to manifest a different reality. Ego’s grin widened, a gleam catching his glasses as he tapped the corner of his tablet. “Let me be clear,” he said, voice gaining momentum, “this is not fate being cute. This is not some rom-com timeline nonsense.” He took a single step forward. “This is the multiverse shrieking in our faces. This is time and instinct and destiny — all of them screaming for someone to fix what you idiots broke.”
Another tap. Behind him, a hologram surged into life — spiking data lines, pulsing energy signatures, a biometric waveform shaped like a heartbeat caught mid-thunderclap.

“This,” Ego said smoothly, “is your next problem.” The image zoomed in. Sharp peaks. Power. Rage. “The bond is real. The timeline is unstable. And someone—” he paused, let the silence stretch like a blade across a throat “—has produced a second Alpha heir with enough contained rage to power this facility’s generator for the next decade.” Murmurs now turned to full-on whispers. Anxiety buzzed like static across every row.

“Not again…”

“Who the hell summoned another one?”

“Please not me, please not me—”

“Is it Nagi again? He looks guilty—wait, no, that's just his face.”

“Shut up, Otoya!”

Ego barely blinked. “This child did not cry when he arrived. He did not ask where he was. He did not panic. He stared me down like I was the anomaly — pointed at his parents, and said—” He turned slightly toward the group. “‘Don’t introduce me. I’ll handle it myself.’”

Anri flinched beside him — just barely — but said nothing. A beat passed. No one moved. Then — finally — a voice, timid but clear: “And… who are the parents?” It was Yukimiya. He sounded like he already regretted asking. Ego didn’t answer. He just smiled. A slow, knowing, dangerous smile. The air tensed. Then— The lights snapped off.

For a heartbeat, everything was black. No sounds. No lights. Just tension — taut and waiting. Then— A soft, mechanical hum. Like power winding up. A spotlight snapped on, searing into the center of the stadium like divine judgment. The floor pulsed once — and shimmered. The air twisted. Time folded.

And out of the distortion, a boy stepped forward. Nine years old. Tall for his age, but unmistakably a child — gangly elbows tucked into a navy-blue coat with gold-lined cuffs, shoes polished like he’d been dressed by someone too strict. Platinum hair fell neatly to the sides of his face. His eyes — those eyes — were a vivid, unnatural blue. Like glass. Like Kaiser’s.

He didn’t stumble. But he did blink wide at the crowd, as if trying to count them all. His lip twitched in the smallest pout — not annoyance, not smugness. Just… calculation. He adjusted his collar with both hands, let out a short huff, and walked forward — steps too stiff to be natural, like a kid imitating adults. His shoulders were squared like he’d practiced this entrance in a mirror. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak.

But he commanded the space. Gasps rippled across the stadium. From Bastard München to PXG, every eye widened in stunned recognition. “Holy crap,” Bachira whispered. “That’s…”

“Mini-Kaiser,” Zantetsu said with wide eyes. “He looks like he inherited the ego gene and then multiplied it,” muttered Charles, who immediately hid behind Shidou.
Aryu’s voice was faint. “He looks like a weaponized heir from a gothic fairytale.” Barou’s eyes narrowed. “He better not bite.”

“Why is he—” Otoya began. “Don’t say it,” Niko snapped, slapping his shoulder. “He’s nine. Don’t be disgusting.”
The boy paused mid-step. He’d heard them. Every word.
He turned his head just slightly toward the crowd — not angry, not petulant — just with that eerie calm. And when he spoke, his voice was clear, sharp, and too measured for his age. “I said, don’t announce me.” Silence. Immediate and thick. “I’ll speak for myself.”

The boy stepped forward into the full circle of light. His eyes scanned the players — slow, deliberate, almost judgmental — before locking on one person. Ness. Ness, who hadn’t moved since the lights went out. “My name is Magnus Theodor Kaiser,” the boy declared. “Son of Michael Kaiser…” His head tilted ever so slightly, gaze sliding to Bastard München like a sword being drawn. “…and Alexis Ness.” The room stilled. The effect was instant. Ness’s body jolted. Not a full flinch — but enough to break the marble stillness he’d wrapped himself in since arriving. He stared. Hands clasped in front of him like he didn’t trust them to stay steady. And beside him— Kaiser blinked. For the first time in recorded memory, Michael Kaiser had no snark. No smirk. No mask. Just silence. Eyes locked on the boy like a ghost had crawled out of his own skin.

On the far side of the arena, Ren gasped and clutched Chigiri’s arm. “THEO?!” he whispered. Loudly. Magnus turned toward him — and for the first time, his face softened. “Hello, Ren,” he said gently. “You look well. But you’ve been crying too much. Drink more water.” Then he faced the crowd again — posture stiff, voice rising in dramatic formality again like a knight at court:

“Only those I love may call me Theo. The rest of you may call me Magnus. Or not at all.” Kurona whispered, “Oh no. He’s Ren 2. But colder. And taller. And possibly bulletproof. We’re doomed. We’re so doomed.” Hiori leaned into Isagi. “Are you okay? You’re pale.” Isagi didn’t respond. His breath was shaking. His knees locked. His vision blurred. That face. That voice.

The way he walked — the way he smirked, the way he judged the room. Michael Kaiser. A miniature, haunting mirror. “Nope,” Isagi choked, stepping back. “Nope, no no no—” He dropped.Kurona caught him halfway down. “Isagi?! Hey!”

“ISAGI?!” Yukimiya yelped. Raichi nearly tripped trying to catch him. “He’s down! The bastard’s DOWN!” Gagamaru reached over and propped him upright. “He’s short-circuiting. Too much Kaiser DNA in one room.”

“Don’t blame him,” Hiori muttered. “It’s like staring into the abyss.” Kunigami looked over. “He’ll live. Let him reset.” Magnus didn’t even blink. “Isagi Yoichi,” he said blankly. “Emotional volatility noted.” Then — he turned fully to Kaiser. “You’re… my kid?” Kaiser finally muttered, eyes unreadable. Magnus tilted his head. “Biologically, yes. Unfortunately. Emotionally? No. Because no father of mine makes an Omega cry like that.” Gasps exploded.

“HE WHAT?!”

“IS THAT LEGAL?!”

“THIS IS A MURDER!”

Raichi started to clap. “KILL HIM, SHORT KING.” Charles was sobbing behind Shidou. “He’s so BRAVE.” Shidou cackled. “He’s metal. I love him.” Lavinho whistled. “That kid’s got more bite than Barou.” Snuffy leaned toward Chris Prince. “I want to adopt him.” Chris nodded solemnly. “I think he just adopted us.” Loki sipped his tea and murmured, “Delightfully brutal. I approve.”

Magnus turned back to Ness. And his voice, for the first time, cracked just a little. “You said once… ‘Theo’ was a gift name. That I should only let people who love me use it.…Do you still mean that?” Ness’s lips parted. His breath hitched. He nodded. A single, fragile motion. Magnus’s expression softened.

“Then I’ll earn it again,” he said. “By fixing what you’re both afraid to admit still exists.” Magnus stood in the center of the arena like a prince born under siege. He had dragged everyone to silence with his words. His name. His stare. And yet—his eyes, still so young, still so nine—kept flicking back to the same spot. To Ness.

“Director Ego,” Magnus said, shifting stiffly. “May I go to the cafeteria now? I… I want orange juice. And maybe eggs. If they’re not… powdered.” Ego gestured with a theatrical flourish. “Permission granted, Brat.” The boy gave a tiny, almost embarrassed bow — and turned. He walked past Kaiser without looking at him.

Ness, who hadn’t moved. Ness, who hadn’t breathed in a full minute. Who looked like a glass sculpture balancing on the edge of a table, one tremor from shattering. Magnus hesitated. And then— He stepped off the center stage. His boots made small, quick taps now. Not the regal echo from before. Just the hurried shuffle of a boy with too many feelings stuffed inside a spine too stiff for them.

Kaiser watched him move and didn’t say a word. The stadium fell to a hush again. Not expectant. Not dramatic. Just… still. Magnus stopped directly in front of Ness. He looked up — so much smaller now that he was close. No spotlight. No glare. Just a boy in too-big shoes. Ness’s throat moved. His eyes were still wide.
Still confused. Still scared. Magnus tilted his head and whispered — voice trembling for the first time: “I missed you, Mother.”

That was it. The break. Ness’s breath hitched — loud, sharp, painful. And before he could stop himself, before anyone could say a word— Magnus wrapped his arms around his waist. Just leaned in, chest to stomach, and hugged him. No dramatic music. No fireworks. “I missed you so much,” Magnus mumbled. “I’m sorry I left. I didn’t want to. I didn’t mean to.” Ness's hands hovered uselessly in the air. He looked like he didn’t dare touch him. Like if he reached out, Magnus would vanish again.

But Magnus didn’t vanish. He just gripped tighter. Small hands curled into the fabric of Ness’s training jacket. “You didn’t deserve what he did to you,” he whispered. “But I’m here now. I promise. I’ll make it better this time.” And Ness — Ness finally moved. Slowly, quietly, with the same kind of care he used when setting up tactical boards or guiding Kaiser through narrow passes on the field— He bent down.

And pulled his son into his arms. Not like a teammate. Not like a strategist. Just a tiny body clinging to the person who used to tuck him in at night, in a timeline now broken. Like a parent who forgot how to breathe. He didn’t say anything. But the way his hand cradled the back of Magnus’s head, fingers trembling— That said everything. The players all froze. Even the loud ones.

Even Barou and Shidou and Raichi and Zantetsu. Even Kaiser, who stared like the ground beneath him had started to crack. No one knew what to say. They just watched a moment that should have never been possible — a parent and a child reaching across time. Ren tugged on Nagi’s sleeve. “Do you think he remembers everything?” Nagi nodded slowly. “All of it.”

Finally, Magnus pulled back. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve — only now realizing he was crying. “I still want orange juice,” he said quietly. “But only if you come with me.” Ness choked out a laugh that was half a sob. He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, Theo.” Magnus beamed. And the name stuck like sunlight.

The doors closed behind Ness and Magnus with a final hiss of hydraulics. Silence lingered in their absence. Then, as if a switch flipped—

“OH MY GOD—”

“—WHAT JUST HAPPENED—”

“NESS?? A MOM???”

“I NEED TO SIT DOWN—”

The players exploded. Isagi now awake, was pacing in circles, eyes wide, hands in his hair..“I knew Kaiser was insufferable, but I didn’t know he was genetically contagious.” Kurona, still clutching his energy bar like a lifeline, muttered, “We’re living in a soap opera. This is a novella now. We need commercial breaks.” Hiori looked quietly shattered. “I didn’t even know Ness' secondary gender. Was he hiding it? All this time?” Yukimiya was already scrolling through his notes. “Bond children, metaphysical rifts, legacy trauma—how do we even compete with that?”

Raichi growled, “I thought Ren was terrifying. This one speaks in full sentences like a tax attorney.”.Gagamaru blinked slowly. “I kinda liked him. He called Kaiser ‘Michael’ like a teacher calling you out in homeroom.” Kaiser hadn’t moved. He stood frozen, eyes blank, jaw tight. The others noticed—but no one dared speak to him.

Barou folded his arms. “That kid’s got teeth. I respect it.” Aryu nodded solemnly. “He dresses better than 90% of this room.” Don Lorenzo, holding a piece of toast, said, “He’s got death aura. I dig it.” Niko sat on the bench with a blank stare. “He hugged Ness… Ness hugged back. Guys, I don’t think Ness has ever initiated physical contact. Ever. I think I just saw a unicorn.” Aiku ran both hands down his face. “That boy had rehearsed trauma. Like a child soldier at a custody hearing.” Sendou shivered. “Do you think there’s more of them? Are they… multiplying?”

Shidou threw his arms up. “Why does Kaiser get a sexy heir and I don’t?!” Karasu grimaced. “He’s nine.” Shidou didn’t flinch. “I meant aesthetic, you perv. Like a rival I could raise to fight me in ten years. A mini-boss. A little warlord.” Charles was silent. Then: “I don’t like this timeline. Can we go back?” Rin was staring daggers at Kaiser from across the stadium. “He made Ness cry,” he whispered. “That bastard actually made him cry.” Tokimitsu tugged at his sleeve. “What if we all have kids out there and they’re watching us?”nZantetsu paled. “Wait. What if my kid’s ugly and I don’t know how to lie?”

Chigiri was holding Ren tighter than ever. “We’re not doing this again,” he whispered. “We’re not going through another breakdown. Not this week.” Ren blinked. “Theo doesn’t break. Theo fixes.” Reo was stone-faced. “That wasn’t just a child. That was a mirror of pain. He… he saw things. Things I don’t think we’re meant to know yet.”

Otoya sprawled across the floor like a corpse. “We’re all gonna be parents someday, huh?” Bachira hummed, legs swinging. “I hope my kid likes bugs.” Lavinho shouted from the balcony, “You’re all still virgins! Don’t talk like you’re in a retirement home!”

Snuffy leaned against the railing. “That child’s protective drive is off the charts.” Chris Prince sipped his protein espresso. “He has an Alpha’s instincts but an Omega’s ache. Classic trauma imprint.” Lavinho sighed. “When I said I wanted to see these boys grow, I didn’t mean reproduce.” Loki was smiling faintly. “He already knows his role. Knows who he’s protecting. Reminds me of someone.” He didn’t say who. Noa stood silently, arms crossed, unreadable.

At the center of the chaos, Ego activated the arena’s sound dampeners. All chatter cut off like a guillotine.
He tapped his tablet. The hologram of Magnus’s biometrics still floated above — red pulsing, glowing like a warning. “Listen closely,” Ego said. “You don’t have to like this. But you will learn from it.” The room was silent.

“Magnus Theodor Kaiser is the second known bond-child summoned into our reality. Like Ren, he did not arrive by accident. He was guided here — by forces we barely understand — because your bonds are broken, your timelines fractured, and your emotions so repressed they could qualify as biohazards.”

He turned toward Bastard München. “His presence indicates a bond that was not just denied — but damaged beyond repair. And yet, the bond-child still believes it can be fixed.” His eyes flicked to Kaiser. To the whole silent crowd.b“So what does that tell you?”

“That you, despite everything, are worth the effort.”
“Even if you don’t believe it yourselves yet.”

He let the silence burn. Then clicked his pen. “Class dismissed. Figure out your hearts before your kids do it for you.” The players dispersed slowly. Stunned. Fractured. Quiet. From the shadows, Anri whispered to Ego: “You think Theo really came to fix them?” Ego smirked, hands in his pockets. “No. I think he came to finish what they were too cowardly to begin.”

Chapter Text

Blue Lock Cafeteria – 7:38 a.m.

The cafeteria felt like a war zone dressed in breakfast trays. Steam curled from untouched eggs. Metal cutlery scraped against porcelain like broken violin strings. The air was humid with protein powder and silence. And no one — no one — dared speak too loudly. Even the loudest mouths in Blue Lock had shut up. All eyes were on the far corner. On them.

Magnus Theodor Kaiser sat still. Legs crossed at the ankle. One hand curled loosely around a tall glass of orange juice like it was a scepter. A navy jacket — too big — draped over his small shoulders like ceremonial armor. His spine was straight. His chin slightly lifted.
There was no slouch. No fidgeting. No swing of a leg. He looked less like a nine-year-old and more like a visiting monarch preparing for a coup.

And beside him sat Alexis Ness. Straight-backed. Too still. Hands folded too tightly in his lap. The corners of his tray were damp from condensation, untouched. His fingers trembled just slightly — and he kept glancing at the boy beside him like he was trying to memorize a ghost before it vanished again. And across from them — a tray held like a shield, a jaw clenched so tight it could crack — stood Michael Kaiser.

He hadn’t sat down. He hadn’t touched his food. He hadn’t spoken a word since walking in and seeing him — that strange, elegant silhouette of himself reborn in miniature. Platinum hair. The same eyes, but colder. More focused. Like he’d already seen the end of the world and decided to build a throne on the ashes.
His mirror. And not a flattering one. And Ness could feel it — the way the air shifted. The way Kaiser’s stare grew heavier, tighter, more wound with each passing second.

'He’s not looking at Magnus, Ness realized. 'He’s looking at his own sins in a smaller frame'. And Magnus — calm, composed, drinking orange juice like royalty — didn’t even seem to notice. Or worse, he did. And didn’t care. 'This is going to break them, Ness thought. This is going to break me.'

Magnus reached for his glass again. Still no rush. Still no hesitation. He moved like he had all the time in the world — like he knew no one could touch him. And then— “You’re really not gonna talk to me?” Kaiser’s voice cut in, low and sharp. Forced through clenched teeth. Magnus didn’t look up. “You’re just gonna ignore me like I’m not standing right here?” Still nothing. Just the click of Magnus’s glass on the table. Ness shifted. His voice was quiet — almost pleading. “Michael. Please… just sit down.” But Kaiser didn’t sit. He couldn’t. He was coiled too tight. Confused. Defensive. Angry. Like a lion who’d woken in a cage he built himself.

He’s spiraling, Ness thought. He’s going to lash out. And he did. The tray hit the table with too much force. Sharp. Loud. Final. A fork bounced. Juice sloshed. Magnus finally lifted his gaze. Calm. Glassy. Their eyes met — and something snapped in the tension of the room. Time slowed. A single heartbeat. “You got something to say to me, kid?” Kaiser asked, arms folding, tone biting. Magnus tilted his head slightly — like a wolf considering whether the thing in front of it was prey or irrelevant. “Only if you’re actually ready to hear it.”

“I’ve been ready since you made your dramatic entrance,” Kaiser shot back, too loud. “So say it. Why the hell do you hate me so much?” Ness moved, just a little. One hand reached toward Magnus, a silent plea to stop — or slow down — or maybe wait. But Magnus moved it aside with a calmness that made it worse. Not out of defiance. Not anger. Just… finality. “You want honesty?” he asked softly. Kaiser’s jaw ticked. “Give it to me.”

Magnus placed his glass down gently. With reverence. Like he was setting down the last piece of a weapon. And then he stood. The air chilled. Forks stilled. Someone gasped softly from across the room. Magnus didn’t raise his voice. “I hate you,” he began, clear and steady, “because I grew up loving you.” Kaiser blinked. And still, Magnus didn’t waver. “Because I believed in you,” he continued. “Because I thought if I was smart enough, quiet enough, if I worked hard and stayed small — maybe you’d love us the way you loved yourself.”

“But instead… I watched the person I loved most in the world — my mother — learn how to disappear while standing right next to you.” The words came with surgical precision. Every sentence another incision. “You didn’t destroy him in a single blow. You wore him down. Word by word. Every careless insult. Every cold shoulder. Every time you called him useless when all he ever did was stay.” Kaiser’s fingers dug into the back of the chair. White-knuckled. “That’s not—”

“And the day you hit him—” Magnus’s voice cut like a blade. Ness flinched. Audibly. His breath hitched. “He told me not to be mad,” Magnus said. “Said it was a bad day. That he pushed you too hard. That it was his fault.”

“But I saw your eyes, Michael.”

“I remember your eyes.”

Silence. Heavy. Grating. Final. “That’s when you stopped being my father.” Kaiser’s throat worked around nothing. His pride — always so bright and cutting — now felt tight in his lungs. Brittle in his chest.

He looks like me.
He sounds like Ness.
He has the fight I stole without meaning to.
And he’s standing here, alive, furious, because I couldn’t love gently enough to keep either of them.

Ness stood now, voice soft. Fragile. “Theo… please. Not like this.” And the boy turned to him — and just like that, the blaze in his eyes softened. Melted. The hard lines of his posture loosened. Not weakness. Not surrender. Just... familiarity. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said gently. And that word — Mother — struck deeper than any accusation. Kaiser flinched like he’d been slapped. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Frozen.

Magnus stepped closer to Ness, small hands clenched but trembling. And Ness — staring down at this impossibly real, impossibly familiar boy — could hardly breathe. He didn’t reach first. He didn’t trust his hands not to shake. His mind was still spinning.

He’s real.
He’s mine. Ours.
Mine and Michael’s—
Why does he hate him?
What happened?
What did I fail to protect?

Magnus tilted his head up again — not angry now. Not distant. Just… quietly yearning. “You don’t have to say anything,” Magnus whispered. “I know this is a lot.” Ness’s throat tightened. “You’re so… small.” Magnus smiled faintly. “Not that small. You always said I had a big presence.”

“I did?” Ness blinked. “When?”

“In the future,” Magnus said, eyes warm now. “I’m hard to forget.” That broke a laugh out of Ness — shaky, but real. His knees buckled and he dropped into a crouch, eye level with him now. His hand rose, gently brushing platinum hair aside. “You look like him,” Ness whispered. “But your eyes… they’re mine.” Magnus leaned into the touch. “You always liked that. You said it helped you remember who you were.” Ness froze.

That sounds like something I’d say. Or maybe something I wish I’d said. A stronger version of me. A future I was brave enough to build.

He blinked, dazed. “You… don’t hate me too?” he asked before he could stop himself. Magnus’s gaze flickered. “No. Never.”

“I worried about you every day.”

He stepped closer. “I didn’t come back to fix the bond,” he said softly. “That’s what they think — what Ego calls it. But I didn’t come back for fate.” He looked up at Ness with eyes full of quiet fire. “I came back to make sure you’re safe. That you’ll be okay in the future. Even if that means I disappear when my job is done.”

“I love you that much.” That shattered something quiet and precious in Ness’s chest.

He loves me.
He chose me.
Even if he’s not supposed to stay.

Magnus’s arms lifted — slow, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he had the right. And Ness — breath hitched, heart cracking — finally moved. He wrapped him in his arms and pulled him close. Tightly. Fiercely. And Magnus didn’t resist. He just folded in. No fated child. No prodigy. No warrior from the future. Just a nine-year-old boy, burying his face in his mother’s neck. Ness whispered into his hair. “I don’t understand how we got here.” Magnus didn’t speak at first. But then — softly: “Neither did I. At first.”

“But now that I’m here… I think it’s okay not to understand yet.”

“We have time to figure it out.”

Behind them, Kaiser still hadn’t moved. He stood watching — silent — as his Omega, the one who used to stand at his side, held their son without him. He had nothing to say. No claim. No excuse.

He doesn’t look at me.
He doesn’t ask me why.
He just… wrote me out of the story.

And maybe he deserved it. Maybe this was what it felt like to see what you broke — and be too late to fix it. To be the Emperor… But no longer the throne. Just the echo. Magnus pulled back just slightly, still wrapped in Ness’s arms, and turned his head toward Kaiser — not angry. Just calm. And said: “You don’t have to explain him to me.”

“I already did the work of forgiving you for letting him hurt you.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Theo. But…”

He pressed a little closer. “I’d like to get to know you again.” That name — Theo — flickered in the air like a prayer. Ness exhaled a sound between a laugh and a sob and held him tighter. He didn’t cry. Not yet. But his eyes shimmered like a dam waiting to give way. Around them, the cafeteria had gone still. No one whispered. No one moved. Because some things — Some moments — Are sacred.

The silence held like glass. And then — like a collective exhale — the sound returned. Low whispers. Shifting trays. Someone coughing too loudly and getting elbowed into silence. The spell had broken. But something else settled in its place. Worry. Across the cafeteria, the teams didn’t go back to eating. They watched. Like kids left unsupervised after a divine storm. Like they had just witnessed something too big for them to understand — but too intimate to look away from.

At Manshine City’s table, Chigiri slowly put down his juice. “…Did he say,” he began, “that he didn’t come to fix the bond?” Reo’s knuckles were white around his spoon. “He said… he came back just to make Ness happy. Even if it meant disappearing afterward.” Nagi blinked. “So like. A side quest.”

“Nagi.” Reo’s voice was sharp. “He’s nine. That’s not a side quest. That’s—”

“Devotion,” Chigiri murmured. “That’s love.”

“Love that deep shouldn't come from a kid that young…” Reo whispered. “It’s too big. Too… final.” Nagi looked down at his food. Then, quietly: “…Is that what Ren would do?”

At PXG’s table, the atmosphere was strange. Shidou had gone quiet. Even Karasu was frowning. “That line,” Karasu muttered. “About disappearing after he makes his mom happy. That… shouldn’t be the logic of a kid.”
Zantetsu stared into his water like it held prophecy. “He said it without blinking.” Tokimitsu was shaking slightly. “What if—what if doing that is what makes him vanish?
Like, emotionally? Like—like fading out?” Shidou finally spoke, voice low. “Kid’s walking around with a doomsday timer in his head.” Everyone looked at him. He didn’t elaborate.

Ubers had gone deathly still. Niko pushed up his hair with trembling fingers. “That wasn’t just a throwaway line.” Barou grunted. “You mean the disappearing thing?”

“No,” Niko said. “I mean all of it. The calculation behind that decision. The restraint. He’s nine. That’s the age when most kids are drawing dragons and pretending to be ninjas. And he—”

“Volunteered to erase himself,” Aryu finished, quietly. Aiku rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s not a kid. That’s a survivor.” Don Lorenzo, strangely solemn, just muttered: “He walks like a ghost that hasn’t died yet.”

FC Barcha had gone weirdly solemn. Bachira leaned over the table, fingers curled like claws. “I didn’t like that line.” Otoya tilted his head. “What, the juice one?”

“No, you brainless golden retriever. The vanishing one. You heard it too, right? It wasn’t a joke. He meant it.”

“He said it like it was fine,” Bachira whispered. “Like it didn’t hurt him to think about disappearing. And that’s the scary part. That it’s normal for him to think that way.”

Bastard München was perhaps the most shaken. Kaiser hadn’t returned to the table. Kurona whispered, “He said he didn’t come to fix things. Just to keep Ness safe. And that he was okay disappearing afterward, afterward.” He repeated the words like they’d stuck to his tongue. “Disappearing, disappearing,” he muttered. Isagi, still pale, dropped his spoon. “That’s not fair,” he said suddenly. Everyone looked at him. Hiori blinked. “What?”

“That’s not fair,” Isagi repeated. “That kid… he showed up just to make sure someone else is okay. And he’s willing to vanish for it. Without a second thought.” His voice was rising now. “Who told him that was normal?! Who taught him that the price of love is erasure?!” Yukimiya stared at him. “Isagi—”

“No!” Isagi snapped. “That’s not just maturity. That’s pain. That’s a child carrying guilt for things he shouldn’t even know how to carry. And we all just… let him say that. Like it was noble. Like it was fine.” Kurona muttered, “It wasn’t fine, wasn't fine.”

“I hate that he said it like a goodbye,” Isagi added, quietly this time. “Like he’s preparing us to not remember him.” No one replied. Not even Kaiser, who had silently re-entered the cafeteria, standing in the far corner like a statue carved from guilt.

Across the room, Ren — who had been sitting in Reo’s lap this entire time, quietly munching on his toast — finally spoke. “Is that what it means?” he asked softly. “To be a bond-child?” Reo’s voice cracked. “What do you mean?” Ren looked at him. “To come here and fix things. But not… stay.” Reo didn’t answer. Nagi’s hand found Ren’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. “…You’re not going anywhere,” Nagi said. “Okay?” Ren looked at both of them. “I don’t want to disappear either.”

Blue Lock Conference Room – 7:58 a.m.

Live Cafeteria Feed. Surveillance Projection. The screen flickered softly in the darkened room. The scene unfolding on the cafeteria feed was almost reverent. Dim light. Quiet tension. Michael Kaiser standing like a ghost. Alexis Ness clutching a small boy to his chest. And Magnus — proud, burning, tired — letting himself be held. Ego didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The silence that had filled the conference room after that line — “Even if it means I disappear.” —was thick enough to choke on.

The words had landed like a weight across every corner of the room. Even the air vents sounded louder. Chris Prince was the first to exhale. Long. Shaky. His protein shake had been untouched for five minutes — a record. “…That kid just offered himself up like a pawn,” he said finally, voice low. Snuffy, seated with his elbows on the table, sighed through his nose. “Not a pawn. A shield.” “That’s even worse,” Chris muttered. Lavinho had gone still. His usual flamboyance — gone. Robe half-sashed. Hair uncombed. A stale baguette still in his hand. “Why does a child talk like that?” he said, more to the room than anyone in it. “Like disappearing is the right answer?” No one answered.

Loki didn’t blink. Didn’t even sip his tea. His eyes remained glued to the screen. “He’s emotionally calculating the cost of intervention,” he murmured. “At nine. That’s not instinct. That’s conditioning.” Snuffy nodded solemnly. “And you don’t get conditioned like that unless you were forced to think like that early.”

“Or unless you saw someone you love suffer for too long,” Anri said softly. All heads turned to her. She stood near the corner of the room, tablet pressed against her chest like a shield. Her eyes shimmered. “I’ve been reviewing the temporal imprint. Magnus didn’t come through the anomaly with panic. No flinching. No tears. He didn’t even cry when he saw his parents.” She swallowed. “He planned for this.”

Noel Noa hadn’t moved since the footage started. Still as stone. Arms crossed. His jaw was tight. But now — his voice came, low and steel-cut: “That wasn’t a declaration.” Everyone looked at him. “That was a resignation.” Ego, finally, cracked his neck. “I told you,” he muttered. “You all wanted to pretend this was just metaphysics. Destiny. Cute fated bullshit. But this is what happens when human failure echoes so loud it disrupts time.”

He pointed toward the screen. “That boy didn’t come here for some anime redemption arc. He came here to make sure the person who held him through his darkest
nights still exists in the future.” He looked at the feed again. The way Magnus leaned into Ness’s arms like it was the first breath after drowning. “He doesn’t care about rewriting time,” Ego said flatly. “He cares about keeping his mother alive long enough to smile again.” Noa finally unfolded his arms.

“He’s not just protecting Ness,” he said. “He’s punishing Kaiser.” Snuffy nodded slowly. “And holding onto his own rules like they’re all that’s keeping him from falling apart.” Chris muttered, “Is this what happens when kids are born between people who break and pretend they didn’t?” Lavinho, still quiet, said, “No. This is what happens when the love part never had a voice.”

Loki finally moved — turning slightly, tapping his fingers against the table. “Magnus is dangerous,” he said plainly. The others turned. “Not to us,” he clarified. “To himself.” Anri’s breath hitched. “He’s created an equation where his own existence is the acceptable loss. If Ness heals, he disappears. And he’s at peace with that. That’s—”

“—a tragedy waiting to happen,” Chris finished. Ego turned off the audio feed. The footage continued in silence — Ness still holding Magnus, Kaiser still watching them from the edge. The room felt colder. He looked at the Masters, one by one. “Now do you understand?” Ego said. “Why I told you to take this seriously. Why I summoned you all this early.” He jabbed a finger at the screen. “Because that kid doesn’t just represent a broken bond. He represents a lesson. One your players — and maybe even you — haven’t learned yet.”

Noa’s mouth twitched. Barely. “He’s nine,” Ego added. “And already, he’s making sacrifices your teams still fumble with in their twenties.” The silence held for a few long seconds..Then...Chris finally spoke again. His voice was softer now. “…What happens if Ness gets better?” They turned to him. “If Magnus thinks his job’s done. If he thinks it’s safe to go.” Snuffy didn’t answer immediately. But he looked down at the table. At his clasped hands. “…Then we better make sure someone teaches that kid he’s more than his purpose,” he said quietly. “Before he decides he doesn’t have one anymore.”

The screen faded to black. No one spoke. The silence wasn’t just awkward — it was oppressive. The kind that settles like ash after something sacred burns. Ego let it simmer. Let them sit in it. Then he turned to face them. The smirk was gone. What remained was something far colder. “So. Are we done mourning a boy who hasn’t even left yet?”

Noa’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Chris Prince leaned back, arms crossed, and exhaled through his nose like he’d just watched a man take a bullet. Loki didn’t move. His fingers tapped against the table — one, two, three, stop. Repeat. Ego folded his hands behind his back. Eyes sharp. “You all look shocked,” he said. “As if a child laying down his life for his Omega parent is somehow unexpected. As if this isn’t the exact logical endpoint of every broken Alpha-Omega dynamic you’ve let rot under your noses.”

“This isn’t fate’s fault. This isn’t magic. This is cause and effect.” Anri stood silently near the wall. Pale. Watching him. Waiting. Ego’s voice dropped. “Magnus Theodor Kaiser is not here to play hero. He’s not here to fix your star players’ relationships. He’s here because his mother was dying inside, and no one noticed.”

He turned to Noa. “You want to pretend Bastard München’s fine? That Kaiser can lead a team but not himself? Then you clean up what he leaves behind.” Noa didn’t flinch. But he looked away.

Ego kept going..“Chris. You’re training Reo to be a better Omega, right? Teaching him to hold his ground, love his freedom, take up space? Then make sure he’s ready when his bond-child looks him in the eye and asks if he’s worth staying for.” Chris’s hands clenched.

“Lavinho — you want joy, flamboyance, expression? Then teach your boys what it means to express fear. Or guilt. Or grief. Or they’ll keep laughing until they crack.” Lavinho looked down at the table. For once, no quip came.

“Snuffy,” Ego said, voice quieter, “you understand this better than most. But even you — especially you — need to accept that not every child summoned will be ready to stay. Some of them are here to bury themselves in legacy. And you know what that looks like.” Snuffy’s face didn’t move. But Anri could see the storm brewing in his eyes.

“And Loki,” Ego turned last, voice going colder, “I don’t care how many systems you run. How many tactics you teach. Stop pretending you’re just a spectator. One of your players will fall apart when it’s his turn. Don’t let it be too late.” Loki’s eye twitched. Barely. But that was enough.

Ego straightened. His voice rang sharp now — surgical. “None of you are exempt from this. These kids didn’t appear for aesthetic. They came for impact. For accountability.”.He tapped the black screen. “And if even one of them disappears without resolution—”

“—if even one of them vanishes because the people they loved couldn’t get over their own egos—” He looked each of them in the eye. “I will not forgive you.” A long silence. Then Ego walked to the far console. Entered a command. The feed returned — not live, but paused. Magnus in Ness’s arms. Kaiser watching. Frozen in time. “You wanted a real-world trial,” Ego muttered. “You got it.”

“The only question now is whether your players will rise…
…or become the reason these children fade.”

Blue Lock Private Lounge – 9:15 a.m.

After the cafeteria. After the storm. The lounge wasn’t much. One couch. One window. A vending machine that made questionable noises. A wall clock ticking just loud enough to make silence feel louder. But to Magnus and Ness, it was sanctuary. Ness sat curled on the edge of the couch, legs pulled up beneath him, still in the same clothes from earlier. His hair had loosened. Soft around the edges. Unraveled.

Magnus lay on his stomach beside him, elbows propped on a folded blanket, sipping from a juice box this time. His jacket was still too big, still regal, still draped over him like it belonged there. The quiet held for a while. Then Ness finally broke it. “...Do you hate him all the time?” Magnus blinked slowly. He didn’t look up from his juice. “No.”

A pause. “Just when I remember the parts you tried to forget.” Ness’s shoulders sank slightly. “I didn’t think I was forgetting anything.”

“You weren’t. But you were forgiving too fast.” Magnus turned, cheek pressing to the cushion. He looked up at Ness from under his lashes. Soft. Barely nine again.
“You don’t need to protect him, Mother.” That word still made Ness’s throat tighten. “It’s not about protecting him…”

“Then what is it about?”

“I think…” Ness hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t unravel. “I think I kept trying to believe I could fix it. That it wasn’t too late. That if I was just… quieter, more patient, more perfect — he’d stop choosing cruelty.” Magnus didn’t say anything right away. He reached over and gently nudged his hand into Ness’s sleeve, fingers wrapping around his wrist like an anchor. “You weren’t wrong to hope. But you don’t owe him your healing, Mother.” Ness’s breath hitched. He looked down at Theo— this boy with Kaiser’s jaw and his eyes and too much wisdom wrapped in skin still soft with youth — and asked, barely audible: “Are you angry with me, too?”

Magnus stared at him for a long, long moment. Then, very softly: “No. Just scared.” Ness blinked. “Scared?”

“Scared you’ll forgive him before you forgive yourself.”
That landed like a stone dropped gently into water — quiet, but deep. Ness didn’t reply right away. He just leaned down slowly and rested his forehead against Magnus’s temple. And Magnus… let him.

Let his mother breathe.
Let the silence hold.
Let the ache melt into something more manageable.

Then Magnus whispered: “I didn’t come back to fix you two.”

“I didn’t come to ‘repair the bond’ or chase fate.” Ness tensed — just slightly — but Magnus kept going. “I came to make sure you were okay.”

“That you smiled again. That you remembered how to take up space. That you stopped apologizing every time someone else hurt you.”

“Even if it means I disappear afterward.” Ness’s breath caught. His hand came up — cradled the back of Magnus’s head, fingers tangling in soft platinum strands.
“Don’t say that,” he whispered. “Don’t say that like you’re temporary.” Magnus shrugged gently against him. “You and I both know that’s how time works.”

“But if I go back knowing you’re safe… it’s worth it.” The tears didn’t fall. Not yet. But Ness nodded against him. Once. Twice. Like a promise being carved into the air. “Then let’s make it count.”

“While you’re here.” Magnus smiled — small, quiet, real. And in the small lounge that smelled faintly of vending machine coffee and old floor wax, a boy rested against his mother like the world had finally let him exhale.

Magnus had fallen asleep. Curled beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world — like he hadn’t just ripped open truths Ness had spent his life locking behind a thousand doors. His breathing was even. Light. Trusting. Ness sat still, spine held straight by years of habit, but his hand trembled faintly where it rested on Magnus’s back.

His son.

The thought didn't just feel unreal — it felt impossible. Like a fairytale he would’ve made up as a child, in the days before he was taught that believing in magic made him weak. And yet— Here he was. Real. Breathing. Warm. Holding the future in his arms — a future born from a love that had never dared to speak its name. A future made with the very person who had once eclipsed him completely.

Michael.
Kaiser.

The name passed through Ness like frost — thin, sharp, glacial. He closed his eyes, and the years collapsed beneath him. He was thirteen again. Kneeling in a sterile dorm hallway, fingers chapped from late drills. The academy was clean to the point of cruelty — all white floors, white uniforms, white noise. It was not a place for dreams. It was a place for results. "Don’t cry,” his father had said, voice clipped like a scalpel. “You’re not in pain. You’re undisciplined.”

Back then, pain was a malfunction. Emotion was a programming error. Ness learned young that his imagination — the same imagination that once made snowmen into kings, the same that built wizard staffs out of tree branches — had no place in his household. His older brother broke his toy wand over his knee. His sister laughed when he cried.

His mother only said, "Clean it up. Sit straight. Don’t embarrass the family." They gave him books, yes. They fed him formulas. But love? Wonder? Fantasy? Those things were for the weak. So Ness buried them. He became a model student. Silent. Precise. Folded grief into obedience. He polished himself until he was invisible.

By sixteen, he no longer dreamed of being the star. Not because he didn’t want it — but because stars needed to burn. And he had been taught never to catch fire.
Instead, he found brilliance in others and reshaped himself as their reflection.

It was then that Michael Kaiser appeared. Radiant. Arrogant. Magnetic. The kind of Alpha who commanded gravity. And for the first time since he was small, Ness believed in magic again. Not because Kaiser offered him kindness. But because he looked at Ness — trembling and quiet during tryouts — and said:

"Do you believe in the impossible?"

It was stupid. Overly dramatic. Ridiculous, even. But for Ness — who had only ever been told he was too much of a dreamer or not enough of a man — it was a miracle. Kaiser became his gravity. So Ness gave him everything. His loyalty. His silence. His shape. "Perfect execution," his father had said. So Ness perfected being needed. And every time Kaiser sneered “Don’t slow me down,”
Every “You’re lucky I keep you” —

It sounded eerily familiar. Like home. But Magnus…Magnus shattered that. Magnus didn’t want perfect. He didn’t demand silence. He didn’t even ask Ness to prove his worth. He just said:

“I missed you, Mother.”

Like it was fact. Like Ness was someone worth returning to. Not as an accessory. Not as a ghost. Not as a shield. But as home. Magnus was so young — and yet he wielded truth like a blade. His confidence was the kind Ness had never allowed himself. And when he said, “Even if I disappear, it’s worth it… if you’re okay,” — Ness felt something inside him fracture.

No one had ever said that before. That his peace mattered. That his happiness counted. Not even Kaiser. Especially not Kaiser. Magnus had seen him in an hour more clearly than Kaiser had in a decade. And that terrified Ness. Because it meant he could’ve had this. All along.

If only he’d believed.
If only he hadn’t mistaken cruelty for brilliance.
If only he hadn’t been so desperate to be needed that he forgot how to be loved.

The tears didn’t fall. They never did. He’d trained too well for that. But something cracked open inside him. Like ancient frost along old cathedral walls. He looked down again.Magnus shifted slightly in sleep, cheek pressing against his arm.Small fingers curled unconsciously into the fabric of Ness’s sleeve.

His son.
His child.

A piece of him… that came back. “I’m sorry,” Ness whispered, voice barely audible. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to soft platinum hair. “I’m so sorry I didn’t learn how to be soft in time for you.” Magnus didn’t wake. But he sighed. Deeply. Peacefully. And for the first time since he was a boy with a staff made of wood and stars in his eyes— Ness felt the warmth of a magic that was real. Not fantasy. Family.

10:07 a.m

The chair was too soft. Or maybe he’d just grown too used to hardness. The walls felt padded. Like the world expected him to break now. And maybe he was. Quietly. Invisibly. The way he was taught. Magnus was with Ego now — “a temporary evaluation,” the man had said — but it felt like ripping stitches open. Ness sat alone. Fingers pressed together. Still tasting the ghost of the moment: “I came back for you, Mother.” Still hearing the unspoken: “Even if I disappear, it’s worth it.” That word — disappear — curled like smoke in his throat. It terrified him.

Not just the vanishing. Not just the metaphysical cost. But what it implied. That this child — his child — was willing to burn away just to make sure he was happy. That Magnus had accepted erasure as the price of love.

What did I teach him?
What kind of broken blueprint did I give him to believe love meant sacrifice?

He swallowed. The question made his bones ache. He hadn’t thought himself capable of parenting. He’d spent too long being someone else’s tool. A knight with no kingdom. A pawn dressed like a tactician. And now he had a son who stood taller at nine than Ness had ever felt at nineteen. A son who came back to protect him. A son who might vanish the second his soul stopped needing to stay. Ness clenched his hands tighter. He didn’t want Magnus to disappear. He didn’t want to be left behind again. He wanted more time. He wanted laughter and mess and dinners without silence. He wanted to know what Magnus sounded like when he was actually allowed to be nine.

He wanted birthdays. Toothaches. Homework tantrums. Warm laundry folded with tiny socks. He wanted a future.

But to have that… Kaiser has to change.
I have to…

He stopped. The thought wasn’t new. But it struck differently now.

If Michael doesn’t change, Theo won’t stay.

Because Magnus had made his terms clear — he’d come for him, not them. There would be no future unless something gave. Unless something healed. Unless something—miraculous—rose out of the wreckage of what they'd once been. Ness closed his eyes. For years, he’d survived Kaiser by shrinking himself. By being loyal. Precise. Indispensable.

But that was just another form of fear. Another echo of childhood. Of chasing usefulness in place of love. But Magnus didn’t need usefulness. Magnus needed hope. He needed a world where Kaiser could be better. Where Ness could say the word "us" without tasting blood. A world where the bond wasn’t a chain — but a thread they chose to hold again.

A future. One that wouldn't cost their son his existence. Ness touched his sternum, just below the collarbone — where the bond-thread pulsed faintly, ancient and reluctant. “You ruined me,” he whispered into the silence. “And I still want to fix you.” It didn’t sound noble. It sounded real. He wasn’t naïve. He didn’t think love cured rot. But maybe—maybe—there was still time to cast a kind of magic. Not the kind that erased pain, but the kind that grew something new in the cracks of it. Magnus had already shattered the illusions. Now it was up to them to rebuild something worth his future.

If there’s even a sliver of soul left in Michael Kaiser…
Then I’ll cast a spell with what I have left.

Not for myself. Not for him. But for Theo.

So that my son can live in a world where love doesn’t mean disappearance.

Where the future isn’t a punishment. Where he doesn’t have to be brave just to exist. Ness exhaled. He didn’t cry. But he was close. “Stay, Theo,” he whispered, barely audible. “We’ll make it safe. I promise.”

Michael Kaiser – Alone, Post-Cafeteria

He didn’t remember how he got there. Maybe it was a stairwell. Or the hallway near the utility wing. Maybe a closet. It didn’t matter. He needed a wall. Something to lean on. Something real. His hands braced against concrete. His chest heaved once. Then again. Shallow breaths, like he was trying to stay small enough to not implode. He couldn’t get the image out of his head.
Magnus. Magnus with Ness’s voice and his own face.

Magnus saying, “You stopped being my father.”
Magnus calling Ness “Mother.”
Magnus not even flinching.

Kaiser had been called many things in his life. Monster. Genius. Tyrant. Trash. He could take those. But irrelevant? Irrelevant to his own son? That felt like swallowing glass. “You look like me,” he muttered to himself. “But you don’t act like me.” He slammed his palm against the wall. “You act like Alexis." And somehow — that made it worse. That the boy had inherited the good. The softness. The clarity. Not from him. Never from him. From Ness. From Alexis. From the one person who had stayed. Who had folded himself into silence just to survive Michael Kaiser’s love.

Love. Was it love? What the hell had he ever given Ness except orders and expectations? A leash of loyalty wrapped in admiration. A pedestal and a muzzle. He wanted Ness to see him. Needed it. But only on his terms. Only when he was magnificent. Only when his crown wasn’t cracked. Because if Ness saw the rot… He might leave. But he hadn’t. Even after the worst of it — he’d stayed.

And now here was a boy who hadn’t even been born yet when it all went wrong… standing in front of him like a mirror that refused to lie. “I hate you because I grew up loving you.” Those words — they wouldn’t stop replaying.
Kaiser gritted his teeth, jaw burning from how hard he was clenching it.

You’re not supposed to love me, he thought, helplessly. Not if you know what I am.

What he was — was built from pain. A mother who left before he could speak. A father who saw him as a mistake wearing her eyes. He hadn’t been called “Michael” in years — not by anyone who meant it. That name was a ghost. A bruise. A whisper of someone soft.
He had chosen Kaiser — because kings weren’t abandoned.

Because emperors didn’t beg to be seen. Because a predator who destroyed the field would never have to cry in the dark with a broken ball for company. Because if he couldn’t be loved, he could be feared. And yet here he was. Feared. Revered. A crowned striker… Staring down the reality that his own child thought he was a monster.

He’s wrong, part of him whispered.
You never meant to—
But the rest of him knew better.
You did hurt Ness.
You did raise your voice.
You did twist loyalty into obedience, because you didn’t know how to be needed without controlling someone.
You became your father — not in name, but in damage.
Kaiser slumped to the floor, breath ragged.

“He came back for Ness,” he whispered. “Not for me.” And somehow, that was what hurt the most.

Not the anger.
Not the rejection.
But the irrelevance.

There was a time — years ago, before the leagues, before the empire of his ego — when Ness had looked at him like he was something bright. Something worthy. He remembered the first time Ness patched his bruised knuckles after a game. He remembered the quiet, “You don’t need to destroy everything you touch to be worthy of having it.” He hadn’t believed him. Maybe he still didn’t. But now there was a boy who shared their blood. Who stood between them like a verdict. And the worst part? Michael wanted to fix it. He wanted to grab the future with bloodied hands and scream wait. He wanted to go back. Un-say things. Un-break things. He wanted to be better. But he didn’t know how. He didn’t have the blueprint.

All he had was ash. And regret. And the echo of Ness’s voice calling another name — Theo. Not Michael. Not even Kaiser. Just Theo. “What do I have to do,” he whispered, “to be someone he wants to know?” The silence didn’t answer. But for the first time… Michael Kaiser didn’t spit on the question. He sat with it. Let it ache. Let it open a space where something — maybe, maybe — could begin.

Blue Lock – Temporary Counseling Wing_9:46 a.m. | Confidential Evaluation: Magnus Theodor Kaiser & Ren Nagi

The room didn’t look like part of Blue Lock. There were no steel walls. No tactical maps. No antiseptic lighting.
Instead, it was warm. Pale blue curtains let in the morning sun. A small couch sat beneath a tall bookshelf lined with reference texts — neuroscience, secondary gender theory, emotional resilience training. Across from it, two plush chairs faced a circular rug patterned with constellations.

A tea tray sat untouched on the center table. Fine porcelain. Everything was quiet… until the door clicked. And then in walked her. She was striking, but not in the way the players were used to. No loud presence. No swagger. No ego wrapped in cleats and sweat. She moved like she’d been invited by the room itself — like the light adjusted to match her. Her heels clicked softly against the floor, navy-blue slacks hemmed just right. A silky blouse in a lighter blue shimmered as she moved. A matching ribbon was tied loosely around her wrist like a charm.

Her hair fell in elegant waves down her back, jet black with a soft brown sheen under the light..Her expression? Reserved. Sculpted like someone born into expectations. But her eyes — a warm, stormy gray — sparkled the moment she saw the children. “Good morning, my stars,” she said gently, clasping her hands.
Ren perked up instantly. “You sound fancy,” he said, eyes squinting. “Are you rich or pretending to be?”

The woman blinked once, and then — unexpectedly — giggled. “Depends on who’s asking, Ren Nagi,” she replied, sitting down gracefully into the chair like she belonged in a painting. “But I’d say I’m secretly rich, overly qualified, and trying very hard not to adopt you.” Ren tilted his head. “Are you allowed to say that?”

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t tell your parents.” Theo, seated across from Ren with perfect posture, regarded her with narrow eyes. “Your file said nothing about theatrical tendencies,” he said calmly. “Oh dear,” she smiled sweetly. “Have I been audited by my tiniest Kaiser?” Theo flushed slightly. “That’s not—” But her smile turned gentle. Genuinely so. “I’m joking. Sort of. It’s lovely to meet you, Magnus.” She didn’t call him Theo. She waited.

That earned her something few adults had received since Theo’s arrival: a very small nod. Behind the one-way glass, Ego took a sip of his bitter coffee and muttered, “She’s more dangerous than I thought.”

“Because she’s good?” Anri asked softly beside him. “Because they already like her.” Back in the room, Shane uncrossed her legs, leaned forward slightly. “I’m not here to lecture,” she said, tone like a lullaby dressed in velvet. “I’m here to listen. That’s all.” Ren tilted his head into Theo’s shoulder. “She smells like lavender and clean glass.”

“You smell like mischief and sugar,” she replied without missing a beat. Theo didn’t speak. But his hand — which had been loosely draped over his lap — shifted just slightly so it brushed against Ren’s. And Ren smiled. Puppy love, Ego had called it. But Shane knew better.

It was a bond. Innocent, yes. But already powerful.
They anchored each other. And that meant one wrong move from any adult could unanchor them. So she didn’t start with questions. She started with stories. “Did you know,” she said, reaching for a star-shaped plush from the shelf, “that in one old theory, bond-children used to be called Comet Kin? Because they only appeared when the soul was falling too fast?”

Ren’s eyes went wide. “That sounds cool.”.Theo tilted his head. “Not scientifically credible.” Shane beamed. “Very true. But sometimes, poetry holds more truth than precision.” She glanced at Theo again. “And I suspect you of all people know that.” Theo looked away. But for the first time — he didn’t look guarded.

The session went on. Tea was offered. Theo declined. Ren took three cubes of sugar and told her that Papa said caffeine stunted growth, but he was going to risk it. They talked about nothing. Everything. Fears. Names. Futures they weren’t sure they were allowed to have. And Shane? She just listened. With all her elegance. With all her quiet fire.

Because underneath the expensive blouse, the soft perfume, the reputation… was someone who knew what it meant to be born into roles you didn’t choose. She saw herself in them. And that made her dangerous, indeed. Behind the glass, Ego took another sip of coffee. “She’s going to make me regret this, isn’t she?” Anri didn’t answer. Because down in the warm-lit room, for the first time in a while… The children were laughing.

Session 1: Magnus “Theo” Theodor Kaiser_Private Room – 10:17 a.m.

The room was smaller than the last. No toys. No constellation rug. Just two chairs, a soft light overhead, and a window cracked open to let in real air. Theo sat stiffly, back straight, hands folded like he was defending a thesis. Shane didn’t sit right away. She moved slowly — deliberately — like someone lowering a violin bow before the first note. “I thought you’d be taller,” Theo said flatly. She smiled, unbothered. “And I thought you’d be quieter. But here we are.” A beat passed. Then she sat down, folding her legs like a queen with nothing to prove. Theo tilted his chin slightly. “Do I pass the test?”

“I’m not testing you.”

“That’s a lie. Everyone in Blue Lock tests everyone.” She considered him. “No,” she said softly. “Blue Lock breaks people to find what's left. I’m just trying to find what hasn’t been taken from you yet.” That… stilled him. Just for a moment. He looked away. “You talk like someone who’s read too many books.” Shane smiled faintly. “You act like someone who’s read too few.”.That earned her the tiniest twitch of his mouth. She leaned forward. “You came here with purpose. But not for ego, or fame. Not even for your ‘bond.’ You said it yourself.”

He didn’t reply. “You came here,” Shane said gently, “because you love your mother more than you love being real.” That struck him. She watched it land. “You’re willing to vanish,” she continued, “just to make sure Ness is safe. Even if it means leaving no version of yourself behind.” Theo’s throat bobbed. “You’ve read my file,” he said, softer now. “But not the parts you’re quoting.”

“I didn’t need to. You already told me.” He was quiet again. After a pause, he asked, “What if I don’t want to fix the bond?”

“Then don’t.” He blinked. “You don’t owe your father peace. You owe yourself peace.”

“I’m not angry for me,” Theo said, eyes narrowing. “I’m angry because I remember how my mother sounded at 3 a.m., curled in a room he paid for, convincing himself he still saw him.” Shane’s face softened. She didn’t interrupt. “Even when he was cruel,” Theo said, voice tight, “he tried to be gentler. Even when he ignored him, he… stayed.”

“Because Ness,” Shane said quietly, “was taught that to be loyal is to be useful. Not loved.” Theo finally looked at her. Really looked. “Did someone teach you that too?” he asked. A pause. And Shane — softly, carefully — nodded. “I learned to serve so I wouldn’t be discarded.” Silence stretched. And then, from the boy built from sharp angles and buried tenderness, came a question barely above a whisper: “Does it get better?”

Shane smiled — not with pity, but something that shimmered just shy of hope. “Yes,” she said. “But only if you stop trying to prove your pain was noble.” Theo nodded once. A breath. A beginning.

Session 2: Ren Nagi_Private Room – 10:49 a.m.

The room was the same size — but filled with pillows now. A lava lamp bubbled in the corner. A plate of sliced strawberries waited on the table. Shane entered to find Ren mid-spin on a swivel chair. “Don’t get dizzy,” she warned playfully. “Too late,” he said, falling into a beanbag like a fainting prince. “Am I in trouble?”

“Only with physics,” she said, sitting across from him.
Ren smiled. “You’re prettier than I thought you’d be.”

“Compliments won’t stop the psychological evaluation.”

“Worth a shot.” She laughed. “You’re not what I expected.”

“People say that a lot.” Shane tilted her head. “Do you know why you’re here?” Ren kicked his feet. “Because I’m awesome and from the future?”

“Close,” she smiled. “Because you’re carrying love with nowhere to put it.” That made Ren pause. “I… don’t get it.”

“You love both your parents. Fiercely. But they’re… not together. Not even close.” Ren blinked. “And in your world, that made you feel like the only bridge between two islands that forgot they were once the same land.” His throat went tight. “That’s… not in my file either, is it?”

“No,” Shane said gently. “But it’s written all over your voice.” Ren pulled a pillow into his chest. “They don’t hate each other,” he muttered. “Not really. They’re just stupid. And stubborn. And they say things they don’t mean—like Papa saying Mama's annoying when he’s really scared of needing him.” Shane nodded. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“What are you scared of?”

He swallowed. “That they’ll forget I was ever real.”.Shane’s expression broke just a little. “Ren,” she said softly, “you are so real.”.He blinked fast. “You’re gonna cry. Aren’t therapists not supposed to cry?”

“Therapists cry in private,” she whispered, brushing his hair from his eyes. “But sometimes… kids say things that feel like truths too heavy for their age.”.Ren sniffed. “I just want them to be happy,” he murmured. “Even if I have to disappear.”

“Then we’ll make sure,” Shane said gently, “that when you go back… they remember how to keep choosing you. Every time.”.Ren smiled faintly.

“Can I keep the lava lamp?”

“Only if you stop spinning in the chair.”

“No promises.”

Private Debrief – Blue Lock Upper Conference Room_11:32 AM

The lights were low. The screens were off. The air was thick with tension — not the kind from battle, but the quiet, lingering kind that follows a revelation. A few empty coffee cups littered the table. No one touched the new pot. Ego stood at the head, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. Beside him, Anri sat with a tablet, hands clasped tightly in her lap, lips pressed into a thin line.

The Masters were scattered around the room. Noa stood near the window, staring out like the answers might be hiding in the sky. Lavinho leaned back in his chair with his feet on the table — but even he wasn’t smirking. Loki sat with his legs crossed, fingers steepled, expression inscrutable. Snuffy rubbed the bridge of his nose like he’d aged a decade. And in the center, seated calmly in a blue silk blouse and matching slacks, was Shane.

She looked like someone plucked out of a high fashion psychology journal — soft waves cascading down her back, gold-rimmed glasses perched perfectly on her nose, the sharpness of her bone structure made warmer by the gentleness of her voice. “I see you’ve all been... watching,” she said lightly, folding her hands. “Should I comment on the privacy violations, or is that just standard operating procedure in this building?” Ego didn’t flinch. “We observe our subjects.”

“They’re children.”

“Future professionals,” he corrected. Noa’s jaw ticked. “Children first.” That earned Shane’s full attention. Her gaze softened. “Good.” She opened a thin leather folder in front of her. Neat handwriting. A single sheet for now. “I’ve evaluated both Magnus Theodor Kaiser and Ren Nagi. Emotionally stable, but carrying psychic loads beyond their years. Theo is a structuralist — needs boundaries, recognition of personhood, clarity in roles. Ren is an emotional sponge — highly adaptive, brilliant, but fragile in loyalty.”

“And the bond system?” Loki asked. Shane nodded. “It’s real. Deeply entangled with their emotional security. They are not just time-traveling warnings. They’re manifestations of bond failure and bond yearning. They will mirror the broken pieces their parents haven’t faced yet.” Snuffy exhaled, rubbing his temples. “So they’re not here to fix things.”

“They’re here because things were already broken.” Anri’s eyes shimmered with worry. “And... do you think we can help them stay?”

“Not if we treat them like tools.” Shane looked straight at Ego. “Hey now,” Lavinho muttered, “this was supposed to be a football program. When the hell did we become a nursery for magical trauma kids?”

“When the system you’re part of started crushing Omegas for daring to exist outside of mating roles,” Shane replied sweetly, “and Alphas for feeling anything at all.” Lavinho blinked. “Damn. Okay.”.Noa stepped forward. “I want to bring Kaiser to you.” Everyone stilled. Even Ego turned his head slightly. Shane raised a brow. “Michael Kaiser?”

“He watched Theo today like he was witnessing his own execution.” Noa’s voice was calm, but laced with something heavier. “I don’t think he knows how to process... any of this. Not Theo. Not Ness. Not himself.” Shane was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded. “I’ll take him.”

“But,” she added, locking eyes with Ego, “I want full clinical autonomy. I want this position formalized. No monitoring without consent. No earpieces. No override codes. If I’m going to fix what your system shattered, I do it on my terms.” Ego’s fingers tapped the table once. Then twice. Then— “Fine,” he said. Anri’s eyes widened. “You’re agreeing?”

“I’m not stupid. I know when I’m outmatched. And if anyone’s going to make sense of this chaos, it’s someone who speaks in truths disguised as lullabies.” Shane smiled — a real one this time. “I’ll need a permanent office.”

“You can have Ego's,” Lavinho muttered. “I’m still in this room, you know.” As the meeting adjourned, Shane stood, gathering her folder. Noa approached her quietly. “He won’t make it easy.”

“I know.”

“But I think,” Noa said, voice low, “he still wants to be saved.” Shane looked toward the monitors, where a paused feed still showed Theo, curled in Ness’s lap, slowly dozing..“Good,” she said. “Because I didn’t come here to save Blue Lock’s future, I came here to protect the ones who built it.”

Blue Lock – Hallway Outside Therapist's Office | 11:05 a.m.

The hallway outside Shane’s temporary office was quiet.
Cool, polished floors. Fluorescent lights. A vending machine humming softly in the corner. And sitting cross-legged on the bench against the wall — knees bumping, heads tilted close — were two of the most dangerously adorable nine-year-olds to ever grace this cursed facility. Ren Nagi was twirling a lollipop in his hand, the wrapper tucked neatly in his hoodie pocket like a prize. His other hand was fidgeting with Theo’s sleeve — tugging, letting go, tugging again. Magnus Theodor Kaiser sat beside him, prim and still, jacket perfectly buttoned, posture impeccable. Except for the fact that he was… blushing slightly.

“I don’t think she’s just a therapist,” Ren whispered dramatically. Theo leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “She’s definitely from the future.” Ren gasped. “Like us?”

“She talks like someone who’s read your entire life three times and already knows where you’ll cry.”

“That’s soooo scary,” Ren said, clearly delighted. Theo smirked. “Scary, but kind. She’s good. And she smells like tea and books.” Ren gave a small dreamy sigh. “And her hair is soooo pretty. Do you think we’ll get curls like that when we’re older?”

“I don’t think DNA works that way,” Theo replied. A beat. Ren poked his cheek. “You think you’re sooo smart just because your dad is a megalomaniac and your mom can do calculus while crying.” Theo sniffed. “I am smart.”

“Okay, well, I’m cuter,” Ren countered. Theo opened his mouth to argue — but the words didn’t come. He blinked.Then looked away. “…Maybe,” he muttered.

A few meters down the hall, Reo and Nagi rounded the corner. Nagi was still chewing lazily on a protein bar. Reo had his phone out, mid-rant. “I don’t care how ‘resonant’ her aura is, she’s not taking him on field trips unless I get a written itinerary, a bodyguard, and at least three GPS trackers. Ren is literally an empathic sponge with no sense of stranger danger and too much charm for his own—” He stopped. Nagi did too.

The sight in front of them froze time. Their son. Cozying up with Magnus Theodor Kaiser. Whispering. Smiling. With flushed cheeks. Nagi’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. Reo blinked. “Wait, is that—”

“I don’t like that,” Nagi said flatly. Ren looked up just as his parents approached. His face lit up. “Papa! Mama! Theo was telling me how some flowers grow better if you talk to them with words of affirmation and now I wanna try it on my breakfast croissant tomorrow—”

“Cool,” Nagi said, stepping directly between the boys. He placed a hand on Ren’s head. Possessive. Shielding. Like a large sleepy cat warding off rival kittens. He side-eyed Theo. “You. Hassle child.” Theo raised an eyebrow. “I was sitting.”

“Suspiciously,” Nagi replied, tone unchanging. Reo, mortified, stepped forward. “Sorry, sorry—he gets weird when Ren makes new friends. He’s fine, I promise.”

“Ren’s too nice,” Nagi muttered, gently guiding his child away. “Ren is also right here,” Ren mumbled under his breath, but went willingly. Theo stood, dusted off his sleeves, and offered a respectful nod. “I like your son,” he said simply. “He has good instincts. And an interesting laugh.”

“Oh my god,” Reo whispered. Nagi stared. Theo stared back. Ren peeked around Nagi’s arm. “Bye, Theo!! See you at snack break!!” Theo didn’t wave. But he did smile. Nagi exhaled sharply like he’d just witnessed a romantic betrayal in real time. As they walked away, Reo whispered, “You know they’re kids, right?”

“He called him interesting.”

“He is interesting!”

“He looked at him like he was plotting a five-year engagement arc.”

Reo giggled. “Awww. Don’t be jealous. Theo’s sweet.”

“He’s a Kaiser.”

Ren tugged on Nagi’s sleeve. “I want to give Theo one of my shiny stickers next time.”

“No.”

“Pleeeeeease?”

Nagi didn’t answer. But he did pull Ren a little closer as they walked, muttering something about “Alpha politics,” “future restraining orders,” and “that hassle child and his schemes.”

They hadn’t even made it ten paces from Shane’s office. Ren was skipping slightly ahead, humming under his breath, still high off hallway gossip and orange lollipops. Reo walked beside Nagi, their arms brushing gently. Warm. Casual. But Nagi wasn’t calm. He was seething. “That kid,” Nagi said, voice low and suspicious. “That hassle child. He’s planning something.” Reo blinked. “Magnus?” Nagi’s eyes narrowed. “He’s too polite. Too still. Too composed. Nine-year-olds don’t act like that. That’s a war general wearing a velvet hoodie.” Reo raised an eyebrow. “He’s just Ness and Kaiser’s bond kid. He’s traumatized, Sei. Not plotting the downfall of modern civilization.”

“That’s exactly what someone would say if the kid was plotting the downfall of modern civilization.”.Reo bit back a laugh. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m observant.”.Reo grinned. “Jealous?”

“Of what? A tiny narcissist with perfect posture and a death glare?”

“You keep bringing up the posture,” Reo teased. Nagi groaned. “You don’t get it. This is exactly how it starts. First, it’s ‘Theo says flowers like compliments.’ Next, it’s ‘Theo says we should merge our college funds for joint investments.’”

“I’d trust him with our taxes,” Ren chirped up ahead. "SEE?!” Nagi pointed dramatically. “He’s already infiltrating.” Reo was wheezing. Ren just twirled around in his sneakers. “Papa, you’re being so dramatic. Theo’s cool.”

“He’s calculating.”

“He said I looked like a cinnamon roll with rage issues.”

“See?! He’s manipulating you.”

Ren rolled his eyes and skipped ahead again. Reo gently bumped Nagi’s shoulder. “Seishiro, Come on. He’s a nine-year-old.”

“A nine-year-old Kaiser. That’s ten years of hassle compressed into half the size.” Reo laughed, and then—without warning—leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Nagi’s cheek. Nagi froze. Mid-rant. Mid-step. Mid-“I think I saw him subtly raise one eyebrow in dominance.”.The kiss landed like a reset button..Reo pulled back with a soft smile. “There. Calm?”

“…No.”

“Liar.”

Nagi muttered something under his breath about “glitter bombs,” “bond-child mind games,” and “you’re all blind.”
But he didn’t argue further..He just let Reo lace their fingers together and tug him along down the hall, still grumbling. Behind them, Ren whispered to himself: “Maybe if I give Theo the shiny holographic sticker sheet, we can start our own club…” And Nagi sighed so loud it echoed..“We’re doomed.”

PXG Dorm Commons — 10:46 a.m. | Morning Break

The PXG breakroom looked less like a training camp and more like a war crime. Protein bar wrappers littered the floor like fallen leaves. Zantetsu was explaining photosynthesis to a blender. Tokimitsu was mid-panic spiral over whether hydration was too effective.
And in the middle of it all, Charles Chevalier was suffering. “I’m being oppressed,” he groaned from the couch, flopping dramatically across Shidou’s lap like a Regency Alpha on the verge of swooning. “There’s a whole regime between me and my Omega.”

Shidou smoothed back Charles’s hair like he was petting a particularly tragic cat. “I know, baby. Life’s so hard for you. So full of people who won’t let you hit on the quietest gremlin in Blue Lock.”

“You don’t understand,” Charles wailed. “I tried to smile at him and Aryu turned his head at a ninety-degree angle like a Final Boss! Then Sendou tried to polish my shoes with his forehead.” Rin, seated against the wall with tea and a perfectly blank stare, exhaled slowly. “You’re making it worse by being weird.”

“I’m being romantic!”

“You stood on the lunch table and shouted ‘Je suis à toi’(I'm yours) while shirtless,” Karasu said flatly, not looking up from his protein bar. “That’s not romantic. That’s how you get exiled.”

“I’m an Alpha,” Charles argued, sitting up. “I’m supposed to declare courtship in dramatic fashion!” Shidou held his hands out. “Okay, but there’s courtship—” he gestured like drawing a box, “—and then there’s whatever you’re doing, which is more like a telenovela inside a Shakespeare play written by someone unmedicated.” Charles grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. “HE’S SO BEAUTIFUL WHEN HE TELLS ME TO DIE.”

Nanase, entering from the hallway, paused in sheer horror. “What—what did I walk into?” Charles stood up, eyes wild. “I’ll tell you what you walked into: injustice. The entire Uber team is physically preventing me from approaching Niko! They guard him like he’s some heir to the Omega throne.” Karasu smirked. “He kind of is, though.”

“I got within two meters yesterday,” Charles went on, “and Don Lorenzo threw a protein shake at my feet! Like I was cursed!”

“And that’s just level one,” Shidou added helpfully. “Aryu’s the aesthetic sniper. Sendou’s the loud one who deflects with dad jokes. Aiku’s the ‘smile while threatening you’ type.” Karasu nodded. “And Barou doesn’t even talk. He just growls. Like a territorial panther with great hair.”

“Plus,” Shidou added, biting into a strawberry bar, “you can’t forget Niko’s actual energy. You get near him and it’s like a force field of do not engage.” Charles clutched his chest. “Exactly. It’s like trying to flirt with a haunted cathedral.” Zantetsu wandered past mid-monologue, muttering, “Niko is shaped like a very sad violin,” and left.
Rin finally looked up. “You’re all insane. And he’s clearly not interested.”

Charles turned to him, dramatically betrayed. “You of all people should understand forbidden longing, Rin!” Karasu raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing!” Charles sang too quickly. Shidou leaned over Charles’s shoulder like a nosy auntie. “You know what this is? Alpha puberty. Our little Charles is growing feelings.”

“I’m not a child!” Charles shouted..“You’re the youngest Alpha here,” Karasu said. “By a lot.”

“You cry when Rin ignores you for more than thirty minutes,” Nanase added. “Because he’s stoic!” Charles pointed dramatically. “It’s the same type! Silent! Mysterious! Gorgeous! Hard to get!” Rin deadpanned, “I’m going to drink this tea and pretend you didn’t say that.”

Shidou pulled Charles down to cuddle again, cooing, “You’re just a lovesick puppy, huh? Mama Ryusei understands. All you wanna do is sniff his hair and tell him he’s your moon.” Charles sighed dreamily. “He is my moon. A tiny, emotionally repressed moon.” Karasu muttered, “You’re the reason Omegas carry tasers.”

“I have to make my move before Ubers take him off the market,” Charles grumbled. “Niko’s the only Omega in Blue Lock with an entire tactical defense unit.” Karasu stared across the room. “To be fair, you’re not even exaggerating. Last week, I saw Barou block Hiori’s hand with his elbow just because he asked Niko about the weather.”

“Barou snarled,” Nanase added, “‘He doesn’t talk to strangers.’” Charles’s head hit the couch again with a moan. “They’ve domesticated him! He’s a soft, beautiful bird trapped in a terrifying zoo!”

“You can’t flirt with someone guarded by a Mafia football team,” Shidou said, faux-wise. “They’ll bite.”
“And Niko,” Rin muttered, flipping a page, “will just blink at your corpse and go back to Sudoku.” Karasu chuckled. “Welcome to PXG, Charles. May your romantic doom be educational.”

Charles was now buried under two pillows and a blanket Shidou had thrown over him like a funeral shroud. “Mama, I’m dying,” Charles groaned, voice muffled against the cushions. “I can’t live like this. I’m an Alpha with too much love and nowhere to put it.”

“Shhh, you’re okay,” Shidou said softly, kneeling beside the couch and smoothing the blanket like Charles was on bedrest. “You’re just under-romanced. Too many pheromones. It’s like a tragic poetry novel in here.” Charles peeked dramatically from under the pillow. “They don’t even let me breathe near him anymore. Barou made a noise when I said ‘good game’ last scrimmage. Like. A primal growl.”

“He probably thinks you’re gonna mark Niko at midfield,” Karasu muttered from the corner, chewing dried fruit like he was watching theater. “I would never mark an Omega without a ceremony!” Charles wailed. Rin sighed so hard it nearly moved the room. “You realize normal people don’t have ceremonies just to talk to each other, right?”

“Don’t talk to your brother like that,” Shidou said, adjusting the blanket over Charles’s feet with maternal precision. “I’m not his brother,” Rin muttered, glaring into his tea. Nanase shuffled in, only to immediately be swarmed by Shidou’s fussing. “Oh my god, baby, your hair’s all messed up—sit, sit—have you eaten? You skipped breakfast again, didn’t you?” Shidou cooed, already pulling a protein bar from his hoodie pocket like a magician of snacks. Nanase blinked. “I—I did eat—”

“Lies. You look pale. Sit. Hydrate. Do you want honey tea or ginseng? Actually, wait, don’t answer. I’ll make both.” And then Shidou swerved on a dime and turned to Rin. “Rinnie, are you warm enough?” he asked in that terrifyingly gentle tone.

“I’m not cold.”

“Did you sleep?”

“I did.”

“Dreams okay?”

“I don’t remember them.”

Shidou stared. Rin stared harder..Finally, Shidou sighed and dropped a soft-knit scarf onto Rin’s lap. “Just in case.”.Rin deadpanned, “I will set this on fire.” Shidou beamed. “Aww, my little inferno.” Charles flopped upright from under his blanket. “This house is full of neglect and injustice. And also biceps. But mostly neglect.”

“Still crying about Niko?” Karasu asked dryly. “I’m grieving,” Charles said, one hand dramatically pressed to his chest. “He looked at me ONCE. Do you understand the power of that gaze? I’ve built full wedding vows around that microsecond.”

“I bet Ubers already planned the ceremony,” Nanase said helpfully. “With Don Lorenzo as the ring bearer.”

“I would marry into Ubers,” Charles admitted, “but I don’t think I’d survive the engagement dinner. Aiku looks like he sends people to jail with a smile.” Karasu leaned back. “You’re not wrong. That man could assassinate you with manners.”

“And Barou would bring steak to your wedding and eat it over the altar,” Rin added flatly. “I just want one moment with my Omega,” Charles cried, arms flung toward the ceiling. “Is that too much to ask?” Shidou returned with tea for Nanase and a hot compress for Charles like some kind of chaotic Earth Mother. “Shhh. Don’t strain yourself, darling. Your poor Alpha heart.”

“It's cracking like a sugar sculpture,” Charles mumbled into the compress..“You’re hormonal,” Shidou said with deep compassion. “We all are. It’s the moon. And training. And the air.”

“I haven’t even gone into rut yet,” Charles sniffled. “I’m just suffering in advance.”

“Exactly,” Shidou agreed. “Preemptive rut sadness. So tragic. Drink your electrolytes.”

“I love you most when you mother me,” Charles whispered.

Karasu blinked. “I love you least when you say stuff like that.”.Rin curled further into his hoodie. “I love no one. I am free.”

“I love my sons equally,” Shidou said gently, wrapping a second blanket around Charles and kissing the top of Nanase’s head. “But Charles is emotionally high-maintenance and Rin is just high-voltage.”

“I will fight you,” Rin said..“Not before lunch,” Shidou replied..Charles whispered into the couch, “If I perish without ever kissing Niko, let it be known I died dramatic and untouched.” Karasu clapped him on the back. “You’ll die either way. Might as well die loud.”

Ubers Dorm — 11:25 a.m.

Niko stepped out of the shower, towel around his shoulders, hair damp and eyes half-lidded in the way that made the entire Ubers lineup tense like a battalion clocking a security breach. He barely got two steps toward the hallway before Sendou appeared out of nowhere. “There you are!” Sendou beamed too brightly. “Walk with me! Please! Just. Casually. Like normal people. Not because Charles was spotted loitering outside our dorms again.” Niko blinked. “...What?”

“Nothing. How’s your hydration? Let’s check that.” Meanwhile, behind them, Aiku spoke quietly into his comms — or what might as well have been one: “Eyes on PXG perimeter. Charles is smiling again.” Aryu reclined on the nearby couch, polishing his nails. “That Alpha is distressingly chaotic. He’s got too much glitter in his pheromones.”

“He smells like expensive soap and heartbreak,” Don Lorenzo added from upside down on the ceiling like some kind of cryptid. Barou slammed his protein shake down. “If that idiot Alpha gets within five feet of Niko again, I’m dragging him into the weight room and bench-pressing him through the floor.”

“I don’t think you can bench press through solid concrete,” Aryu said. “Watch me.”

“Guys, he’s just… loud,” Niko muttered, voice quiet. “He’s not scary. He’s just—” He paused, visibly searching for the word. “...Too much.”

“You hear that?” Sendou pointed. “Too much! Case closed. We’re protecting a sensitive soul here!” Aryu nodded like it was gospel. “Niko’s aesthetic is gentle mystery, not stalked by a lion in designer cologne.”

“He wrote me a haiku on a napkin,” Niko said blankly. “It rhymed.”.Everyone froze. “Haikus don’t rhyme,” Aiku said, horrified..“I know,” Niko replied. “He still made it rhyme.” Barou stood up, cracking his neck. “Alright. That’s it. I’m growling at him next time. No words. Just growls.” Sendou leaned down to Niko’s level, trying to be soft and encouraging. “Hey, buddy. You know you can tell us if he makes you uncomfortable, right? We’ll destroy him. Lovingly.”

“He doesn’t make me uncomfortable,” Niko murmured. “He just… comes on like a meteor shower. I like quiet. He likes fireworks.” Aiku nodded sagely. “Then we build a shield around your peace.”

“You guys are being dramatic,” Niko mumbled. “You’re our baby Omega,” Aryu said, flipping his hair. “We reserve the right to be extra.”

“I’m fifteen”

“That doesn’t count,” Barou grunted. Niko sighed and sat down on the couch, towel still around his neck. “Can we not build a death barrier around me today?”

“We prefer the term tactical buffer zone,” Aiku said mildly.

Back at PXG… Charles was attempting to slip a glitter-stamped note into a training cone when Shidou yanked him back by the collar. “Sweetheart, we’ve talked about this. You can’t serenade an Omega like it’s a K-drama confession scene.”

“I just wanted to compare his eyes to moonlit seawater,” Charles pouted. “Do it in your journal, not on a napkin.” Karasu muttered, “At this rate, Uber’s gonna put out a restraining order written in protein powder.”

Blue Lock Courtyard – 3:42 p.m.

Niko sat alone on a bench under a low tree, towel draped over his neck, cheeks still flushed from training. The sun hit his black hair at an angle that made it look navy, his expression unreadable as always — that quiet, ocean-deep stillness he carried like armor. So of course, Charles found him. The gravel crunched under his footfalls, his gold-chain necklace catching the sun with every step. Niko didn’t look up. “I’m not being weird,” Charles said preemptively.

Niko didn’t answer. Charles sighed. “Okay. I was being weird. With the haiku. And the rose petal trail. And the smoothie labeled ‘For the omega with the ocean eyes.’ That was maybe... overboard.” Niko finally looked up. His face betrayed nothing. “You think?” Charles sat beside him. Respectfully distant. For once, no smirk. Just... earnest awkwardness. “Look, I don’t really know how to—tone things down,” Charles admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I wasn’t trying to freak you out.”

“You didn’t freak me out,” Niko said, voice soft. “You just… came on strong. You always come on strong.”

“Yeah.” Charles kicked a pebble. “Comes with being part of a big family. If I don’t shine loud, I disappear.” Niko’s head tilted. That, he understood. “I’m just used to… silence,” Niko said after a pause. “To people who don’t push.”

“And I’m used to pushing. Even when I shouldn’t.” Charles laughed once, then sobered. “You looked at me like I was a storm you didn’t ask for.” Niko blinked slowly. “You are a storm.” That made Charles smile. “And you’re the eye of it.” Silence. Then: “I’m not good at people,” Niko admitted. “I know,” Charles said. “I’m not good at waiting.”

Another pause. Charles glanced sideways. “Do I still scare you?” Niko hesitated. “You don’t scare me.” Charles blinked. “You confuse me,” Niko clarified. “You act like you want to memorize me. But you don’t even know me.”

“I want to,” Charles said, voice low. Honest. “Not to chase you. Just to understand why you’re the only person I look at who makes me want to stop running.” Niko looked away quickly, ears pink. “...You’re dramatic.”

“I’m French.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Fair.”

They sat in quiet for a few more minutes. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves. “Your voice is softer than I expected,” Charles said suddenly. Niko’s lips twitched. “Yours is louder than I hoped.” They both let out small, startled laughs. And for once, Charles didn’t push. He just leaned back against the bench and let the quiet sit between them like a truce.

Just Out of Sight – Behind the Courtyard Wall—Status: Niko Surveillance Operation, Level: Critical

Aryu held up a hand-mirror at an angle, using it as a periscope. “Target Charles engaged. Sitting within… two feet of Niko.”

“He’s too close,” Barou growled, arms crossed, one eye twitching. “Why’s that idiot Alpha smiling like that? He’s planning something. I can smell it.”

“I think he’s just… talking?” Sendou whispered, leaning over Aryu’s shoulder. “Niko hasn’t bolted yet. That’s good, right?”

“Or he’s frozen in fear,” muttered Lorenzo, upside down from a nearby tree branch. “Someone needs to intervene.”

“I vote no,” Aiku cut in, chewing gum and squinting..“They’re not even touching. Let the kid breathe.”

“His face is red,” Aryu gasped, adjusting his mirror like a telescope. “That could be blushing.”

“Or sunburn!” snapped Barou. “He’s delicate. Omegas burn easy.”

“Delicate?? You’ve seen him tackle, right?” Sendou hissed. “Niko’s like a silent knife!”

“Which is why he shouldn’t be around a glitter-bomb like Charles!” Barou barked. “He’ll overstimulate the poor kid into cardiac arrest!”

“Hey,” Aiku said, tilting his head, “Niko’s talking. And he hasn’t run away. That’s new.”.They all paused. Turned. Indeed — Niko was talking. Slowly. Softly. But clearly engaged. His posture had relaxed. His gaze didn’t dart for an exit. Charles was leaning back, actually not touching him for once. Sendou teared up instantly. “Our little brother’s growing up.”

Aryu dabbed under his eye with a silk handkerchief. “He’s letting someone see him.”

“We’re witnessing a rare social blooming,” Aiku muttered. “Like a ghost deer in the woods.”

“I’m gonna crush that Charles bastard’s windpipe,” Barou said, cracking his knuckles. “Barou, no,” said everyone in unison..But Barou had already started marching forward like a doomsday tank..Aryu threw his scarf and caught him by the waist. “Not now! You’ll ruin the moment!”

“Let him finish his sentence at least!” Sendou pleaded. “But he’s smirking!” Barou hissed. “Smirks are the universal sign of Alpha manipulation!” Lorenzo dropped from the tree with a thud. “You’re all obsessed. Just let the omega handle it. If Niko doesn’t like it, he’ll stab Charles with his words. He’s a surgical killer.” Everyone froze. Because… he was right.

Back in the courtyard, Charles laughed at something. Niko ducked his head, but he was smiling. Barely. Just at the corner of his mouth. Aryu gasped. “A smile. A Niko smile. That’s the rarest phenomenon in Blue Lock!”

“Back off,” Barou grunted. “I’m not letting him get stolen by some pretty-boy pervert Alpha.”

“Too late,” Aiku whispered. “Kid’s curious. Look at him. That’s omega curiosity. You can’t un-curious an omega once it starts.”

“I’ll bury Charles under the pitch,” Barou vowed..“Let the boy flirt, Barou!” Aryu shrieked, throwing both arms wide. “LET THE OMEGA FLIRT!” Sendou echoed, now fully crying..Meanwhile, Niko paused, looked over his shoulder toward the suspiciously loud bush rustling
behind him, and narrowed his eyes.

Charles blinked. “...Are we being watched?” Niko’s gaze was flat. “Ubers.” Charles nodded solemnly. “Got it.” He scooted an inch farther away out of respect. Niko didn't
say anything. But he didn’t move away either.

Bastard München Dorms – 12:17 p.m.

Kaiser was sprawled on the common room couch like a bored deity mid-exile — shirt half unbuttoned, hair tousled from napping, and one foot kicked up over the armrest like he owned the place (he practically did). His phone buzzed once. He didn’t look. Then it buzzed again. And again. Then— “MICHAEL KAISER.” The dorm PA system exploded with Noa’s voice, cool and crisp as glacier ice.

Kaiser’s eye twitched. He groaned like a dying star. Isagi poked his head around the corner from the hallway, grinning. “Uh-oh. Master Noa said your full name.” Kaiser flipped him off without moving. “Shut it, Ego-dog.” Isagi folded his arms. “What’d you do this time? Trip a referee? Bite a goalpost? Cry in public?”

“I don’t cry,” Kaiser snapped. “Right. Because the tears evaporate from how emotionally constipated you are,” Isagi quipped. Kaiser threw a pillow at him. Isagi ducked, laughing. Then the PA crackled again. “Kaiser. Coach’s Office. Five minutes. No dramatics.” Kaiser sighed the sigh of a man being asked to do the bare minimum. “Fine,” he muttered. “Guess the leash got shorter.” Isagi hummed. “You want me to walk you there, or…?”

“Go bite a traffic cone.”

“Hate you too, Emperor.”

Noa stood like a statue near the window, arms crossed. Kaiser sauntered in, dragging his feet on purpose. “If this is about the towel incident, I didn’t mean to flash the intern. He walked in.” Noa didn’t even blink. “Sit.” Kaiser dropped into the chair like it personally offended him. “I don’t need a lecture.” Noa narrowed his eyes. “Good. Because this isn’t one.” That threw Kaiser off. “Then what’s this?”

A pause. A long one. Then Noa pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a headache made of pure striker. “I’m trying,” he said slowly, “to have a conversation with you.” Kaiser stared at him. Noa kept going, stiff as steel. “A… support-based… emotionally aware… check-in.” Kaiser looked like he was being punished with secondhand embarrassment. “Are you having a stroke?”

“No,” Noa growled.

“I’m being sensitive.”

“That’s worse.”

“I brought in a therapist.”

Kaiser blinked. “What.”

Noa reached for a file on the desk and tapped the name at the top: Shane, alias only. Blue pen, elegant handwriting. “She’s trained in bond dynamics. Fated mate fallout. Emotional trauma related to power imbalance. She wears a lot of blue.”

“I’m not going,” Kaiser said flatly. “Yes, you are,” Noa said, just as flat. “You can’t force me.”

“I’m not. Ego is.”

“Of course he is.”

Kaiser stood, already heading for the door. “This is stupid. You think some therapy Barbie in a silk blouse is gonna fix my issues?”

“She has a doctorate, Kaiser.”

“So does Frankenstein.”

“You have a session at 1:00.”

Kaiser stopped in the doorway. Noa raised an eyebrow. “And before you ask — no, it’s not optional. And yes, Magnus already had one.” That did it. Kaiser’s shoulders tensed. His knuckles flexed once at his side. Then he turned slightly, voice lower than before. “...Did the kid say anything?” Noa didn’t answer at first. Then: “You’ll have to ask Shane. If she'll even answer."

Kaiser didn’t say another word. He left without slamming the door. And for once — Noa didn’t feel victorious. Just... tired. Because Michael Kaiser wasn’t a weapon today. He looked like a kid about to walk into a burning house and ask if his old room still had a bed.

Blue Lock Private Counseling Room–1:04 p.m.

Subject: Michael Kaiser
Therapist: Shane (Alias)

The room was deceptively warm. Soft blue curtains. Diffused lighting. One window cracked open just enough to let in the afternoon breeze. A kettle puffed quietly on a side table. It didn’t look like a battlefield. But Michael Kaiser walked in like it was one. He didn’t knock. He didn’t greet. He strolled in with all the swagger of a man who thought therapy was a spectator sport, not something you felt.

His eyes scanned the room — assessing, calculating. A chair. A couch. Books. A small pitcher of tea. And across from it all… Her. Shane. Elegant navy blouse, waves of dark hair over one shoulder, pale blue notebook in her lap. She looked more like a professor in an opera house than someone paid to listen to broken athletes untangle themselves. “Michael,” she said warmly, looking up. “Thank you for coming.”

He gave a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t realize I had a choice.” Shane nodded. “You didn’t. But you’re still here. That counts.” Kaiser didn’t sit. He strolled along the edge of the room like a lion in a cage. Fingertips grazing the bookshelf. Boots making no sound on the thick rug. “You really a therapist?” he asked after a moment. “Or just Ego’s latest experiment?”

“I have three doctorates,” Shane said calmly. “One in psychology. One in trauma-based sports medicine. One in secondary gender sociology.”

“Overachiever.”

“I like puzzles.”

He arched an eyebrow. “And you think I’m a puzzle?”

“I think you’re someone with sharp edges,” she replied smoothly. “And sharp things are rarely born that way.” A flicker. Barely. Kaiser turned his back to her and studied a framed photograph on the wall. Something abstract. Blue, of course. “Do I sit, or are you gonna analyze my posture until I crack?”

“You’re welcome to sit,” Shane said, voice unpressured. After another long moment, he did. Flopped into the chair like he was mocking the entire idea..Silence. Shane didn’t fill it. Kaiser stared at a spot on the floor. Then up at the ceiling. Then at her. Still, she didn’t speak. “Isn’t this the part where you ask me about my childhood?”

“No.”

“Or how I feel?”

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Then what are you waiting for?”

“You,” Shane said simply.

“I’m right here.”

“No, Michael. You’re not.”

Another silence. This one colder. He leaned back, arms crossed. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“You think you’re gonna ‘fix’ me in an hour?”

“I don’t fix people,” she replied gently. “I sit with them. And if they want to talk, I listen.” He scoffed. “Then you’ll be waiting a long time.”

“I’ve waited longer for less.” Kaiser’s mouth twitched. Just barely. Something between a smirk and a warning.
They sat in silence again. This time it stretched. Shane made no move to prod him. No clipboard shuffling. No coaxing. Kaiser hated how still it was. How safe it felt. How safe she felt. It made him want to break something. Finally, after twenty-five minutes of this stalemate, he stood. “We done?” Shane closed her notebook. “We’re done for today.” He didn’t thank her. He didn’t look back.

But just as he reached the door, she said — softly: “Michael.” He paused..“You don’t owe me a performance,” she said. “And you don’t have to bleed in front of me.” A beat. “But when you’re ready to stop being a ghost in your own story… I’ll still be here.” He left. No slamming door. No loud goodbye. Just silence. And somewhere — behind the bravado, behind the arrogance — Shane knew she’d reached something.
Not much. But enough to try again.

Blue Lock Cafeteria—6:37 p.m.

The Bastard München table was almost civilized for once. Isagi was mid-chew, nodding along to whatever Kurona was muttering about “repetition being divine” in the context of carrot slices, while Raichi loudly argued with Yukimiya about hair product being banned in some holy text. Kaiser hadn’t spoken since picking apart his protein with a fork like it had offended him personally. Ness was absent, having quietly taken dinner elsewhere with Theo.

Peace. Almost. Until— “YOICHI~!” The air split open like a cheerful grenade. A tray slammed down beside Isagi as Bachira Meguru plopped into the seat beside him like a golden retriever with no concept of boundaries or volume. Isagi jolted. “Wha—Bachira?! What are you doing here? You’re FC Barcha—!”

“I missed you!” Bachira beamed, already stealing a meatball off Isagi’s plate. “And your face looked all serious earlier, so I figured you needed emotional vegetables. That’s me!” Kurona blinked. “You’re the—vegetable, vegetable?”

“EMOTIONAL VEGETABLE!” Bachira repeated, mouth full. “Totally different species.” Isagi groaned. “You can’t just… invade other teams’ tables, you know. Ego will—”

“Oh, he saw me.” Bachira waved toward the monitor. “He gave me a thumbs up.”.Isagi slammed his head gently on the table. And behind Bachira — dragged along like a very unwilling accessory to chaos — came Otoya Eita, looking like he’d been kidnapped mid-chew..“I didn’t agree to this,” Otoya said flatly, tray wobbling in his hand. “I was eating noodles in peace.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Bachira said, plunking Otoya into
the seat on his other side. “You said you were bored.”

“I said I was content with a minimal-stimulation environment.”

“Same thing!” Bachira beamed. “Now you’re here! With new friends!” Raichi stared at Otoya like he was sizing up a criminal. “You’re the guy who flirted with our entire backline in the qualifiers.”

“That was one time,” Otoya muttered. “And it worked.”

“Don’t try that shit here,” Raichi warned. “Our team’s already full of emotionally unavailable nightmares.”

“Speak for yourself,” Yukimiya sniffed. “I’m stunning and emotionally intelligent.”.Kurona stared. “Debatable, debatable.” Isagi, half-buried in curry groaned again. “Why is dinner always like this?”

“You love it,” Bachira said, grinning. “Besides, Bastard’s boring without me. All brooding and eyeliner. Look at you guys! You need me.”

“Don’t talk about eyeliner,” Kaiser muttered under his breath. “Some of us were born with it.”.Otoya glanced at him and whispered to Bachira, “Is he always like that?” Bachira grinned wider. “That’s the mild version.” Kaiser didn’t respond. He just glared down at his food like it was plotting treason. “Do you guys not get enough sunlight or something?” Otoya asked, turning to the table. “You all look like a moody vampire boy band.”

“That’s our moody vampire boy band,” Bachira corrected, looping an arm around Isagi’s shoulder. “Now shut up and eat!” Isagi sighed. But despite himself, he didn’t push the arm away. The tray in front of him had less food now — Bachira’s doing — and Otoya was already charming Hiori with nonsense about stretching routines.
But it felt… okay. Crowded. Loud. Familiar. And maybe that was okay. For now.

Kunigami sat alone. Tray untouched. Spoon clenched too tight. Staring into his curry like it had personally betrayed him. He wasn’t brooding. Not really. Just… existing in High-Contrast Emotion Mode™, as usual. Alone. And perfectly fine that way. Totally fine. Absolutely didn’t feel like a background NPC in the drama explosion happening two tables over. Didn’t twitch when Niko almost dropped a rice bowl in terror after Charles made eye contact. Didn’t. …Except— “Yo, Gingerbrood.”

Chigiri plopped down across from him, red hair fluttering like war flags. Kunigami blinked. Then frowned. Then blinked again as Ren followed after him — carrying his juice box like a tiny CEO — Reo trailing behind with an apologetic smile, and Nagi, who looked like he’d rather sleep on the table than eat at it. “What is this,” Kunigami asked, “a pastel invasion?”.Chigiri grinned. “Nope. It’s an intervention.”

“I don’t need an intervention.”

“You do,” Reo said politely, placing a drink in front of him. “You’ve been doing the brooding loner main character thing for forty minutes. Even Nagi noticed.” Nagi blinked. “I thought he was frozen.”

“I was thinking,” Kunigami muttered. “You’re spiraling,” Chigiri said. Ren popped up onto the bench beside Kunigami and blinked up at him. “You looked really sad. Are you sad because the food is bad?” Kunigami sputtered. “N-No, the food’s fine, it’s not—”

“You need emotional starch,” Ren said solemnly, pushing a dinner roll onto his tray. “That’s what Mister Bachira said. It’ll help.” Kunigami stared down at the roll like it had summoned an ancient trauma. “I’m fine,” he repeated, but less convincingly. “Wife right ” Nagi mumbled, laying his head on Reo’s shoulder. “Just let the kid sit with you. It’s too loud everywhere else.”

“Also,” Reo added, “Ren wanted to talk to you.” Kunigami blinked down at the tiny Omega beside him. “You… did?”
Ren nodded. “You looked like you needed a hug but I wasn’t sure if that’s allowed.” Silence. Kunigami, the walking embodiment of a moral dilemma, visibly glitched. “I—uh. I don’t—hug—” Reo whispered, “You’re allowed to say thank you.”

“…Thanks.” Ren smiled up at him. Bright. Content. “Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll just stay here. In case you do need a hug later.” And just like that, the tension shifted..Kunigami didn’t smile..But the line of his shoulders eased. The spoon loosened in his hand. The curry didn’t look quite so existential anymore..Chigiri rested his chin on his fist and watched him, eyes soft. “See? Not so hard.” Kunigami grumbled. “You’re still annoying.”

“And you’re still emotionally repressed,” Chigiri shot back. “We balance.” Ren, happily kicking his feet, offered Kunigami half of his jelly cup. Kunigami took it. Didn’t thank him again. But he didn’t have to. Not really.

It was the kind of sight that should’ve been impossible: Niko Ikki. Sitting. At the same table. As Charles Chevalier. Voluntarily. Ubers were thirty seconds away from DEFCON 1. Charles was thirty seconds away from spontaneous combustion. Shidou was already halfway there. “Okay, but like—how did you get him to sit here?” Charles whispered, body vibrating with barely-contained glee as he practically leaned across the table toward Niko. “Was it the pudding? It was the pudding, wasn’t it? It’s always the pudding—” Niko blinked. Slowly. Cautiously. “I just didn’t want to eat standing.”

“That’s basically a confession,” Charles gasped. Niko squinted. “No, it’s not.”

“You’re right, you’re right—sorry—what I meant to say is: thank you for blessing me with your presence, my moon, my mystery, my midnight bloom of tragic beauty—”

“Little one” Shidou cut in sharply, slapping a napkin onto Charles’s lap like a mother hen on the brink of breakdown. “Breathe. Chew. Use cutlery. You are not feral, even if your crush is.”

“I’m not—! I—! Shidou!!” Charles shrieked, turning red from hairline to collar. Across the table, Karasu popped a grape into his mouth and sighed with the weariness of someone parenting everyone. “He’s near his heat again,” Karasu muttered, eyes on Shidou. “That’s why he’s in Mother Mode. Every time the temperature drops two degrees, he starts nesting in public and scolding people like a tiny Omega housewife.” Shidou growled, “Say that again and I will nest with you, crow-boy.” Charles slammed his fists on the table. “Can no one respect the sanctity of my emotional turbulence?! I’m trying to have a Moment with the most beautiful Omega in Blue Lock and all you do is ruin it with reproductive commentary—”

“The most beautiful what?” Aryu’s voice cut across the cafeteria from the Ubers table like a gunshot. Suddenly, all of Ubers stood up at once. Barou. Aryu. Don Lorenzo. Aiku. Sendou. Even Niko’s usual shadow, snacking on bread rolls, paused with deadly silence. Charles blinked. Niko muttered under his breath, “Here we go.” Aryu strode across the floor like a vengeful fashion god, hair gleaming under the lights. “You think you can just claim Niko in public? Without clearance? Without coordination?”

“Are there… are there forms?” Charles asked nervously. “THERE ARE FEELINGS,” Aryu snapped. “Also,” Barou grunted, “you didn’t even bring an offering. We’re not cheap, Paris Boy.” Don Lorenzo cackled. “I say we make him duel for Niko’s honor. Barou versus Charles, shirtless.”

“Its on Paris Boy” Barou said immediately. Karasu groaned. “Why is this our life.” In the middle of it all, Niko pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “Can I eat in a bunker next time?”

“Nope,” Shidou chirped, now fluffing napkins under Niko’s tray like a nesting bird. “You’re my responsibility now, too. You need warmth and electrolytes and somebody has to make sure Charles doesn’t explode.” Charles was, in fact, vibrating like a blender on maximum. “May I escort you back to the Ubers table?” he asked Niko gallantly, offering a hand.

Niko didn’t move. Instead, he flicked his chopsticks at Charles’s forehead. “You’re weird.” Charles grinned, dazed. “You have no idea how much that means to me.” Shidou dramatically fanned himself with a salad menu. Karasu rolled his eyes and threw a napkin.

At the Bastard München table, Isagi Yoichi had been dramatically leaning back in his seat for the past five minutes, arm over the chair like he was about to deliver the State of the Union. “Look,” he said loudly, pointing his fork like a weapon toward the PXG table, “I’m just saying that someone needs to talk to Rin. That Omega attitude? Out of control. The glare. The hair. The cold shoulders. It's—it's excessive.” Kurona, next to him, nodded slowly while sipping from his juice box. “Right, right. It’s totally... excessive. You’ve only mentioned it five times in the past two minutes.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Isagi snapped. “You’re in heat for him,” Yukimiya said flatly, not even looking up from his salmon. “I’m an Alpha!”

“You're an idiot,” Hiori muttered under his breath, doodling in the corner of his training notebook.
Kiyora was three bites away from launching his soup into the nearest wall. “I swear to god,” he muttered, rubbing his temples, “if I hear the word Omega one more time in this hellhole, I’m transferring to the German national team and becoming a monk.”

Down the row, Raichi was aggressively trying to arm wrestle Gagamaru with a breadstick. “You’re weak!” he grunted. “You couldn’t even beat that dumb pudding Ren gave you yesterday!” Gagamaru’s face was blank. “I liked the pudding.”

Meanwhile, at a table just off to the side, Chigiri was once again dragging a very moody Kunigami into the land of the living. “Come on,” Chigiri sighed, nudging Kunigami’s tray closer to him. “Eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re brooding again.”

“I’m not brooding. I’m reflecting.”

“You’re doing that thing where you glare into space and pretend you’re in a music video.”

Kunigami looked up, eyes tragic. “Maybe I am.” Chigiri inhaled slowly through his nose and pinched the bridge of it like a patient teacher. “I’m this close to shoving miso soup into your mouth like a mother bird.” Across the table, Nagi was still complaining about “that hassle child” Theo, while Reo made soothing noises and Ren blinked like a curious little sponge.

At the PXG/Ubers crossover warzone, Shidou was fluffing a blanket over Charles’s shoulders while whispering to Rin about hydration schedules. Karasu had started drawing a chart ranking everyone by "Chaos Potential." Nanase whispered to Zantetsu, “Do you think we’ll survive the month?” Zantetsu blinked. “I forget what peace feels like.”

And in the very back, near the vending machines, Tokimitsu had somehow wedged himself between a ficus and a vending machine, quietly trying to vanish. “If I pretend to be furniture, maybe I’ll get out of extra drills.” Just as a spoon clattered to the ground from the

Bastard München table, Isagi stood again. “I’m just saying, someone needs to rein Rin in! He’s—he’s prickly! Cold! Mysterious!” Yukimiya side-eyed him. “So your type.” Kurona snorted. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m observing,” Isagi corrected, deeply red in the ears. “It’s just... training would be smoother if he stopped glaring at me like I burned his cleats.” Behind him, Kaiser — still recovering from emotional obliteration — just muttered, “You’re worse than me.” Kiyora finally threw his napkin at the floor. “Someone sedate him.”

Rin sat with PXG’s side of the cafeteria — shoulders hunched, tray untouched. Nanase and Tokimitsu were muttering about protein intake again. Charles was still whining to Shidou about Niko’s ‘unreachable angel walls’ and Zantetsu was attempting to eat soup with a fork.
Rin didn’t hear any of it.

His ears were tuned — against his will — to Isagi’s voice on the other side of the cafeteria. “…Omega attitude. Out of control. Cold shoulders. It’s excessive.” Rin’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth. He didn’t look. He didn’t need to look. He could hear the dumbass Alpha gesturing like a drama student having a meltdown.

You’re obsessed with yourself, Rin thought, lips twitching down into a grimace. And apparently with narrating my personality in public like it’s a damn documentary.

But still — he didn’t go back to eating. He sat there, frozen, listening to the echo of Isagi’s voice bouncing off tile and stainless steel. “He’s so loud,” Rin muttered under his breath. Charles, across from him, perked up. “Are we talking about Isagi? Ugh, I know, right? Like, I breathe wrong near Niko and everyone’s ready to murder me, but Isagi breathes in Rin’s general direction and boom—emotional spiral!” Rin’s eye twitched. “You talk too much.”

“Not as much as he talks about you,” Charles chirped, kicking his feet. “Charles,” Rin warned. Shidou leaned in with a sly grin, already draping a blanket over Charles’s shoulders. “He’s just mad because someone’s finally got that pretty little Omega brain of his fried.”

“I’m going to stab you both,” Rin muttered. But the insult didn’t land the way he wanted. Because he had heard it. He had heard Isagi say those things. And worse — he hadn’t hated it.

Not completely. Not when it meant Isagi was thinking about him.

Stupid.
Clingy, loudmouth Alpha.
You talk about me like I’m a puzzle you get to solve.

His jaw tensed. Something slow, hot, and complicated curled under his ribs like a pulled muscle. He stabbed a carrot. Shidou leaned into Karasu’s shoulder. “He’s totally in denial.” Karasu just hummed. “Let him suffer.”

And Rin? Rin didn’t respond. Not this time. He just quietly — and very purposefully — scooted his chair one inch closer to where he could just hear Isagi better. He didn’t look. But his ears didn’t miss a single word.

Bachira watched Isagi across the table with the expression of a scheming goblin who’d just discovered an unguarded cookie jar. Isagi was in the middle of dramatically spearing a cherry tomato. “I’m just saying, Rin’s attitude is getting worse. That Omega thing he does with the staring? It’s hostile. And the silence. Like he’s waiting for me to fail or combust or whatever. It’s—”

Bachira, chewing a mozzarella stick, leaned forward with stars in his eyes. “You’re so in love with him, it’s insane.” The tomato slipped off Isagi’s fork. “I’m sorry—what?”

“You’re sooo down bad.” Bachira grinned like it was his birthday. “It’s romantic, really. The enemies-to-soulmates slowburn. The bickering. The longing looks across the cafeteria like an emotionally-repressed drama. He’s got you on lock, my guy.”.Isagi looked physically ill. “It’s not like that. I don’t even like—he’s—he’s complicated.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that.” Bachira’s smile only grew. “But you’re the one watching him eat rice like it’s a cinematic event. You sighed when he stood up earlier. You nearly choked when he made eye contact.”.Isagi turned bright red. “That’s called vigilance.”

“That’s called crushing,” Bachira sing-songed, nudging his knee under the table. “It’s okay, I get it. He’s got that emotionally constipated poetry-boy vibe. Sharp jaw. Cold voice. You want him to step on your throat and apologize after.” Isagi clapped a hand over his mouth. “I do not—!”

Across the cafeteria, Rin tilted his head slightly, like he’d heard something. Isagi ducked behind a juice carton. Bachira almost fell out of his chair laughing. “I can help,” he offered once he recovered. “We could do like…operation flirt. I’ll drop hints. I’ll corner him and whisper, ‘Isagi’s pheromones smell amazing today’—”

“No. No pheromone-based interventions,” Isagi groaned, face in hands. “And stop talking so loud. He’s gonna think I’m—”

“Craving his attention? Already does.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Bachira beamed. “But you do hate how much you want Rin to look at you the way he looks at cherry blossoms and tactical playbooks.” Isagi thumped his head against the table. “I’m going to l die. I’m going to collapse in a puddle of stupid, Alpha-coded despair.”
Behind them, Chigiri walked by with a tray and muttered,.“You’re already halfway there.”.Isagi threw a napkin at him. Bachira cackled harder..And across the room—unmoving, unreadable—Rin glanced over one more time.

His chopsticks paused. His gaze lingered..Then he looked away again. But the tips of his ears were just a little pink..And Bachira saw it. He grinned wider. Operation Matchmaking: Activated.

Day 6 – 10:18 a.m.
Blue Lock East Wing | Therapy Room

The room was quiet — sunlight diffused through frosted windows, catching soft edges of the furniture. The faint scent of chamomile lingered in the air, from the pot of tea Shane had placed on the low table between them. She sat with one leg tucked under her, notebook open, pen capped. Her wavy hair fell in soft blue-black waves, brushing against the collar of her sea-blue blouse.
Michael Kaiser was staring at the wall. Again.

Shane’s gaze, calm but alert, flicked to him over the rim of her teacup. He hadn’t said much since walking in — just a grunt, a shrug, and a tight-lipped “I don’t do this kind of shit.” But he still came. That, she noted, was worth more than he realized. “I won’t ask you about Ness,” she said softly, fingers laced beneath her chin, “or Theo. Not directly.” Kaiser shifted, but didn’t speak. “I’ll just ask this: why does the idea of sitting with them — even for ten minutes — make you so angry?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t scoff. Just breathed out hard through his nose. Arms crossed. Jaw flexing. Shane tilted her head, watching him. “You’re not as guarded as you think. Not to someone who knows the language of repression.” Kaiser’s voice came low, sharp. “Is this where you tell me I’m secretly hurting inside and just too scared to face it?” She smiled gently. “You’re not hurting in secret. You’re hurting in plain sight.”

He didn’t like that. He looked away, eyes narrowing at some fixed point on the bookshelf — somewhere past the names of titles he didn’t care to read. The silence between them stretched like a blade. “Michael,” Shane tried again, quieter, warmer this time. “What are you really afraid of? That Theo hates you? Or that… he’s right to?” Kaiser’s jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. His voice was low, almost a growl. “You don’t know him.”

“I’m learning,” she said, unshaken. “He’s perceptive. Brutal, but not cruel. He speaks like someone who had to grow up too fast. You know that language well, don’t you?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The tension in his shoulders said enough. “You said yesterday that this place doesn’t fix people. That therapy’s a joke. But you’re here. You stayed. You didn’t storm out when I brought up his name.” Kaiser stood abruptly, chair legs squeaking against the floor. “I didn’t come here for your lectures.”

Shane remained seated. Calm. Empathetic. She looked up at him like he hadn’t just erupted. “No. You came here because something in you wants to change. Even if it terrifies you.”

“I don’t need to be fixed.”

“I agree,” Shane said, quietly. “You need to be seen.”

Kaiser froze. And for a moment — just a moment — he looked small. Not the Emperor. Not the legend. Just a man with too much damage behind his smirk, too many walls behind his silence. Shane uncapped her pen again, slowly, deliberately. “I’m going to write something,” she said. “And you don’t have to read it. Not today. But I want you to take it with you.” She scribbled quickly, then tore the paper out and folded it twice.

Kaiser didn’t move to take it. So she placed it on the armrest of his chair, gently, and said: “I think Magnus' waiting for you to try. Even if he doesn’t say it. Even if it hurts. Because kids don’t ask for perfect fathers. Just ones who show up.” Kaiser stared at the paper. Like it was fire. And then — without a word — he left.
The door clicked shut behind him. Shane sighed. Her fingers brushed the edge of her notebook. She wrote one final note beneath the session time: Progress will not always look like softness. Sometimes it looks like staying in the room.

Day 6 | Late Evening
Bastard München Dormitories – Rooftop

The wind was sharp that night. Cold enough to bite, but not enough to chase him indoors. Michael Kaiser sat alone, hoodie drawn up over his head, the paper Shane gave him still folded in his palm. He hadn’t opened it when he left the session. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even look at her on the way out. But he kept it. Now, hours later, he finally unfolded it. Shane’s handwriting was elegant. Neat. Blue ink on soft cream paper — precise, like everything about her.

“You are not the man who broke you.”
“But you are the one breaking others now.”
“Choose something different.”

His hands trembled. Just slightly. He crumpled the paper — reflex — but couldn’t bring himself to throw it. He let it rest beside him on the rooftop ledge, as he stared up at the stars with a tight jaw and a burning throat. His father used to sit like this. Out on their apartment balcony, beer in one hand, belt in the other, muttering about worthless children and whoring actresses and a world that owed him something.

Michael had promised himself, when he was twelve and bloody and dragging himself across concrete, that he would never be like that man. Never scream like that. Never hit. Never make someone flinch at the sound of his footsteps. And yet— He had. He remembered Ness’s eyes. Wide. Shining with tears he refused to shed. And Theo — Magnus — with his fists clenched like a soldier standing between two burning cities. And in that moment, the only thing Michael could think was:

My father is dead. So why do I still hear him in my voice?

The things he said to Ness weren’t always cruel. But they were calculated. Sharp. Shredding. Meant to remind him who held the power. When had his survival instinct twisted into control? When did defending himself turn into pushing everyone else down? His father had called him trash. So he called others weak — because it was easier than wondering if he still was.
His father had hit him. So he—Michael swallowed hard. He hadn’t meant to raise his hand. It wasn’t a punch. Not even a full swing. Just instinct. Just pressure. Just—

Excuses.

Theo hadn’t asked for excuses. He’d asked for honesty. For something gentler. For something Michael had never learned how to give. He pressed his palms to his eyes, hard. As if that could stop the spiraling. The sick rush of guilt. The boy had called him by name.

Michael.

Not Dad.

Not Father.

Not even Kaiser.

Just… Michael.

Stripped bare.

Just like he’d once been — trembling in a cold police station, before Ray Dark had handed him a ball and said “Play. If you want to live, play.” Now here he was, thirty feet above a soccer field, hands covered in invisible blood, and no idea how to start over. But he hadn’t thrown the paper. And maybe — maybe that meant something. Kaiser reached for it again. Smoothed it out against his knee. Read it one more time.

You are not the man who broke you.
But you are the one breaking others now.
Choose something different.

“I don’t know how,” he whispered. And the wind didn’t answer. But the paper didn’t move. And for once… He didn’t throw it away.

Outside the Blue Lock Dorms — Dimly Lit Garden Path

The stars overhead had dimmed behind clouds. The air held that thick, late-night stillness — too quiet, too exposed. Like the whole world was holding its breath.
Michael Kaiser didn’t usually walk here. Too open. Too easy to be seen. But tonight, something pulled him out. Away from his team. Away from the cameras. Away from everything. And somehow, as if drawn by gravity or fate or a cruel cosmic joke— He found Theo there too.

Sitting alone on a bench by the edge of the field. His legs were tucked up, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. Jacket huddled around his shoulders like a fortress. He noticed Kaiser immediately. And didn’t move. Didn’t run. Didn’t call out. Just… waited. Kaiser hovered at the edge of the gravel path. The silence between them was suffocating — not angry, not bitter. Just… loaded.

“I didn’t come to argue,” Kaiser said, voice low. Careful.
Theo didn’t respond..“I just—” Kaiser shifted. His hands were in his pockets, but they clenched like fists. “I didn’t want the day to end like that.” Still, the boy didn’t speak. But he didn’t leave, either. That was something. So Kaiser inched closer. Slowly. Like approaching a wild animal who didn’t trust him. (Fair.) “You always sit out here?”

Theo shrugged. “When I want quiet.” Kaiser hesitated. “Can I…?” He nodded to the other side of the bench. Theo paused. Then nodded once. Kaiser sat. A long, aching silence stretched between them. The kind with teeth. Then: “I read your file,” Theo said, voice flat. “The real one. With the therapists. The part where your dad didn’t call you by name.” Kaiser flinched. Theo didn’t look at him. Just stared forward, into the dark.

“It doesn’t excuse anything,” the boy added. “But it made a few things make more sense.” Kaiser exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

“I don’t want to be your mirror,” Theo said after a beat. “I don’t want to grow up becoming someone I promised myself I’d never be.” Kaiser looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Just barely. “You’re not me,” he said. “You’re already better than I ever was.” Theo tilted his head — not mocking. Just curious. Skeptical. “You’re trying,” Kaiser said quietly. “Even after everything. You came here for Ness. Not to fix some cosmic mistake. Not to prove something. Just… to keep someone safe.”

“That’s stronger than anything I’ve ever done.” Theo’s expression didn’t soften, but his shoulders dropped — just slightly. “I thought you’d yell,” he admitted. Kaiser huffed. “I thought I would too.” A beat. “…So why aren’t you?” Theo asked. Kaiser looked up at the sky. The clouds had parted just enough to reveal a thin line of stars..“Because I can’t stand the sound of myself anymore.”

Theo blinked. “I heard my voice today — yelling. Not at you. At myself. In my head. It was his voice.” Theo’s throat bobbed. “I didn’t think I’d end up here,” Kaiser said. “Staring at the kid who looks like my past and my future, all rolled into one. I didn’t think I’d ever—” He paused. Swallowed. “I didn’t think I’d want a second chance.”

Theo finally turned. His eyes — sharp like Kaiser’s, quiet like Ness’s — didn’t look angry anymore. Just tired. “I’m not giving you one,” he said, matter-of-fact. Kaiser nodded. “I know.”

“But if you earn it…” Theo hesitated. Then added, softly, “I might let you walk beside me. A little.” Kaiser’s breath caught in his throat. “…That’s more than I deserve.” Theo stood. Kaiser started to move too, but Theo held up a hand. “Don’t push it.” Then — softer — “Goodnight, Michael.”

Kaiser didn’t answer right away. Then: “Goodnight, Theo.”
Theo didn’t correct him. Didn’t say, That’s only for people I love. And Kaiser — for once — didn’t assume anything.
But when he looked down….There was a folded blue paper on the bench beside him..From Shane. He opened it.

“Healing isn’t linear. And trust isn’t given — it’s built.”
“You didn’t break overnight. You won’t fix overnight, either.”

He looked up again. Theo was already gone. But for the first time in what felt like years… Kaiser didn’t feel completely alone.

Day 6 | 11:59 p.m.
Blue Lock Conference Room — Secured Access Only

The room smelled like cold air and bitter coffee. Steel-paneled walls. Frosted glass. Holographic blueprints rotating slowly over the center table. The five Masters were already seated, each bearing the exhausted look of professionals balancing genius and chaos. Ego was pacing. Anri sat to his right, typing furiously.

And at the far end of the room, Dr. Shane, Blue Lock’s newly retained “emergency therapist,” swirled a cup of lavender tea with one perfectly manicured finger. She was dressed in layered sapphire silks, her hair loose and wavy down her back. A goddess of mental healthcare, trapped among caffeine-addled soccer legends.

“So,” Shane began cheerfully, breaking the silence. “How much trauma are we unpacking tonight?” Chris Prince, dark circles under his eyes, snorted. “Are you asking generally, or per child?” Snuffy sighed into his palms. “Let’s keep it to the ones that have nearly broken each other today.” Ego snapped his fingers. “Kaiser and Theo.” Lavinho raised a brow. “The monarch and the mini-emperor.”

“They spoke,” Shane said, setting her tea down, more serious now. “For real this time.” Noa, arms crossed in his usual statue-still posture, tilted his head slightly. “Voluntarily?”

“Voluntarily,” Shane confirmed. “Kaiser approached him. No script. No assignment. He didn’t collapse into his usual self-aggrandizing loops. He… listened.” Anri paused her typing. “And Theo?” Shane smiled faintly. “Didn’t soften, exactly. But he gave him room. Just a little.”

“Room?” Loki leaned forward, intrigued. “To grow,” Shane replied. “To fail. To get back up again.” Lavinho exhaled through his nose. “Kid’s got a spine of steel.”

“And a mouth to match,” Snuffy muttered. “But he’s a strategist. That apple didn’t fall far.” Ego finally stopped pacing and looked at Shane. “Is it enough?” he asked. Shane looked thoughtful. “No.” Pause. “But it’s a start.” She flicked her fingers toward the holographic display, where reports from today’s sessions lit up — annotated emotionally, psychologically, behaviorally. “Ren is stabilizing. Theo’s rage is no longer directionless. Ness is… trying, quietly. Kaiser cracked open an inch.”

“And the others?” Noa asked. “What about Rin, Charles, Niko, Nanase—?” Shane held up a hand. “I’m seeing them all in rotation. But you don’t need to worry about them yet.” Anri frowned. “Why not?”

“Because the loudest children are rarely the most broken,” Shane said softly. “It’s the quiet ones who bury everything. The ones who get good at surviving.” Ego’s jaw tightened. “Then dig faster.”

“I’m not a pickaxe, Ego,” Shane replied mildly. “I’m a medic. And this isn't just cracked bones and bruised egos.” Chris leaned back. “We knew this would be messy. But…”

“Did we know they’d be this human?” Snuffy finished. Noa spoke up then, voice flat but intent. “Would it help,” he asked, “if I brought Kaiser in directly? To you. Alone.”
Shane blinked. “If he agrees to it? Yes.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I’ll wait,” she said simply. “The child he hurt is stronger than he is right now. That’s enough leverage.” Loki raised a hand. “I still think we’re playing god.” Ego grinned sharply. “We always have.”

“Gods,” Lavinho said, “don’t usually lose sleep over omegas crying in cafeterias.”

“That’s why we’re not gods,” Shane said. “We’re just very tired adults with too many emotionally constipated teenagers under one roof.” That got a few chuckles. Even Noa’s mouth twitched. Barely. Anri closed her laptop and leaned into the table. “Final report, then: Theo and Kaiser are talking. Ness is no longer frozen. Ren is stable. The facility remains intact.”

“For now,” Ego added. Shane stood, brushing her hands together. “Good. I have an 8AM with Rin and Niko. If you need me, I’ll be in my office. Meditating. And probably weeping.” She walked to the door, heels clicking with grace. Just before exiting, she turned back and added with a wink, “And don’t forget to hydrate. You’re all emotionally repressed enough.” She disappeared down the corridor.

Chris turned to Ego. “She’s terrifying.”

“She’s effective,” Ego said. “Let’s keep her.” No one disagreed. Not even Noa.

Day 6 — 6:37 PM
Blue Lock Entry Hall — Sector A, Bond Surveillance Level Access

The reinforced doors hissed open. The facility’s air was sharp with antiseptic and tension. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly. Footsteps echoed down the gleaming corridor like warning shots. Anri Teieri straightened, tablet held tightly to her chest. Beside her, Ego Jinpachi stood with arms folded, expression unreadable. Sae Itoshi stepped through the threshold like a storm in stillness. His coat was half-slid off one shoulder, his eyes colder than any security clearance.

Alpha. But not loud about it. His presence didn't scream. It silenced. “Sae Itoshi,” Ego said by way of greeting. “You’re earlier than expected.” Sae didn’t slow his pace. “You don’t summon me and expect me to dawdle.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d come at all,” Ego replied, deadpan. “I’m not here because of your call,” Sae snapped. “I’m here because the bond system flagged a spike near PXG’s facility. And it registered my name.” Anri winced inwardly. Straight to the point. As always. “And that means someone’s tampering with my life.” Ego’s smirk twitched into place. “Or Fate is just sick of waiting.” Sae stopped a few feet from them, shifting his weight onto one foot, eyes sharp. “Where is he?”

“You’ll see him when Shane clears it,” Anri replied gently. “Right now, he's undergoing a secondary cooldown scan. The bond feedback hit critical threshold — emotional stressor, metaphysical dissonance, heat shift.” Sae’s brow barely moved. But Anri caught it. The twitch..“And he’s alive?”

“Of course he’s alive,” Ego said. “But you aren’t. Not inside the system. Not yet. You’ve been ignoring it since the trigger first emerged during Neo Egoist League rotation.” Sae said nothing. Anri tried again, softer. “He called your name.” That landed. Just a beat. Just a flicker of breath caught in Sae’s throat before he masked it. “I want access,” he said flatly. “Now.”

“We’re not the ones who locked it,” Ego said. “The system did. For your safety. And his.”

“You think I’m a danger to him?”

“I think you’re a danger to yourself,” Ego said, tone suddenly sharp. “You’ve spent your entire career running from emotional consequence. You can break ankles on a field, but you can’t say ‘I care’ without flinching like it’s a gunshot.” Anri stepped in quickly. “Sae. You’re not here as a punishment.”

“I’m not here for therapy,” he cut in. “No,” she agreed, voice calm. “You’re here because the bond between you and Ryusei Shidou is real. And it’s reaching a threshold. If you don’t face it—if you don’t stabilize it—it will break you both. Or worse, drag one of you down to fix it.” Sae turned his head slightly. “You think he’s that fragile?”

“No,” Anri said softly. “We think you are.” Silence. Thick, electric, charged. Sae turned fully toward the hallway, his voice a ghost. “He hated me for leaving.”

“And still called your name,” Anri replied gently. “He told me he hated fate.”

“Then maybe,” Ego said, “he’s the only one who can teach you how to believe in it.” A long pause. Sae exhaled slowly. “Where do I wait?” Ego stepped aside. “Sector C — holding lounge. Shane will see you once she finishes the current therapy rotation.”

Sae walked past them without another word. But Anri caught it — the way his shoulders hunched just slightly. The way his hands clenched, then released. He’s scared, she realized. Of the bond. Of the history. Of being seen. And most of all— Of Shidou Ryusei.

Day 7 — 6:02 a.m.
Blue Lock Central Stadium – Main Arena
Emergency Summons: Active

They were summoned again before the sun could finish its climb. Another stadium lockdown. Another early call. Another day in the timeline apocalypse of emotional warfare and bond-induced chaos. And once again — the Blue Lock players were herded in like half-dressed cattle, all bleary-eyed and half-awake, crammed into the stadium with murmurs and groans filling the air. “What now?” Raichi barked from the Bastard side, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Let me guess,” Karasu yawned, “another future child with a god complex?”

“Please no,” Chigiri muttered, tugging Ren closer by the hoodie strings. “Did someone activate another bond by accident?” Reo whispered sharply, side-eyeing Nagi. “Wasn’t me,” Nagi replied with a shrug. “But this place is starting to feel like a cursed daycare.” Then — the glass above them darkened. A familiar platform lit up. At the center, as always: Jinpachi Ego, arms crossed, tablet in hand, smile as sharp as ever. Anri Teieri stood beside him, already sighing. The silence hit fast.

And Ego spoke like thunder. “Good morning, disasters of fate,” he began, eyes sweeping across the gathered teens like a vulture surveying its buffet. “Congratulations on making it to Day 7 without summoning a third metaphysical child.”

“Small victories, I suppose.” Snorts and coughs echoed. Someone sneezed. “But this morning,” he went on, “you’re not here because of a child.” A pause. Tension thickened. “You’re here because an adult finally decided to show up.” Gasps rippled. Anri glanced at him, unsure.
Ego raised his voice slightly, reveling in the tension.
“A familiar name. A living legend. A former prodigy turned enigma.”

“The U-20 Midfield Genius. Japan's Greatest Treasure ” A ripple of stunned whispers:

“…No way—”

“Wait—”

“Did he say—?!”

Ego smiled cruelly. “Please welcome to the facility… Sae Itoshi — or as I like to call him: the other emotionally constipated Itoshi.” The doors at the far end of the stadium hissed open. And Sae walked in. Unbothered. Cold-eyed. Dressed in his signature black coat, hands in his pockets like the chaos in the room wasn’t even worth blinking at. “Shit,” Rin breathed, going stiff beside Nanase..Tokimitsu clutched his sleeves like prayer beads. “Why is he here?! WHY is he HERE?!”

“Rin has a clone?” Zantetsu whispered to Charles. “No,” Rin muttered lowly. “He’s worse.” Shidou’s head whipped around — his jaw slack. His breath caught. His pupils dilated. “Sae—?” he whispered. No response. Sae’s eyes scanned the players — cold, disinterested — until they landed briefly on PXG’s side. On him. Shidou didn’t blink. Neither did Sae. Just for a second — a single frame of eye contact..And it was enough to make the bond system hum to life. Ego's tablet flashed with a spike. “Yup,” he said casually, “there it is.”

“Another spike in the metaphysical bond net. This time not a child — but a long-delayed adult-level spiral.”

“Congratulations,” Ego sneered. “We’ve unlocked the next boss battle. And his name is Sae Itoshi.”

Just when the tension in Blue Lock had begun to cool — just when the sting of therapy, the crash of Kaiser’s failure, and the tremors of fated mate revelations started to settle — the universe shifted again. It began, like last time, with light. An unnatural glow fractured through the air above the arena. Not like a flashbang. Not like Ego’s usual smoke and mirrors. No. This was something older. Something otherworldly.

The air itself bent — warping like heat off pavement, then parting like a veil. And from that impossible tear in space… They stepped out. Three children. No older than seven. Framed by golden wind and warm light. Guided silently by a figure made of shimmer and air — the bond angel, her form flickering at the edge of knowing, unseen by most. She said nothing. She never did. She only pointed… and the children followed.

And the moment their feet touched the Blue Lock arena floor, the light closed. And silence followed. A silence so vast it seemed to hush the world itself. Not even Ego spoke. The first child — a boy — stepped forward like he owned the air around him. Crimson hair jagged and windswept, a fox-like smirk twitching at his lips. His eyes glittered. A small fang peeked between his teeth. He looked like a spark turned sentient. He looked like Shidou Ryusei — if Shidou had been carved into royalty.

The next one — a girl — trailed a step behind. Ponytail wild. Teal eyes narrowed and locked on every movement. She was already flexing her fists like she expected someone to fight her for breathing. Her build was sturdy. Athletic. Bandages wrapped around her knuckles like she was born mid-brawl..The third — a girl, delicate — walked several paces back..Her rose-gold hair was done in twin buns. Her gaze was distant, too still, like a dream that hadn't fully landed. Her eyes didn’t match — one pink, one teal. They shimmered softly. She clutched a worn storybook in one hand.

None of them spoke. Not yet..Not even to each other. Because their presence alone said everything. They didn’t need names. They didn’t need introductions. Because the moment Shidou Ryusei saw them — the moment his eyes locked on those familiar shapes, those
expressions, those eyes — something inside him broke.

Not cracked.
Broke.
Like a dam.
Like a scream.
Like a dream dying in real time.

“No,” he breathed. It wasn’t disbelief. It wasn’t denial. It was grief. The kind that shakes your bones before your brain catches up. He stumbled a step forward. Then another. And dropped the bottle in his hands with a deafening clatter..Every player turned to him..“Shidou?” Rin said, blinking, concerned. But Shidou didn’t hear him..His world had narrowed to three figures. Three pieces of a future that should have been his.

His lips trembled. “No. No. No, no, no—” He was backing away, then moving forward, like his body didn’t know where to run. Because he knew. Deep in his bones. Those were his children. His. And Sae’s..And if they were here….It meant something had gone horribly wrong. That the bond had shattered. That the thing he’d clung to — through madness, through obsession, through love so wild it scared him — had broken so badly, time itself had sent these children back as witnesses.

A breath. A sob. Then he collapsed to his knees. Tears poured down his cheeks, raw and guttural. “I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so sorry—” The crimson-haired boy tilted his head slightly, grin fading. The girl with the wild ponytail stiffened. But the smallest one — the quiet dreamer — stepped forward. She walked with eerie grace. Not rushed. Not afraid. And crouched down beside him, placing a tiny hand on his trembling shoulder..Her voice was a whisper of wind:

“…Okaa-san.”
That word.
That word.

It didn’t just break Shidou — it shattered him into stardust. He made a sound no one in Blue Lock had ever heard before. Something raw. Something maternal. He surged forward. Gathered the girl in his arms without thinking — cradling her to his chest like she was made of glass and fire all at once. She didn’t resist. She folded into the hug like she’d been waiting years for it. Then the crimson-haired boy scoffed, muttering under his breath, “…Typical.”.But even he stepped closer. The frown never reached his eyes.

The last one — with the teal eyes and wild stance — hesitated. Her fists trembled. Her lip quivered. And then she ran. Straight into Shidou’s chest. His arms widened instinctively — and suddenly, he was holding all three. Crushed to him. Trembling. Real. They didn’t have names yet. But he knew them. He knew them. From dreams he never told Sae about. From instincts his soul had carved like runes..“I’m sorry,” he wept. “I failed you, didn’t I?”

The crimson one mumbled something into his chest. “Dunno. We’re not here to judge.” The ponytailed girl added, “You’re warm…”.And the smallest one simply whispered, “We missed you.” Sae, from across the room, stood frozen. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. But Reika looked over her shoulder at him — just for a second — and smiled..That soft, heartbreaking smile..And said nothing. Because she didn’t need to.

Silence didn’t last long. Because Blue Lock players — especially these Blue Lock players — weren’t exactly known for calm composure in the face of soul-shattering events. Whispers broke first. Then gasps. Then full-on chaos. “Are those triplets?” Bachira said, mouth agape, already halfway climbing onto Isagi’s back for a better view. “What the hell is going on?” Kunigami muttered, brows furrowed, fists clenched. “You’ve got to be joking,” Charles wheezed, gripping Nanase’s shoulders for emotional support. “There’s three of them. Three mini-Shidous. We’re doomed.”

“Those are kids,” Tokimitsu panicked, stepping back. “Kids with Alpha energy and—and heterochromia! That’s a sign! That’s always a sign!!” Even Rin, ever-stoic, looked visibly rattled. Eyes locked on Shidou, then on Sae. Then… back on the girl with the twin buns — her soft gaze, the way she leaned into Shidou’s hug like it was her whole world. Rin exhaled shakily. “…Those are his.”

“Wait, whose?” Reo asked, eyes wide. “Shidou’s,” Niko muttered, stunned. “And… Itoshi Sae’s.” Barou snarled. “You mean the ‘emotionally constipated Itoshi’?”

“Holy shit,” Aryu breathed. “The universe shipped them harder than we ever could.”.Otoya’s jaw dropped. “Even their kids have better hair than me.”.Meanwhile, Chris Prince had dropped his espresso flask in the upper viewing room. Snuffy was mid-prayer. Loki muttered, “Oh no. There are three of them. And they’re bonded.” Lavinho clutched the balcony. “Where’s my wine?” And Noa? Noa just whispered: “…This facility isn’t built for this level of emotional warfare.”

Back below, Shidou was still clutching the triplets to his chest. Sae hadn’t moved. But his gaze never left them.
And that’s when the smallest one — the girl with the dreamlike gaze — gently pulled back. She didn’t cry. She didn’t waver. She stood straight, smoothed her dress, and looked at everyone around her with ethereal calm.
Then — voice soft but crystalline — she said: “My name is Reika Itoshi.”

Pause. She glanced at Sae. And added, “My secondary gender is Omega. I like piano, poetry, and being left alone when I’m sad.” Silence. Then the red-haired boy let out a bark of laughter and stepped forward like he was walking into a press conference. “Name’s Hikaru. Alpha. Obviously.” He flashed his fang. “If you’re wondering who the pretty one is — it’s still me. I like explosions, winning, and bothering my siblings.” He jabbed a thumb toward Shidou. “And that’s Okaa-san. I get my drama from him.” Then he jabbed the other thumb toward Sae.
“Otou-san. Gave me the glare. Tragic combo.”

The third child, still tucked under Shidou’s arm, let out a grunt..She squirmed free — then crossed her arms like she was ready to throw hands with the entire U-20 team. “Haruna. Alpha. I like fists, fights, and family.” She stared directly at Sae..“You owe us a hug.”.A collective gasp rolled through the players. Ren tugged on Nagi’s jacket. “They’re so cool…”

Nagi, instinctively protective, pulled Ren behind him. “No. They’re a lot. Suspicious amount of confidence.” Chigiri murmured, awed, “They really are Shidou and Sae’s.” Hiori, already writing this down for mental processing later, whispered, “Their dynamics are already terrifyingly balanced.”.Theo muttered from his spot at the edge, arms crossed: “…They’ve known pain.”

It was Reika who gently nodded at him. Like she heard that thought..Like she knew..Then she reached into her pocket and held up a worn photo..A picture of them. The triplets. With Shidou and Sae. Together..Laughing.

Before it all fell apart.

And in the middle of the stunned silence, Hikaru grinned and declared: “We came back to make sure our parents don’t screw it up again.” Haruna added: “And to punch anyone who hurts Okaa-san.” Reika whispered: “…We hope it’s not too late.” And in the observation room above, Ego pressed a hand to his temple. “Well,” he muttered to Anri and Shane, “there goes the facility’s emotional bandwidth for the week.”

Chapter Text

Day 7 — 6:22 a.m.
Blue Lock Central Stadium – Main Arena

There were three of them. Standing like fate had drawn them in bold strokes—color, fire, defiance. Breathing in a timeline that should’ve never birthed them. Laughing like time hadn’t betrayed them. Grinning like they didn’t come from a war zone of the heart. And Sae Itoshi couldn’t breathe. He stood frozen, arms slack at his sides, jaw tight, eyes locked like crosshairs on the impossible.

Reika. Haruna. Hikaru.
His children.
His.

He hadn’t touched them. Hadn’t moved. Shidou had broken first—no surprise there. That man bled from the heart. And now, he was kneeling, trembling, crushed under the weight of three small bodies he held like a prayer. Reika curled into his chest like gravity meant nothing. Haruna clung to his side like a soldier guarding home. Hikaru smirked like the apocalypse was a punchline.

And Sae?
Sae stared.

Until Reika raised her head. And everything else—Ego’s monologue, the gasps, the players gawking like it was reality TV—faded. She looked at him. No judgment. No hate. Just soft, knowing eyes. Pink and teal like a palette meant to heal. Eyes that didn’t belong on a battlefield. Eyes he’d seen once before.

Rin.

Not the Rin that screamed and slammed doors and broke under expectations he’d never asked for. But the Rin before. The child who held Sae’s hand on the walk home. Who whispered, “Nii-chan, do you think I can be as good as you someday?” Reika tilted her head just like he used to. A quiet mimicry of innocence. But her words didn’t ask for praise. They asked for something much crueler.

“Otou-san, why do you always look away when I smile?”

Sae’s chest cracked open. He wanted to deny it. Wanted to say I don’t or You’re imagining things—but Reika’s expression didn’t allow for lies. She was Rin. Before Sae broke him. Before he chose silence over love.

“I ran from softness because I thought it made you weak,” his thoughts whispered like confession.
“And now she looks at me like I’m the one that needs saving.”

He shifted—only slightly—hands balling into fists. Still didn’t move forward. Still didn’t speak. Because then Haruna stepped into frame. Teal eyes. Wild stance. A fist clenched like justice. She didn’t tilt her head. She didn’t smile. She marched right to the front lines of his gaze and punched through the silence like it owed her blood.

“You broke our Okaa-san.”

The words hit like a red card to the ribs.

“Why did you leave?”

Another blow.

“Don’t pretend we didn’t matter.”

And that was the fatal strike. The stadium wasn’t cold, but Sae shivered anyway. Haruna was his mirror — only louder. She screamed what he swallowed. He had silenced himself to survive. She had weaponized that silence into fury.

“She’s like me, if I’d ever let myself scream.”

And she was right. She was so goddamn right. Sae didn’t deserve mercy. Especially not from the piece of him that remembered how to feel. He flinched when Haruna crossed her arms and stared him down like he was a bad call. Like she could punch the mistake out of his body if she just hit hard enough. Like she would.

And then came Hikaru. The chaos core. The wildcard in Sae’s perfect system. He strutted forward, fangs flashing, voice cocky. “Otou-san,” he said — and it wasn’t a name. It was a challenge. Sae’s stomach knotted. Because Hikaru moved like Shidou. Smiled like Shidou. But that cutting glint in his eyes? That was Sae. Too sharp. Too fast. Too much like a blade that didn’t know it was meant to protect.

“He laughs like you used to, Ryusei,” Sae thought, painfully. “And I hate that I almost forgot that sound.”

Hikaru didn’t look at him like a son. He looked at him like a rival. And that — more than anything — broke Sae in places he didn’t have names for. He had once wanted to be the best. Had shaped his whole life into a weapon for victory. And now that sharpness stood in front of him — cocky, dazzling, brilliant — and said, "I’m yours. Try again."

But Sae didn’t move. Didn’t kneel. Didn’t reach. Because love—real love—wasn’t a skill he’d practiced. He only knew how to leave. They didn’t yell. They didn’t beg. But their presence felt like divine punishment. Like fate had gathered evidence and called court. And Sae? He was guilty. Not just of what he did to Shidou. But to Rin. To himself. To the parts of him that used to believe in forever.

“Would we have lasted if we didn’t have fight too soon?”

“Or is this children our punishment?”

There was no playbook for this. No drills. No substitutions. Only three children — future ghosts made flesh — and the haunting ache of what could’ve been.
Sae closed his eyes. And in the silence that followed, he didn’t pray. But he did something far more dangerous.
He hoped.

Rin stood at the edge of the huddle, eyes sharp but heart a restless storm. He watched Shidou—broken, raw, shivering with strength—and the three children clinging to him. The sight should have cracked him, but instead, it settled inside him like truth. He hated that.

Shidou had always been there..The anchor of PXG. The team mom who patched egos, arms, scraped knees. Rin never admitted it out loud—God, he’d deny it if his bones were on fire—but Shidou was smoother than his grief. More forgiving than hate. He held them in ways Rin never knew he needed. Rin’s jaw clenched when Haruna leaned into Shidou’s side. Protective. Fierce. Gorgeous.

He felt a jab of envy—Shidou’s instinct for nurturing giving his daughter armor and love. He’d never cry in public. But watching Shidou cradle them was like watching Shidou be the parent he never noticed he needed..He glanced at Sae. Frozen. Eyes distant..He saw Reika’s quiet gaze pierce through Sae’s silence. And Rin thought: That’s me, once. Boys learning adulthood from wounds, not warmth.

Because that was how it had always been with Sae. Sae built walls. Rin learned to respect them. But only in light could you see the fractures. Only in grief could you trace the lines of loss. He remembered childhood: chasing Sae’s long passes. The promise they made—to be two best strikers in the world. Then Sae left for Real Madrid. Then Sae came back and rewrote everything: he wouldn’t be a striker. Rin lost his North Star. But that wasn’t the only thing Sae abandoned. Rin didn’t know what to do with the information that his older brother had kids. Had them. Raised them—poorly, apparently—then broke something so badly those kids had to come back from the future to fix it.

What kind of father did that?
What kind of brother?

He supposed it made sense. Of course Sae would fail at love. Of course Sae would leave something shattered behind. That was the pattern, wasn’t it?

Leave Japan.
Leave Rin.
Leave Shidou.
Leave your goddamn children.

Rin’s fists curled behind his back until the tremble reached his forearms. They had to come back. Because something in that future was so wrecked—so empty—they thought this mess, this, was the better option. Sae didn’t just mess up his own life. He poisoned the timeline. And now here stood the consequences: Hikaru, baring fangs behind a smile. Haruna, fists clenched like war drums. Reika, quiet enough to haunt dreams. Triplets forged from love Sae never knew how to carry.

Rin didn’t care if Sae was frozen. Didn’t care if he was stunned or remorseful or reeling. He had done this. He could’ve been better. For them. For Shidou. But like always—he chose to disappear. Rin had spent years trying to outrun the shape of Sae’s absence. And now? Now these kids were here—proof that Sae hadn’t just disappeared.

He’d given up. And Shidou… Shidou hadn’t. That was the part that burned most. Shidou was chaos incarnate. Unfiltered, reckless, infuriating. But he held those kids like they were his world. Held them like he’d never stopped being their mother. Like the only thing he regretted… was not holding them sooner.

And Rin—who'd spent years telling himself that needing love was weakness—found his breath shaking. He’d never admit it. Not in a thousand years. But he was angry. Angry Sae hadn’t fought harder. Angry he hadn’t defended Shidou. Angry that the person Rin had spent a lifetime chasing had built a family and still managed to run from it. Shidou didn’t run. Shidou broke and stayed.

Rin respected that more than he’d ever admit. He had a warped idea of what respect meant: never insurrection, never softness, never asking for love. But here stood Haruna, fierce, unyielding with love. Here stood Hikaru, mocking silence as a dare. Here stood Reika—quiet, still, seeing him with two-colored eyes, asking why soft responses hurt. Rin’s chest felt like someone had dropped a bomb inside him.

He realized— Shidou was more human to him now than Sae was ever allowed to be. Shidou didn’t withhold. Didn’t silence. Didn’t win with distance. Shidou was allowed to love. And he let their children do the same.
Rin edged forward. Only slightly. He inhaled: the scent of ozone, of tears and light and possibility.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t cry. But his gaze raked across the triplets. Back to Shidou’s arms. Then to Sae’s still frame. He felt his blood shift. This battlefield had recruited him too. Not for scores. Not for glory. But for reclamation. To reclaim family. To reclaim softness. To stand, presence undenied, as something real again. Rin might never say it. But he started breathing with hope. And just a hint of rage.

Rin didn’t get a warning. No flash of light. No signal from Ego. No whisper in the wind. Just the sound of frantic little footsteps. And then— “AUNTIE RIN!!!” It hit like a bullet..Rin barely had time to register the sound before he was tackled by a blur of red and orange and rose-gold. Three bodies slammed into him at once—arms flung around his waist, shoulders, stomach—tiny fists clinging like a final boss had just been defeated. He staggered back a step. Almost fell. Didn’t. “…What the hell—?!”

“We found him!” Hikaru shouted with glee, still hugging him like Rin was a long-lost plush toy. “Told you he wouldn’t run away from us. Not like Otou-san.”

“You’re gonna protect Okaa-san, right?” Haruna said, fierce, eyes sharp as her fists. She had Shidou’s fire but Sae’s stare, and she looked deadly even when clinging to Rin’s arm. “Because somebody needs to keep Otou-san from doing stupid shit again.”

“…We trust you, Auntie,” Hikaru added sweetly, like it wasn’t an act of war..Rin twitched. His jaw locked. His left eye betrayed him with a subtle twitch of disbelief. “…What did you just call me?”

“Auntie Rin,” Haruna repeated smugly. “It’s what we called you in the future,” Hikaru chirped. “Because you’re pretty and dramatic and always yell at people like a single wine mom.”

“I don’t—” Rin began, voice cracked halfway between indignation and a stroke. “You even have the cheekbones,” Hikaru added, matter-of-fact. “It’s iconic.” Rin looked down at the three of them—clinging, grinning, completely unbothered by the laws of reality—and then looked behind them. Where Shidou Ryusei was being
dragged. Literally. Hikaru had him by the wrist. Haruna had the back of his hoodie. Reika just floated along silently, pink and teal eyes wide with quiet commitment. “—Wait, don’t drag me, I can walk—” Shidou protested uselessly as his children yanked him across the turf like a very pretty Omega-shaped suitcase. “You said we were going to the vending machines—!”

“You need backup, Okaa-san!” Hikaru declared. “This is a family intervention!”

“We’re involving Auntie Rin,” Haruna said seriously. “He’s really good at glaring. It terrifies Otou-san. Very effective in combat.”

“…Also he gave me candy once,” Reika added softly.
Shidou blinked at Rin once he was dropped at his feet.
Then blinked again. “…Hi,” he said, voice small, shoulders curled like he’d been stuffed into this ambush against his will. “They—uh. They don’t listen to me. I tried.” Rin stared. Deadpan..Silent..His brain was leaking static.

And Hikaru just beamed. “We figured since you’re already our Auntie and like, raging with judgment, you can help us keep Otou-san from being emotionally unavailable for another decade.”

“I’m not—!” Rin snapped. Then stopped. Glared. “I’m not your aunt.”

“Sure, Auntie,” Haruna smirked. Reika just looked up at him. No words. Just that soft gaze. The one that felt like dusk and déjà vu. She reached for his hand. And Rin….He didn’t pull away. Didn’t say a word. He looked down at them—all three. Felt the weight of Shidou’s exhausted smile, the tremble in his limbs, the devastation that hadn’t yet left his eyes. Then he looked past them—at Sae, still standing back, still silent. And he knew. If he didn’t do something, Sae would let this slip away again. He squeezed Reika’s hand. Just once. Then turned to Shidou. “…I’ll protect you,” Rin muttered lowly, almost embarrassed. Shidou blinked. “Huh?”

“I said,” Rin bit out, “I’ll protect you. From Sae. And whatever idiocy he does next.”

“Oh…” Shidou blinked again, cheeks flushing slightly. “Thanks, Auntie RinRin.” Shidou said smiling smugly. “DON’T—!” But it was too late. Haruna and Hikaru were already cheering. Reika smiled and rested her head on Rin’s arm. And Rin—dead inside but honor-bound—stood very, very still, letting himself be clung to. This was his life now. And weirdly? It didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like being claimed.

Rin had barely survived the first assault when Hikaru struck again. “Hey, Auntie Rin,” he chirped innocently, still draped across Rin’s shoulders like a smug scarf of chaos. “Why do you think we call you ‘Auntie’ and not ‘Uncle’?” Rin narrowed his eyes, voice already brittle. “Yeah. Why? I’m a guy. That makes me an uncle.”

“Duh,” Haruna said, arms crossed, rolling her eyes like he was the slowest student in remedial sarcasm. “Because you’re pretty. Like, offensively pretty. It’s your fault.”

“And ‘Uncle’ is already taken,” Hikaru added, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder toward a very unfortunate target. “That’s for Uncle Isagi. Your husband.” Silence. Then— “WHAT?!” It was Isagi. Malfunctioning. Visibly. His soul left his body mid-sentence. His blush started at his ears and exploded across his face. Hands fluttered in midair like he wanted to protest and evaporate at the same time. “Wh—I—me—hus—what—huh?”

“You’re married in the future,” Hikaru said, as casual as a weather report. “Five kids. One of them tried to bite me once. Probably takes after you.”

“I—NO—WAIT—WHAT?!” Isagi’s voice cracked three different ways. He turned toward Rin like he was begging for a lifeline. “Rin, please say they’re messing with me—” Shidou doubled over laughing. Loudly. Obnoxiously. Unstoppably. “No way. Rin? Married? With kids?” He slapped the grass. “Oh my god. This is better than any telenovela. Please tell me there’s a wedding album. I need to see Rin in a veil—”

“I WILL END YOU.” Rin’s death glare could’ve leveled a military satellite. “I WOULD NEVER MARRY HIM. HE’S MY RIVAL.”

“Tell that to the matching rings in the photo Reika keeps in her backpack,” Hikaru said with a shrug. Reika, half-hiding behind Rin’s leg, lifted her hand gently. “You kissed on the rooftop,” she said softly. “At sunset. You called him your light.” Isagi let out a noise so pained and high-pitched it probably summoned bats from six prefectures away. “Stop. STOP TALKING,” Rin barked, red creeping up his neck like a wildfire. “There are laws against this kind of harassment!”

“Ohhh, is that why you made us brush our hair every time Uncle Isagi came to visit?” Haruna blinked, pure mischief. “You said it was ‘to impress the top striker in the world.’” Isagi short-circuited. His legs gave out. He just slowly crouched into a seated squat on the field, muttering, “I can’t— I need to reboot—why are they like this—”

“Hey,” Bachira whispered to Barou from the sidelines. “Are we sure they’re from the future? What if they’re just really cute liars with a death wish?”

“Shut up,” Barou muttered. “I’m trying to enjoy this.” Reo, absolutely filming the chaos from the benches, was cackling so hard he nearly dropped his phone. “This is better than any Netflix queue. I need a popcorn emoji in real life.” Suddenly— “YEEEAAHHH, AUNTIE RINNN!” Ren came barreling from the side, launching into Rin’s midsection like a homing gremlin missile. “You’re so pretty it’s unfair,” Ren sniffled happily, clinging to him like a starfish. “Can I live in your hair?”

“No,” Rin barked, too overwhelmed to process a five-year-old attempting residency on his scalp..“Too late!” Ren declared. “This is now Ren-Ren’s Pretty Tower!”

“Not this again,” muttered Magnus, appearing a beat later with arms crossed and a permanent scowl. “Why are you even here?” Haruna said, raising an eyebrow. “To keep Ren from licking a security drone,” Theo replied flatly. “Which, by the way, he did. Twice.”

“YOU’RE JUST MAD BECAUSE YOU GOT BEAT BY AUNTIE RIN AND UNCLE ISAGI'S CHILD #2 IN THE SCHOOL RANKINGS!” Hikaru shouted. “Only because his brother bribed the judges,” Magnus snapped back. “And their handwriting looks like they wrote with their foot.”

“Ohhh,” Reo gasped, zooming in on his phone. “Is this second-gen Kaiser vs second-gen Isagi beef?!”

“It’s genetic,” Barou muttered grimly. Theo rolled his eyes. “Your whole family needs therapy and a PR manager.”

“And yours needs hugs,” Haruna shot back. “ENOUGH.” Rin bellowed. “I AM NOT MARRIED. I HAVE NO CHILDREN. I HAVE NO FLOWER KIDS.”

“Yet,” Reika said sweetly. “But the first wedding was beautiful. And we made macarons for the second one after you yelled about dishes.”

“I—WE—WE DIDN’T GET MARRIED. WE NEVER WILL. I HATE HIM. HE’S ANNOYING. HE’S MY—”

“Rival?” Reika asked gently. “He looked at you like home.”

“STOP TALKING.”

“Auntie Rin,” Hikaru added, poking his cheek again. “You always stare at him when you think no one’s looking. Even before you got married. We saw the old videos.” Rin froze. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He turned toward Isagi, who was still kneeling. Still red. Still lost in a swirl of hypothetical domesticity. “…Did we…?” Isagi whispered. “WE DIDN’T!!” Reika patted Rin’s wrist gently. “We love you anyway.”

And that—tragically—was the final blow. Rin groaned. Loudly. Didn’t shove them off. Didn’t curse or sprint for the hills. He just stood there. Existing. Radiating fury and quiet submission in equal measure. Then Hikaru, with a devil’s grin, delivered the finishing touch: “Can we be your flower kids again at the second wedding? You guys always get remarried after a big fight.” Isagi screamed into his hands. Shidou, now standing a short distance away beside Sae, chuckled weakly. The laughter had died down. A tension still sat between them. “…Y’know,” Shidou said softly, watching the kids laugh, “if we don’t fix this… they’ll grow up thinking this chaos is normal.” Sae didn’t look at him. “Isn’t it?”

A pause. Shidou exhaled. “We used to be this loud. Then we stopped talking.” Sae didn’t answer. Not yet. Anri, watching from the booth with Ego, whispered, “Should we… intervene?” Ego took a long, slow sip of his coffee. Unblinking. “…No. This is better than anything I had planned.”

“Wait. Five kids?” Hiori’s voice cracked like a half-tuned string instrument. He wasn’t the only one reeling. “Damn,” Otoya coughed between wheezes, slapping Karasu’s shoulder. “That’s almost a whole starting eleven between them and the triplets. Isagi and Rin were BUSY.” Across the pitch, Isagi was still frozen. One hand twitching at his side. The other hovering uselessly in the air like he’d forgotten how to human. “Rin…” he managed, pale, stunned. “Five?”

“—NO,” Rin barked, too fast. “Absolutely not. Fake news. Shut up.”

“You’re denying the wedding or the kids?” Charles chimed from the PXG line-up, eyebrows arched in malicious delight. “I’m going to burn time itself,” Rin hissed. Behind him, Ren was halfway up his back, limbs wrapped like a baby sloth. “I can help! I’ll use stealth mode and bring a lighter!”

“Ren,” Reo said with the exhausted power of a mother who’s seen this five times already, “get off Auntie Rin.”

“But he’s comfy!” Nagi appeared without a sound, scooping Ren under one arm like a misbehaving pillow. “Mission failed,” he told him blandly, already walking away. Rin sighed through his nose like he was fighting for his last shred of dignity. It wasn’t working. “Oh my god,” Bachira whispered behind Isagi, eyes glittering. “And I didn’t even have to matchmake you two. I feel so betrayed. Months of setup—wasted.”

“You were trying to set us up?” Isagi croaked, the color draining from his ears to his toes. “Obviously. But then destiny beat me to it. So rude.”

“Why would I marry him?!” Rin snapped. “He’s my rival. My literal opposite.”

“You say that,” Karasu drawled, “but I’ve seen how you look at him after a good goal. Like you're about to propose.” From the sideline, Sae didn’t speak. He just… stood there. Still as glass. Shidou glanced over—and finally noticed. The way Sae’s shoulders had gone tight again. The way his gaze followed Rin like he couldn’t figure out if this was a dream or a punishment. The way his breath never quite hit his lungs. Because Sae Itoshi, crowned prince of control, had just learned that his little brother got five steps ahead. Five kids ahead. And somewhere, somehow, Rin had grown up without needing him at all. “…Breathe,” Shidou said gently, voice low against Sae’s temple. “I know that look. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not.” Sae’s tone was flat, too steady to be true. Shidou just smiled, soft in a way only he was allowed to be. “You’re so bad at lying. It’s okay to freak out, y’know. I did. When they said they came back because we broke everything.” Sae said nothing. So Shidou nudged their shoulders together, grounding him with presence alone. “It’s not a competition. Let your little brother be happy, Sae.”

“…I don’t know how to.”

“Then let’s figure it out.” A pause. Then with a grin, “And if he and Isagi screw it up, we can always steal the flower kids for our next wedding redo.” That earned him a barely-there exhale from Sae. Not quite a laugh. But close. Back on the field, Theo stood arms folded beside Reika, frowning as he watched the triplets circle Rin like hyenas with wedding invitations. “They’re ridiculous,” he muttered. “Jealous?” Haruna asked sweetly. “Of what? Future emotional damage?”

“No, of Auntie Rin and Uncle Isagi’s kids handing your ass to you in fencing, debate, and soccer.” Magnus scowled. Reika smiled softly beside them. “You always glare like that when you’re mad you care.”

“I don’t care,” Magnus snapped. “I just respect fairness. And Uncle Rin’s kids cheat with puppy eyes.” Back at the epicenter of chaos, Rin was still glaring daggers at the earth. “I didn’t marry him. I won’t. I—”

“You already did,” Reika said simply. “And it was beautiful.” Isagi made a sound like a dying animal. “Auntie Rin,” Hikaru added with venomous sweetness, “you can say you hate love all you want. You still made Uncle Isagi bento everyday.”

“Shut. Up.”

Hikaru just grinned. “But you’re such a soft mom. You even labeled our bento boxes in your handwriting—”

“I SAID SHUT UP—!” Anri, still up in the booth, gave Ego a worried glance. “Should we debrief this or…?” Ego sipped his coffee like a war general watching the enemy collapse from their own ammo. “We’ll need a bigger therapy room. And a wedding registry.”

7:03 a.m. — Blue Lock Facility – Recovery Room 2B (Unused)

The room was quiet. No lights except the early morning haze bleeding in through dusty glass. One window cracked open. Just enough for air. Just enough for truth. Shidou sat on the edge of the medical bench, sleeves rolled, legs swinging like a child too still. Sae stood, arms crossed, back against the wall—spine too straight, like a man trying to hold together a structure that had already collapsed. The triplets sat in a line. Cross-legged. Shoulder to shoulder. They didn’t squirm. They didn’t smile.

They were bracing for impact. For someone to listen. For someone to finally ask why they came back. Hikaru
spoke first. “I used to think Okaa-san was invincible,” he said, voice far too steady for seven. “Like he could bite lightning and scream louder than a whole stadium. He laughed big. Loved big. Fought dirty. Cried louder.” Shidou’s lips parted like he wanted to laugh—but nothing came. “…I did?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Hikaru said. “But then you got quiet.” Reika picked up the thread, soft as petals, sharp as thorns. “You stopped dancing in the kitchen. Stopped singing when you cooked. Stopped smiling with your eyes.” Sae’s fingers twitched at his side. “You used to hold Otou-san’s hand even when everyone could see you,” she added, eyes on her lap. “But then you stopped touching each other. And then you stopped speaking.” Haruna didn’t flinch. Her tone cut clean. “You used to fight. Loud. Messy. It was awful. But at least it meant you were still trying.” Shidou stared down at the floor. He looked like he didn’t remember how to breathe. “So what—what changed?” he asked, finally.

“You did,” Hikaru said. “Both of you.” Reika nodded. “You stopped laughing. Otou-san stopped talking. Everything got still. Like... waiting for something bad to happen.” Sae shifted. “I—” The words didn’t land. They just hung,
broken. “You told us it was to protect us,” Reika said. “That love didn’t need to be loud. But we weren’t scared of noise. We were scared when it stopped.” Haruna turned toward Sae, unblinking. “You let him get quiet. And then you got colder. We’d ask if Okaa-san was okay, and you’d say ‘He’s resting.’ But he wasn’t.” Shidou’s knuckles whitened on the bench.

“We didn’t know how to fix you,” Hikaru said. “So we tried to be good. We tried to be winners.” Reika reached into her hoodie and pulled out a tiny folded paper. A child’s drawing—stick figures, two houses, and three small shapes in between. “We used to draw pictures of you together,” she whispered. “Then we started drawing us between separate walls.” Sae’s knees gave out. He slid down the wall slowly. Sat on the cold floor like a man finally understanding the wreckage he walked away from. “You didn’t break us,” Haruna said. “You just forgot we were watching.”

There was silence. Long. Dense. Shidou’s voice cracked when it came. “Maybe in the future I thought… if I was easier, maybe things would stay calm. Maybe you’d stay.”

“I didn’t ask you to change,” Sae said. Quiet. Hurting.
Honest. “I didn’t ask you to stop being you.”

“But you didn’t stop him either,” Hikaru replied. “You didn’t reach for him when he was slipping.” Sae said nothing. Because he didn’t know if that was a lie. Reika crawled forward and handed Sae the drawing. “When we dream, we still draw the old house,” she said. “The one where Okaa-san shouted from the rooftop, and Otou-san shouted back from the garden. But at least you were looking at each other.” Hikaru leaned forward, elbows on
his knees. “That’s why we came back,” he said. “Not to fix it. Not to change fate. But to remind you what it used to be. And what you let go of.” Shidou was trembling now. Not with rage. Not with shame. With grief. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I’m sorry I broke.”

“You said that in the future too,” Reika murmured. “But you never said it to each other.” Haruna moved between them. Sat down. Her knees knocked against both of theirs. Her eyes didn’t ask. They demanded. “Try,” she said. Neither man moved. But they looked. Finally. Truly. Fully. Not as players. Not as legends. Not as the untouchable, unstoppable pair the world worshipped. Just as two men who loved and lost. Who didn’t know when they’d stopped reaching. And maybe—just maybe—wanted to learn how to try again.

Hikaru wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Finally.” Haruna leaned into both their arms, arms crossed like links in a broken chain. “If you fight again, make it count.” Reika's voice floated through the quiet. “And even now, Otou-san… Okaa-san… we still love you.” Sae closed his eyes.
The paper in his hand felt heavier than any trophy. Shidou exhaled. A sound like breath after drowning. And somewhere between the crack in the window and the soft click of the door finally unlocking behind them—
It felt like something real had begun. Again.

The room was quieter now. No artificial light. Just the dim spill of morning stretching across the cold floor like breath. Dust hung in the air, soft and golden, catching in shafts through the window—a window cracked just enough to let the dawn in. Just enough to let the truth seep out.

The triplets slept like they were defending something. Hikaru had passed out first, curled sideways over a spare cot, limbs sprawled like a starfish mid-collapse. Haruna had claimed the corner chair, her arms folded tight, head tilted against the window frame like it dared her to dream. Reika had settled last, careful and quiet, hands over her chest like she was praying in her sleep. Her brow was still furrowed, even in rest. Their breaths were the only rhythm in the room. Soft. Rhythmic. Steady.

Shidou sat hunched forward on the edge of the medical bench, spine loose, eyes on his hands. His fingers kept curling and uncurling, twitching with energy that had nowhere to go. He hadn't moved in minutes. Sae stood across the room like a soldier at sentencing—arms crossed, back against the wall, posture too rigid, like if he straightened one degree more he’d snap clean in half. His eyes hadn’t left the floor. Neither of them spoke. The children had done enough talking for everyone.

“Did we really fuck them up that bad?” Shidou finally asked. His voice was soft, almost hollow. Like it had been dragged through glass before escaping his throat. Sae didn’t answer. Not at first. He exhaled through his nose. Slowly. Lifted his gaze and let it rest on Shidou—studied the slope of his shoulders, the restless twitch of his knee, the way the light hit the corner of his jaw. For a moment, it almost felt like he was looking at a stranger.
“…They didn’t say we broke them,” Sae murmured, voice flat, careful. “They said we disappeared.”

That made Shidou snort. A bitter, dry thing. “Disappeared,” he repeated, like the word offended him. “From what? The fight? The noise?” His hand dragged down his face. “I don’t even remember going quiet.”

“You wouldn’t,” Sae replied, simple. Quiet. The silence that followed tasted like metal. Brittle and blood-warm.
Shidou’s gaze dropped to the floor between his feet. A scuffed mark on the tiles caught his attention—someone’s cleats, someone’s stumble, someone’s damage left behind. He stared at it like it held answers. “…Maybe I thought I was protecting them,” he said. “You. Myself. Hell, maybe I thought if I stopped being loud, people would stop hating me. Stop hating you—for choosing me.” Sae’s breath hitched. But he didn’t speak.
Shidou kept going, voice quieter now, as if the words cost more the closer he got to the truth..“I can see myself doing that, y’know?” he said, almost to himself. “Smiling. Laughing at interviews. Telling everyone we were happy. Telling the kids things were fine. Even when they weren’t. Just to keep the peace.” His voice cracked, eyes glassy. “But they noticed. Kids always notice.”

That—finally—made Sae move. He pushed off the wall and crossed the room, footsteps slow. Sat down on the bench beside Shidou—not close enough to touch. But close enough to feel. His arms were still folded, but now tighter. Like he was holding himself together. “They said I stopped touching you,” he said quietly, after a pause. “That I stopped speaking.” A beat. “I don’t remember that either.” Shidou’s head turned. Slowly. “You never talked unless it was a game plan,” he said. Not accusatory. Just… remembering. Like brushing dust off a faded page. Sae met his eyes. Just for a second. “And you never asked,” he murmured. “Unless it was a fight.” Another silence. This one softer. Sadder. “…Maybe we were both just trying to survive each other,” Shidou said, voice tight. “But we forgot the kids were watching.”

Sae's jaw clenched. He didn’t deny it. “They think we didn’t love each other,” Shidou whispered next. “But I did. I still—” He stopped himself. Didn’t need to finish. The words landed anyway. Sae looked down. His thumb dragged across the paper Reika had left on the bench between them—two stick figures standing in separate houses, drawn with crooked lines and too much sky between them. A crack opened in his expression. Small. Barely there. But real. “I think I thought love was something you earned,” he said. “With silence. With control. If I didn’t say it, maybe it couldn’t be used against me.” He looked up, something small and sharp in his eyes. “I thought if I kept it hidden, it wouldn’t break.” Shidou exhaled a laugh. Not amused. Tired. “Yeah? Well, it did,” he muttered. “Silence is what broke us.” They both looked at the kids again. Haruna’s fists twitched in her sleep. Reika had curled slightly to the side. Hikaru mumbled something unintelligible and kicked the blanket off again.

Sae’s voice was lower now. Almost a breath. “She still draws us together.” Shidou nodded. “She still wants it.” That hit Sae somewhere deep. Somewhere that hadn’t hurt in years because he never let it breathe. “They deserve better,” Shidou whispered. Sae closed his eyes. “They deserve the fire. Not the ashes.” A beat. Shidou leaned back slightly. Looked at the ceiling like it might split open and give him clarity. “…Do you think we can fix it?”

It wasn’t a plea..But it was close. Sae didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on Reika’s drawing. On the space between the two houses. “I don’t know,” he said finally. Quiet. Honest. “But I want to try.” That made Shidou turn. Their eyes met. And this time, Shidou smiled. Not big. Not chaotic. Just… soft. Like maybe something was still salvageable after all. “You finally said it,” he said. Sae looked down. “Yeah. Too late.”

“Not yet,” Shidou replied, voice a little lighter. “They came back. That has to mean something.” Sae didn’t respond with words. But he looked again. And this time, it was different. Not tactical. Not resigned. Something like want. Something like please. Outside, through the window, the sky burned gently into day. Not brighter. Not warmer. But real. And inside, two men sat in the quiet wreckage of what they built—staring at the pieces.
And maybe, finally—thinking about how to start again.

The silence didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt… honest. Like something holy. Like breath held between two people afraid to speak too loudly in case it shattered whatever this was—this tentative thing, this threadbare bridge. Shidou sat still. Hadn’t moved in a while. Sae hadn’t either. Across from them, their children lay asleep like secrets. Like proof. Like pages torn from a future neither of them had dared to believe.

Hikaru had drooled on his sleeve. Haruna’s fingers twitched, even in rest. Reika’s lashes fluttered as if still caught between dream and memory. Shidou watched them. Every inhale. Every shift beneath the threadbare blankets. He watched like it would anchor him. Like he could memorize the shape of a miracle and finally understand it. He felt the weight of it in his chest—quiet and tight. That unfamiliar ache. Not regret. Not guilt. Something softer.

He looked down at his hands. Once, they’d been known for wreckage. For fouls. For red cards and middle fingers and the reckless kind of love that tasted like blood and fire. He’d held so much chaos in these hands. Shoved it into nets. Slammed it into locker doors. Offered it up to Sae like a dare. And yet somehow… they’d made children. Children who smiled like him and watched like Sae. Children who walked into a battlefield just to tell their parents: We were there. We remember. We want you to remember too.

He didn’t feel like he’d earned them. Didn’t feel like he’d earned this quiet. And maybe that was what hurt the most. “…They still see me,” he murmured, barely realizing he’d spoken out loud. Sae glanced at him. Said nothing. So Shidou kept talking—low, raw. Like peeling something open with careful fingers. “They still call me Okaa-san.” He laughed softly under his breath. It wasn’t amused. “I used to hate that word.” Sae’s head turned. Slightly.

Shidou kept his eyes forward. “Not because it’s wrong. Not because I’m an Omega. But because of what people think that means.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Like I was supposed to be soft. Pretty. Sweet. Like the moment I stopped being loud, it would make me acceptable.” He swallowed. “Truth is—I don’t know how to be those things. I don’t know how to be soft without breaking.” His voice cracked. Just slightly. “I tried once. In the future. For them. For you.”

The silence hummed. Sae didn’t interrupt. Shidou finally looked at him. Tired. Real. “I thought being quieter made me… worthy. Made me better. Like maybe if I shut up long enough, the world would stop looking at me like I was a joke. Like maybe you would.” Sae’s gaze didn’t waver. He just said, quietly: “I never thought you were a joke.” Shidou smiled. Bitter. But there. “You didn’t say that back then.”

“I didn’t say a lot of things back then.” Shidou looked down again. At his children. At what they had made. “People only saw the parts of me that made noise,” he murmured. “That scared them. That made headlines.”
A pause. “But they… they saw the rest.” His hand drifted, absent-minded, brushing the edge of the blanket Hikaru had kicked off in his sleep. The kid barely stirred.

“They saw the mother who cut apples into stars. The one who sang too loud in the kitchen. Who cried at dumb cartoons and kissed scraped knees and made soup too spicy.” He laughed under his breath. “They remembered me when I couldn’t even remember myself.” The silence settled again. Thicker now. Sae shifted. His hand hovered between them. Not touching. Just… there. “You don’t have to be quiet to be good,” he said.

Shidou looked at him. Their eyes met. Held. Sae’s voice was lower now. But no less steady. “You don’t have to break yourself into pieces just to be palatable.” Shidou didn’t answer right away. But something eased in him. Something long-coiled, long-guarded, let go. “…You think they’ll forgive us?” he asked, softer.

Sae’s gaze moved to the sleeping children. “I think they already have.” Shidou stared at them for a long moment. Then leaned back against the wall. Shoulders loosening. A breath pulled deeper into his lungs than anything he’d allowed in days. “…Still gonna make you say it again,” he muttered. Sae raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“That I’m not a joke.” A beat. Sae’s mouth quirked. “You’re not a joke.”

Shidou closed his eyes. Let the words sit inside him. Let them echo. Let them heal. For the first time in years… he didn’t feel like he had to shout to exist. He just… was. And beside him, so was Sae. And in front of them—still sleeping, still dreaming—was the proof of everything they had ruined… and everything they might still be able to rebuild.

The triplets slept on, some mumbling dreams, some twitching the way only restless souls do. Shidou leaned against the wall, still silent. Sae sat nearby. Neither man spoke. That had changed after the children raised their voices instead of theirs. Sae’s fingers traced a mark in the dust on the bench l next to him. It settled there, between them—a line of unsettled regret.

He began quietly, looking at Shidou’s profile in the dim light: He had first noticed him on a screen, scores away, during lineup selections. Sae didn’t choose anyone for softness. He chose Shidou because... because he couldn’t look away. That lightning cut through his discipline. He said that then: he took interest. He thought he liked what he saw. Saw confusion and chaos turned into brilliance. Someone moving like instinct, not like calculation.

When they met in person, it got worse: Shidou laughed too loud, eyes too wild—unfiltered. Sae stood next to him in a locker room, felt—some shiver, some thrum—like a missing puzzle edge fitting into place. It wasn’t love. Wasn’t yet. It was disarming. He’d noticed the tremor when Shidou slipped past a defender during U‑20. The kind of goal that people replay a thousand times. And he thought—maybe—if this is SO proud, he could bear it.

He stopped speaking then. Awkwardly about him. Thinking quietly: maybe this Omega is a fated piece, and he’s the Alpha too stiff to admit missing him. Shidou looked at him then. Something eased in his face. A slow exhale. He moved—first his eyebrow, then a tilt of the lips—like he recognized the admission even before the words landed. He’d snapped a grin. Slight. Sharp. Like saying "Quit being so weird." But it was enough.

That had been first face-to-face. That moment of 'I might be tied to this person if time bends right.’ Neither man said anything about it after that day..But memories stuck. And Sae was trying, for himself now—and for all of them—to say aloud what used to be tattoos in his blood: He wrapped up with: He didn't think it was love. Not yet. Maybe liking someone, liking that certain flare of chaos, is enough to give them back fire—promise—before the flame went out.

Shidou didn’t answer with words. He flicked a finger against the bench, brushing away dust—just like Sae had first traced lines in dust—half-hearing the confession. Then he did something he hadn’t done since the kids arrived: He laughed. A laugh small, ragged, wild as wildfire.

And Sae knew: enough fractures had been seen. Enough silence admitted defeat. They didn’t hold hands. They didn’t stand. They just settled back, shoulders loosening, gazing at the sleeping children— The living imprint of everything they realized too late. And in that quiet, gentle room, the future exhaled.

Day 7 — 6:57 a.m. — Blue Lock Cafeteria

Bastard München Table

The moment they sat down, it began. Not with words, but with the sound of Isagi slamming his forehead into the table like he was trying to black out the memory. Kiyora politely slid his tray a few centimeters away. Gagamaru blinked. “…Isagi? You good?” Isagi groaned. Just groaned. Long, tortured. Like the noise itself could reverse time. “I have five kids in the future,” he mumbled into the table. “Yeah, no shit,” Raichi snorted. “With Itoshi freaking Rin. Dude, what the hell kind of timeline did we shift into?”

“Apparently a productive one,” Yukimiya added, crossing his legs with theatrical elegance. He adjusted a violet paisley scarf around his neck, which no one remembered him wearing earlier. “Though I must say, the domestic life suits you, Isagi.” Hiori, sipping quietly from his tea, didn’t even look up. “I always knew you’d snap eventually. I just didn’t expect it to be in bed.” Isagi screeched. Gagamaru choked on rice. “Where did you even get that scarf?” Kunigami asked Yukimiya, suspicious. “Don’t ask questions if you can’t handle the answers,” Yukimiya replied smoothly, like he hadn’t just conjured it from another dimension of dramatic accessories.

Kurona blinked at Isagi, monotone. “You’re a dad. You, you.” Isagi whimpered into his rice. Across the table, Raichi leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Oi, you think their kids are as twisted as Rin? Bet they all glare in unison when someone breathes wrong.”

“Even worse,” Hiori said, soft but sharp. “They bite. Allegedly.” Kiyora adjusted his chopsticks. “That seems... inconvenient.”

“It’s adorable,” Gagamaru added, unbothered. “Tiny striker spawn, running around Blue Lock like soccer piranhas.” Kaiser, for once, was silent. Staring at Ness across the table. Not with amusement. But with intent.
Ness squirmed slightly under the attention, still clutching his spoon. “U-uh… is something wrong, Kaiser…?” Magnus, a few seats down, didn’t even try to hide the scowl. “You’re looking at him like he’s made of glass,” the boy said flatly. “You never used to.” Kaiser flinched. Just slightly. Then forced a smile—softer than usual. Dangerous in how gentle it tried to be. “I’m trying,” he said.

Magnus looked unimpressed. “Try harder.” Ness, nervous and pink-cheeked, reached over and touched Theo’s sleeve. “Theo… your father’s trying. Let’s… maybe not push him away when he is.” That caught Theo off guard. He stared at Ness. Then at Kaiser. Then scoffed. “Fine. One try. I promised you that much last time we talked.” Kaiser looked like he didn’t know what to do with that.

Raichi, meanwhile, had fully lost it. “Seriously, five kids?! You maniacs are like rabbits. What are their names? Gonna name one after me, huh? ‘Raichi Jr.’—pure rage, no fear.” Isagi looked up, dead-eyed. “They wouldn’t even let you babysit.”

“Is one of them gonna be emo?” Kunigami asked suddenly. Everyone paused. “…What?” Kunigami looked away. “Just wondering.” Kiyora gave him a quiet side glance, unreadable. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re definitely projecting,” Kurona said. “Projecting, projecting.” Kaiser stood up and dusted off his jacket. “Honestly, I’m just impressed you survived Rin long enough to reproduce. That’s an endurance sport.”

“I didn’t—We didn’t—I don’t even know how I—” Isagi’s eye twitched. “Why would Rin—ever—want to marry me?!”

“I dunno,” Gagamaru shrugged. “You’re kinda cute when you’re spiraling.”

“Thank you—wait, what—”

“Maybe he likes strays,” Hiori offered, coolly stirring his miso. “Rin always had a soft spot for broken things.”

“YOU ARE NOT HELPING!”

Ness, caught between the banter and his peacekeeping, gave Isagi a sympathetic glance. “Well… maybe it’s not so bad. I mean… you end up together, right?” Isagi blinked. Paused. Then muttered, barely audible, “Yeah…” But this time, it lingered. The cafeteria chatter drifted into static. The clinking trays, Raichi’s unhinged cackling, Hiori’s passive-aggressive tea sips—none of it reached him now.

Because Rin.

Itoshi Rin—fucking Rin—married him in the future. Him. Yoichi Isagi. A regular kid from Saitama who still hesitated on shots he should’ve taken. An Omega like Rin—disciplined, devastating, razor-sharp from blood to bone. A boy whose silence could slice harder than any scream. Beautiful in a way that burned to look at. And Isagi… won him? He didn’t understand it.

Didn’t know how he managed to break through all that frost and fire and pride. But something in the triplets’ voices still echoed in his chest— “He kept choosing you.” Even now, just remembering it made his heart stumble like a bad first touch. Rin, who avoided eye contact with half the planet, would apparently hold his hand. Kiss his forehead. Bear children for him.

Children. Five of them.
Rin let him in.
Rin married him.
Rin chose him.

And not as a teammate. Not as a rival. Not even as a one-time thing born of heat and proximity. But as a partner. A mate. His pulse stuttered.

What the hell did he do to deserve that?

He hadn’t even gotten past Rin’s usual “I’ll kill you in your sleep” glare without breaking into a sweat. He still ran plays around him like he was dodging landmines. He still didn’t know if Rin actually liked him, or if he just tolerated Isagi’s existence in the name of mutual goal-seeking carnage.

And yet… Somewhere in time, Rin looked at him—and said yes. Said always. “I’m gonna throw up,” Isagi whispered, trembling. “Why?” Hiori asked blandly. “Overwhelmed with joy?”

“Yes!” Isagi hissed. “He’s so hot and mean and strong and I’ve wanted him to choke me with his thighs since the first scrimmage—” Everyone stopped. Gagamaru dropped his chopsticks. Raichi choked. Even Kaiser turned slightly, blinking. Isagi clapped both hands over his mouth, mortified. “…You know what,” Yukimiya said calmly, crossing one leg over the other. “That explains so much.”

"Pervert Isagi, Pervert." Gagamaru looking at Isagi with disgust. Kurona muttered, “Down bad. Bad, bad.” Kunigami looked like he was re-evaluating his entire friendship with Isagi. “I need,” Isagi whispered through his fingers, “a new timeline.”

“You already made five kids in that one,” Raichi grinned. “No backsies.” Isagi let out a broken noise somewhere between a sob and a whimper. But in his chest—quiet, under the embarrassment and chaos and static of teenage male insanity— There was a bloom of
something warm. Hopeful.

Future-Rin had looked at him—all of him—and said, “Let’s try.” Maybe that was enough. Maybe someday, it would be real. And maybe—just maybe—he’d be brave enough to choose him back.

The sun angled in through the high glass. Warm, golden, too soft for the weight in the air. Ness sat between them. Hands folded in his lap. Shoulders tense. Eyes flicking from one to the other. To his left—Theo, arms crossed, spine rigid, glare honed sharp like his father’s jaw. To his right—Kaiser, silent, watching, words slow to rise like they’d learned to be afraid of the sound of themselves. No one was yelling. But the quiet said more.

Magnus was the first to speak. Not loud. Just certain. “If you hurt Mother again…” He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. “I don’t care if I disappear. I’ll get him as far from you as possible.” Kaiser’s breath caught. Ness blinked. “Theo—” “No.” Theo’s voice didn’t waver. “He needs to hear it.” Kaiser didn’t look away. Couldn’t. He saw it then—the edge of fear in Theo’s stance, hidden under all that anger. A child’s fear masked in an heir’s fury.

“…I know I failed,” Kaiser said at last. His voice was low. No bravado. No arrogance. Just truth. “I know what I turned him into.” He didn’t say your mother. He didn’t say Ness. He said him. And somehow, that mattered more. “I see it in his eyes every time he flinches near me,” Kaiser added, quieter now. “I see it in yours.” Magnus' mouth pressed into a thin line. “Then why are you still trying?”

“Because for the first time…” Kaiser looked down. “Someone told me I could do better. And meant it.” He didn’t say you. He meant Ness. The man beside him, curled in silence, trying to hold this family together with shaking hands. Theo looked at Ness then. The softness was brief. But it was there. “You don’t owe him anything,” he muttered. “I know,” Ness whispered. “But I still love him.” Theo closed his eyes. Sighed through his nose. Sat back. “If he breaks you again, I won’t care what timeline I was born in. I’ll drag him through it.” Kaiser huffed—half amusement, half shame. “Sounds like my kid, alright.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Theo muttered. But he didn’t leave. And Ness, gently, reached for both their hands under the table. And this time, neither pulled away.

PxG Table

Charles had his head on the table like a toddler denied dessert. “Mama Ryu’s still not back,” he whined, lips pulled in a pout. “That stinky midfielder stole him.” Zantetsu, completely missing the point, nodded solemnly. “Indeed! He has clearly been… whisked away by tactical matrimonial espionage.” Karasu didn’t even look up from his food. “You mean marriage, idiot.”
Nanase blinked. “Wait—so Sae-san and Shidou-san are like… a couple?” His voice pitched up in awe. “I thought all that tension was just like, sports intensity.”

Tokimitsu, already halfway through his third glass of milk, paled mid-sip. “W-we have married people here?! Like actual married people with real-life emotions?! I-I wasn’t trained for this…”

“Dude,” Charles mumbled into the table. “They have kids. Triplets. Scary, tiny, pissed-off triplets.”

“That’s biologically impressive,” Zantetsu nodded sagely. “My brain cells are procreating just imagining it.” Karasu finally looked up, expression dry. “Your brain cells committed mutual suicide ten minutes ago.” Silence stretched. Then—Rin sneezed. Everyone turned. He was seated at the edge of the table, face flushed pink, arms crossed too tight over his chest. “I’m not sick,” he muttered, glaring at the floor. “I’m just allergic to idiocy.”

“Oh yeah?” Charles grinned. “You allergic to the fact you and Isagi made five kids in the future?” Rin went red. Not pink. Not flushed. Crimson, like someone had slapped rouge across his entire face with a shovel. “Shut up.” Tokimitsu immediately started sweating again. “F-five?! That’s like… that’s almost like a whole team!”

“A team of tiny Rin clones,” Nanase giggled. “All glaring! All judgmental! All beautiful and unapproachable!”

“I’m not beautiful,” Rin snapped. “Pfft,” Charles snorted. “Tell that to future you, who clearly jumped Isagi at least five times.”

“I DID NOT—!”

“Not yet,” Karasu said under his breath, too casually.
Rin froze. The others didn’t notice—but Karasu did. The twitch in Rin’s fingers. The way his jaw clicked, like his teeth wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words. The way his eyes flicked, for the briefest second, toward the cafeteria entrance.

Isagi wasn’t even there..Still, Rin looked..Stupid, he thought. You’re stupid. But the thoughts wouldn’t stop.

Five kids.
Five.
With him.

The boy who ruined his rhythm..The boy who made him hate silence less. The boy who… looked at him like he wasn’t broken. Rin pressed his palm against the table.
He remembered the triplets. Their eyes. Their noise. Their laughter. He remembered how it felt to not be alone in that field. Maybe…

Maybe having five kids wasn’t stupid. Maybe it made sense. He and Sae had no one. Just each other. And then not even that..If he ever—if he did love someone, truly… Why not go all in? Why not make sure his kids never felt that kind of loneliness? Why not build the family he never had?

His hand curled into a fist. His voice, when it came, was soft. "I wouldn’t be a bad mother," he muttered. Charles blinked. “Huh?”

“I said shut up,” Rin barked louder, cheeks burning. “I don’t like Isagi.”

“Sure you don’t,” Karasu said, smirking behind his cup. “Just like you don’t stare at him during drills. Or blush when he breathes near you. Totally platonic.”

“Shut up.”

Charles rolled onto his back dramatically. “If Mama Ryu doesn’t come back soon, I’m going to self-combust. I need my emotionally damaged Omega sunshine mother and that evil Sae keeps hogging him!” Zantetsu nodded solemnly. “Indeed. Love is a battlefield. And Shidou Ryusei is both soldier and casualty.”

Tokimitsu blinked. “Wait. If Sae and Shidou are married… and Isagi and Rin are married… does that mean Blue Lock is just a really intense dating sim?” Karasu stared at him, deadpan. “Get some sleep.” Rin, meanwhile, bit the inside of his cheek.

He wasn’t in love. He wasn’t. But… maybe someday? Maybe he would be. And maybe that future— That one with a family, with love, with Isagi— Wasn’t so bad.

“Okay but like—” Charles waved a forkful of egg dramatically. “They had triplets. Three! Three spawn! That’s overachieving. That's industrial-level baby-making.” Karasu didn’t even look up from his protein bar. “They’re both genetically wired for chaos. Triplets were inevitable.” Nanase blinked. “Wait, are they like—actually married in the future?”

“No rings,” Tokimitsu muttered, hunched over his tray. “But the kids called Shidou ‘Okaa-san’ and Sae ‘Otou-san’ sooo…”

“Sounds legally terrifying,” Zantetsu announced. “Like, imagine being born from that much talent. They’re either prodigies or the final boss.”

“They’re both,” Rin muttered under his breath.
Everyone turned. Rin immediately looked away, stabbing into his food. Hard. “Ohhhh?” Charles grinned. “You talked. Now spill, Pretty Rinnie. Were you surprised about that too? That our darling ‘Mama Ryu’ was taken by Stinky Midfielder Extraordinaire?” Rin didn’t rise to the bait. But his shoulders stiffened. They’d all seen it. The reveal. The triplets. Shidou practically melting when the kids ran to him. Sae standing still but with that look in his eyes. The one Rin hadn’t seen in years—like he wasn’t pretending to be fine. “…It makes sense,” Rin said finally. “They were close. That kind of close.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “You’re not weirded out?” Rin didn’t answer. He just kept chewing. Slowly. Stubbornly. Until— “It’s Sae,” he said. “He doesn’t let people close. And Shidou doesn’t shut up unless he’s trying to protect someone. So… something must’ve gone bad. Real bad.”
Karasu leaned in, elbows on the table. “You think it was a fight?”

“I think,” Rin said quietly, “Sae didn’t fight hard enough. And Shidou stopped trying.” Silence. Charles pouted. “Okay but I want drama. Like scandal. Did one of them cheat? Did stinky Sae run off to Spain again?”

“Don't think it was cheating,” Karasu hummed. “More like… silence. That kind that builds up until nobody knows what to say anymore.” Tokimitsu clutched his drink. “That’s so sad…” Zantetsu looked confused. “Wait, but if they’re broken, why are the kids back? Time travel for therapy?!”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Charles burst. “Triplet rebellion! Children of Divorce: The Soccer Saga!” Nanase laughed into his rice. “Poor babies. They just want their Okaa-san to laugh again.” That made Rin freeze. About silence, creeping in like mold. He knew that silence. He’d lived in it his whole childhood. Rin looked down at his hands.

Sae hadn’t been there. Not really. Not after Spain. Not after leaving him behind with parents who barely remembered they had sons, let alone cared. They only had each other—and then even that cracked. Of course he'd want to do better than that. Of course Shidou would try to fill the gaps Sae couldn’t. And of course… Of course it broke. Because Sae doesn’t know how to love without controlling. And Shidou? He only knows love when it hurts. “…Tch,” Rin muttered.

“Hmm?” Charles tilted his head. “Nothing.” He remembered the same thing in his own home. A long time ago. The walls quieter each day. That’s why he thought about kids. Why five didn’t sound so bad. So they wouldn’t grow up like that. So they’d never have to stare at each other like strangers across a dinner table. So they’d never feel alone—even if the world collapsed. “…Hey,” Charles poked him. “You okay?” Rin blinked. His cheeks felt hot. He scowled. “Mind your business.” Charles just grinned. “You’re red, Pretty Rinnie~”

“I’m not—!”

“You are,” Karasu confirmed without looking up. “Blushing.” Nanase giggled. “Aww, thinking about your kids Rin-san?”

“I’m going to kill all of you.” Zantetsu pointed dramatically. “Rin has maternal urges! He’s ovulating thought bubbles!”

“That's not how it—!” Rin choked on air. Charles howled. “Rin wants a big family so his kids don’t grow up all lonely and emotionally traumatized like him—”

“SHUT UP!”

“Oh nooo he’s self-aware!”

“I swear to god—”

“Don't worry, Rin-san,” Nanase gave him a thumbs-up. “You’re gonna be a great Okaa-san too.” Rin kicked him. Charles wiped away a fake tear. “Now if only Mama Ryu would come back and make my lunch again. I miss his unhinged protein smoothies.”

“And foot-on-the-table lectures,” Karasu added. “He made team meetings taste like violence.” Tokimitsu fidgeted. “But… what if they don’t get back together?” Everyone went quiet. Rin’s fork stilled. “…They have the kids,” he said. “That’s a reason.” Karasu looked at him.

Something softened. Then Charles sang, “Okay but like—what’s next? Five-kid Isagi, emo-Kaiser, and now triplet therapy arc? Blue Lock’s become a soap opera.”
Rin shoved rice in his mouth.

Manshine City Table

“…Five kids, huh.” Chigiri said it like he was reciting a weather report. Dry. Blunt. No punctuation. Reo, across from him, dropped his chopsticks. “FIVE? Are you—Isagi and Rin—wait, Rin—?” Reo leaned over the table, eyes wide. “How the hell did Rin Itoshi of all people not just like someone, but marry them?! And willingly breed?!” Nagi didn’t look up from his rice. “Hassle,” he said. Reo threw a napkin at him. “This is not a hassle, this is history.”

“Sounds like a them problem,” Nagi muttered, chewing slowly. “...Also, kinda scary.” Reo ignored him, already spiraling into dramatics. “And with Isagi of all people?! Yoichi’s, like, the human version of ‘what if tactical spreadsheets had a heart.’ Who the hell looks at that and goes ‘yes, please inseminate me’?!” Chigiri almost choked on his miso. Reo kept going. “And you’re telling me this isn’t some weird soccer AU? Like actual canon?! Like future-certified, fully-committed, happily chaotic domesticity?! With children?!?”

“Five’s a lot,” Chigiri added flatly. “Too many shoes. Too many opinions.”

“They’re not NFTs, Chigiri.”

“Still high maintenance.”

Ren—yes, that Ren, their resident chaos gremlin—chose this moment to pop out from under the table like an unsolicited jump-scare. “They probably made the babies in the locker room!” he said proudly. “That’s where love happens.” Reo made a noise that could only be described as a dying seagull. “REN—!” Nagi picked up the small Omega by the hood of his oversized shirt and plopped him back into his booster seat. “No more vent time for you,” he said simply.

“But Papa—”

“Sit.”

Ren sat. Huffing. Then immediately attempted to crawl into Chigiri’s hoodie sleeve like a burrowing mole. Chigiri stared down at him. “You’re lucky I like gremlins.” Reo was still stunned. “I just… I never thought Rin would choose someone. Let alone… fall for Isagi.”

“He didn’t fall,” Chigiri muttered. “He probably tripped into the future, grumbled about it, and got married out of spite.”

“Exactly!” Reo cried. “And now they’re apparently happy with five kids? Like, what did we miss?!” Nagi finally looked up. His voice was slower than usual. Like it carried weight even he didn’t expect. “…Maybe he wanted a family.” Reo blinked. Nagi didn’t say anything else. But he didn’t need to. Chigiri leaned back, expression softer. He tapped the edge of his tray once. Twice. Reo stared at him. Then glanced at Nagi. Then looked at Ren—who was now feeding miso to a fork like it was alive.

And maybe, just maybe, Reo started to get it. Not the whole future. Not the miracle of how Isagi managed to earn Rin Itoshi’s omega instincts and half his genetic material. But the why. The wanting. The need to build something solid. Something that wouldn’t vanish in the dark. “…Okay,” Reo whispered. “That’s kinda beautiful.” Nagi looked unimpressed. “Still sounds like work.”

“Love is work, you soggy riceball.” Nagi shrugged. “Still a hassle.” But even then—He didn’t argue the rest.

Ubers Table

It was supposed to be breakfast. Instead, it was a goddamn puzzle box of trauma and time-traveling children. Barou stabbed a perfectly golden tamagoyaki and glared at it like it owed him an explanation. “Triplets. Triplets, huh. Of course those two lunatics spawned three.” Aryu flicked his bangs and sighed. “Honestly, if you’re not going to raise a family with at least osha-level symmetry, what is the point?”

“They're not even identical,” Sendou muttered into his bowl. “You think it was IVF?” Niko choked. “Wha—?! I—I don't think you can ask that at breakfast—” Lorenzo, eerily composed, shrugged. “Three kids. Midfield genius and striker gremlin. Math checks out.” Aiku leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, that eternal poker-face on. “The question isn’t how. It’s why.”

“Maybe it was an accident,” Aryu offered. “An aesthetically chaotic one.” Barou scoffed. “The only accident is how Sae let anyone close enough to put a ring on it.”

“They’re not married,” Sendou corrected, peeking over his plate. “Or at least, no one said they were…”

“So it’s worse,” Barou growled. “Casual triplets. No form. No discipline.”

“I think it’s kinda sweet,” Niko said, quietly. “Like, maybe they really… loved each other?” Everyone paused. Barou glared. “You’re an Omega, of course you’d say that.” Niko flinched. “Well I just—I mean—Rin’s one too and—!” Aiku raised a brow. “Rin’s still suppressing. Doesn’t count.”

“He is blushing a lot lately,” Aryu added with a smirk. “Like pastel pink. Very osha.”

“Back to the point,” Barou snapped. “What the hell happened to those two to make their kids travel across time just to yell at them?”

“Maybe Sae cheated,” Lorenzo offered, tilting his head. “He gives me ‘emotionally repressed affair’ vibes.”

“Or,” Aryu cut in, “Shidou had a breakdown, snapped a tripod in half, and ran off to raise the kids in a forest.”

“Do you think they got divorced?” Sendou asked, half-whisper. “I don’t even know if they were ever really together…”

“I think it was silence,” Aiku said simply. “The kind that builds. Unsaid things turn into walls.” That shut them up. For a few seconds. Then— “Wait, so what are the triplets like?” Niko asked. “I didn’t get to talk to them. Hikaru looked scary.” Aryu leaned in. “The Alpha one? Him. Big Shidou energy. Hair like he murdered a lightning bolt.”

“Haruna’s the sniper,” Lorenzo said. “Looks like Sae, fights like a banshee.”

“And Reika,” Aiku added, “is an Omega. Talks like she’s been here before.”

“She said something about dreams…” Niko muttered. “And crying? Something sad.” Barou made a noise in his throat. Low. Annoyed. “I don’t like this,” he said. “Messy family drama. Softness. Feelings.” Aryu chuckled. “You’re just jealous your abs can’t win a custody battle.”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY—”

“It’s actually kind of… nice,” Sendou admitted, soft. “Like, that the kids still care. They want their parents to try again.” Niko poked his rice. “I wonder what I’d do… if my parents fell apart. Would I come back too?” Barou rolled his eyes. “You’re too baby to time travel.”

“I am not—!”

“You still say sorry when someone bumps into you,” Lorenzo said. “You’re adorable. Let us bully you.”

“Guys—!” Aryu sipped from his juice. “I say let the chaos unfold. Reconciliations, broken hearts, emotional trauma—ooh, maybe there’s a dramatic confession next.”

“Or a second set of kids,” Lorenzo added, grinning. “Triplets 2: Electric Boogaloo.”

“STOP,” Niko begged. “THAT’S TOO MANY BABIES.” Barou stood up. “I’m leaving.”

“You’re just mad they got more attention than your socks,” Aryu called after him. Barou threw a piece of bread at his head. “Watch it, King," Aryu said with a wink. “The hair.” But even Barou didn’t deny it. The triplets were… something. Powerful. Blunt. And none of them had a damn clue what happened to make them come back. Only guesses. Only echoes. But maybe—just maybe—that was enough to care.

Barcha Table

By the time the chaos had rippled through Bastard München and PXG, it finally hit Barcha like a very confusing fever dream. Otoya was lounging across two cafeteria chairs like a cat sunbathing. He popped a grape into his mouth and sighed. “So lemme get this straight… Sae Itoshi and Shidou Ryuusei—aka ‘Standoffish Tsundere’ and ‘Bite Me Daddy’—had triplets?” Bachira blinked. “Like three whole babies?”
“Not one. Not two. Three,” Otoya grinned. “You were there.” Bachira leaned forward, chopsticks in hand, eyes wide and sparkling. “That’s so cool! I want three kids too—like one that climbs walls, one that only eats orange things, and one that sings soccer plays like musicals!”

“…What are you feeding them?” Otoya asked, half amused, half horrified. “Joy and protein,” Bachira replied seriously. “Like me!” Otoya paused. “…Fair.” They both turned quiet for a moment, watching the room swirl with tension and whispers. From the Bastard table, Kaiser looked like he was being nice against his will. PXG’s Charles was dramatically pouting into his food about Shidou being “stolen by that stinky midfielder.” And Rin? Rin looked like he was trying to die in his seat from sheer internal combustion.

Otoya whistled low. “Five kids with Rin. Man, Isagi really put a ring on the emotionally stunted hedgehog.” Bachira giggled. “And Rin let him. That’s the best part.”

“Think he was, like, threatened into it?”

“Nah,” Bachira said, squinting. “He probably wanted it. Rin’s not the kind to give you five anything unless he wants to.”

“…Okay, therapist Bachira, damn,” Otoya snorted. “What about the triplets, though? Any intel?”

“Nope,” Bachira chirped. “But I like the pink one! Reika, I think? She looks like she’d hide candy under her pillow and curse people in her sleep.”

“Valid,” Otoya nodded. “And Hikaru? Total ‘fights the principal in a parent-teacher meeting’ energy.”

“That one said, ‘You broke Okaa-san,’ with the power of God and anime,” Bachira said, eyes wide. “So scary. So awesome.”

“What about Haruna?”

“She’s my favorite,” Bachira declared. “She looked like she’d punch the moon if it insulted Shidou.” Otoya chuckled, finally sitting up. “So the kids are mini-bosses. Got it.”

“But no one knows what happened, right?” Bachira asked. “Like, why’d they come back?” Otoya stretched. “Nah. Everyone’s just playing the guessing game. Some say it was a breakup. Some say silence. Some think one of them joined a monk monastery to suppress their instincts.”

“Maybe they got sad,” Bachira said simply. “Like… really sad. And stopped talking.” Otoya’s smirk faded a little. “…Yeah. That sounds about right.” Bachira tapped his chopsticks on the table rhythmically. “But hey—if the kids still love them enough to come back, maybe that means there’s still something worth fixing, right?”

“…You’re a little too good at this, man,” Otoya muttered. Bachira smiled. “Nah. Just think people get scared sometimes. Even grown-ups.” He paused. “Even Sae.” Otoya blinked. “Now that’s a headline.” They both looked back toward the triplets now dozing off in Recovery Room 2B, unaware of the cafeteria-wide storm they’d kicked off. “Should we get them something?” Bachira asked. “Like candy? Or monster plushies?”

“…I vote monster plushies.”

“Yay!” And with that, the Barcha table concluded its analysis of the greatest parenting mystery Blue Lock had ever seen—with love, snacks, and mild psychological insight.

DAY 7 — 10:21 a.m.

Blue Lock Conference Room

The lights buzzed above. Not out of malfunction, but tension. Ego didn’t pace. He never paced. But he did tap his stylus against the monitor with just enough irritation to crack through the polished silence. “They're multiplying,” Chris Prince announced, dramatically throwing himself into a chair like it owed him an apology. “Kids. Future kids. Future bombshells. I'm gonna start doing push-ups every time one spawns, just to cope.”

“You say that like you’re not relieved none of them are yours now,” Anri muttered under her breath. Snuffy grunted. “Let’s focus.” There were six chairs filled. Seven, if you counted Shane — who, despite being twenty-five and underpaid for this level of psychodynamic hell, was cheerfully stirring sugar into her sixth cup of tea. “Okay!” she beamed. “So just to review the new arrivals—”

“A set of triplets,” Loki cut in. His voice was cold and razor-thin. “Biologically Itoshi Sae and Shidou Ryusei’s.”
“They said it themselves,” Noa confirmed. “The children. All three of them.”

“Wait,” Lavinho blinked. “Three kids from them? Isn’t that a little—”

“Overachiever behavior,” Chris sighed. “God, I hate geniuses.”

“They’re a bond-pair,” Shane said simply, setting her cup down. “Confirmed. Alpha-Sae. Omega-Shidou. Which makes the triplets bond-children. Like the first two.”

“Technically speaking,” Ego finally snapped, stylus pausing midair, “this means three high-profile, active players in the Neo Egoist League are biologically confirmed to be fated mates. It also means the bond-child phenomenon is no longer isolated.”

“So you’re saying the first kid wasn’t a fluke,” Snuffy said. “I’m saying,” Ego corrected, “we’ve got three distinct pairs already locked in by future outcomes. That’s a statistical pattern.” Noa’s eyes didn’t shift. “And you believe it.” Ego turned to the screen, where the triplets’ medical scans hovered: Alpha. Alpha. Omega. Perfectly healthy. Unregistered in every global birth system. “I believe in data,” Ego said flatly. “I also believe in threats. So unless any of you have a rational explanation for how three seven-year-olds materialized inside a max-security AI-run sports facility—I'd like to move forward.” Anri glanced at Shane. “Thoughts?”

“Well,” Shane began brightly, flipping through her annotated profile book (decorated in soft blue gel pen), “Hikaru Itoshi has already tried to set the break room microwave to explode, Haruna punched a sensor light because it flickered wrong, and Reika’s currently drawing her ‘emotional aura’ with chalk on the walls. So emotionally? Stable. Relatively.” Chris choked. Lavinho barked a laugh. “That's emotionally stable?!”

“For Shidou's kids? Yes, and they are children this is normal, we shouldn't restrict a kids creativity.” Shane said seriously. “Plus, they're bonded. The triplets aren’t dangerous to the facility unless triggered. But they are extremely aware of emotional shifts in their parents—Shidou especially. He’s their maternal core.”

“Shidou. As a mother.” Chris shook his head. “Nope. Can’t process that. He tackled Karasu last week for chewing gum.” Loki spoke at last. “He’s also an Omega.” That brought silence. Because even in this room—where performance, dominance, and world rankings ruled—there were still things that felt like secrets. Unspoken truths hiding behind medical files and heat suppressants. “Doesn’t matter,” Snuffy said quietly. “He’s still one of the best.” Anri nodded. “And he’s bonded to Sae. Which means their dynamic—”

“Has already failed,” Ego interrupted. “The bond broke in the future. That's why the triplets are here. To fix what their parents couldn’t.” Noa narrowed his gaze. “You mean the bond was unresolved. Not broken.”

“Semantic difference,” Ego replied. “Outcome's the same.” There was a click. Loki had stood, remote in hand. On the main screen, paused footage of the triplets in the hallway flickered into view. Reika was sitting cross-legged, her head resting against Haruna’s shoulder. Hikaru had crawled onto Shidou’s lap and was clearly whispering something dramatic. Sae stood nearby, arms stiff at his sides—like he didn’t know where to put his hands. “They don’t look broken,” Noa said softly.

“They look like a family,” Shane added. “They look like a time bomb,” Ego snapped. “Three of them.” Snuffy crossed his arms. “And yet here we are. Alive. Still playing.” Loki turned off the screen. Silence fell again—deeper this time. Until Shane finally stood, brushing imaginary dust off her dress, and looked at Ego with eyes like silver mirrors. “Then what’s your plan?” she asked. “You going to separate them? Run experiments? Kick the kids out?”

Ego didn’t answer. Because even he wasn’t sure. Because this wasn’t about football anymore not since a while. It never really was. It was about fate. Bond-lines. Instincts buried beneath training. About how the greatest strikers in the world were also fated mates. Some willing. Some resisting. All entangled in a web that none of them—masters or players—had ever truly prepared for. And in the middle of it all? Two children, already born. Three more, now arrived. And something else still coming. I Something bigger.

DAY 7 – 11:07 a.m.

BLUE LOCK MEDICAL WING – THERAPY HALLWAY

The sound of footsteps was not unusual. What was unusual was the distinct sound of Michael Kaiser’s sneakers squeaking indignantly across the tile… because he was being dragged. Kaiser was many things. Petty. Strategic. World-class striker. Irredeemable annoyance. Owner of countless pairs of sunglasses and two working brain cells on standby. Future father of a nine-year-old king who spoke like he crawled out of a French tragedy. But today? Today, Kaiser was a hostage.

The sound of sneakers skidding down the hallway wasn’t rare. What was rare was that those sneakers belonged to Michael Kaiser—and that he was being dragged. By the sleeve. By Noel Noa. Like a teacher escorting a truant child back to detention. “This is abuse,” Kaiser grumbled, twisting like a wet cat in Noa’s grip. “This is exploitation of rank. This is why children run away from home.”

“You’re not my child,” Noa replied evenly. “You’re just my contractual migraine.”

“I do not need therapy—”

“You skipped your third and fourth sessions. Shane filed a report labeled, quote, ‘Little Emperor Avoidance Behavior.’”

“That’s slander.”

“It’s accurate.”

“I’m not going in there. She has blue tea! Last time it made me hallucinate my reflection apologizing to me.”
“That was chamomile and your guilty conscience.”

“I don’t have a guilty conscience—”

“Then what do you call the nine-year-old glaring at you like an unpaid debt?”

Kaiser faltered. Noa tugged him again. Twenty meters behind, the entire Bastard München team was watching the scene like it was a pay-per-view event. Leaning against walls, exchanging commentary like sports analysts high on gossip and low on shame. “I swear,” Kurona murmured, “this is better than half the drama on my Netflix queue, queue.”

“Better than a penalty shootout,” Raichi added, sipping instant miso. “Call it: Bastard Bond Therapy—featuring Daddy Issues and Delusion™.” Kiyora stared. “He’s really getting dragged…”

“Like a corpse in a detective show,” Hiori muttered. Yukimiya didn’t even glance up from his nails. “Honestly, Magnus turned out remarkably functional for someone whose father is Kaiser.”

“I think he raised himself,” Gagamaru offered. “Same,” said Kunigami. “You ever heard that kid talk? He sounds like a diplomat ready to colonize a galaxy.” Kiyora nodded. “He called me ‘functionally average’ last week and thanked me for my existence. I haven’t slept since.” Then— “Speak of the clown,” Raichi muttered. Isagi stepped into the hallway. The moment their eyes met, chaos bloomed. “Oh look,” Kaiser sneered, eyes narrowing, “it’s Japan’s favorite triangle merchant.”

“Wow,” Isagi deadpanned. “Aren’t you late to your ‘Fatherhood Makes Me Soft’ support group?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you over the sound of five kids. What’d you do, sneeze and reproduce?”

“I’m married to someone hot. That’s what I did.”

Kaiser turned red. “I asked if you wanted to be walked in like a grown-up,” Noa cut in dryly. “I’d rather be tackled.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Are we sure we can’t just replace him with Magnus?” Hiori asked the hallway at large. “I vote yes,” Kurona raised a hand. Then the door opened. “Michael~!” Shane’s voice sang like a guillotine dipped in sugar. She leaned out from her office, silver eyes sparkling. “So brave of you to come without crying this time!”
,

“I wasn’t crying!” Kaiser barked. “You whimpered,” Noa corrected. “You whimpered?” Isagi gasped, scandalized. “I DID NOT—!” Shane stepped out in a pale blue dress, clipboard in one hand, tea in the other. “Inside, little prince. Before I make you sit on the beanbag of vulnerability.” Kaiser flinched like she’d pulled out a weapon.

“Blue chamomile tea’s still warm~” Shane cooed. “And today’s worksheet is about unhealthy communication patterns between fathers and their terrifyingly articulate future children!” Kaiser hissed like a cat. “I’d rather be punched in the face.”

“Therapy is a punch in the face,” Shane said cheerfully. “Except with worksheets and snacks.” He finally surrendered. Slouching like a man walking to his own funeral, he stomped toward the door. But not before flipping Isagi off. Twice. “I’m telling Magnus and Ness,” Isagi called.

The door closed. Silence. “…Was it just me,” Yukimiya asked finally, “or was that… kinda heartwarming?”

“Deeply disturbing,” Kurona replied. “Hot,” Raichi said. Everyone turned. Raichi blinked. “What? I respect men in therapy. Plus, the wrist grab? Five out of five tension. Peak slow burn.” Kiyora exhaled into his miso. “We need new teammates.”

“Hey, maybe next week you get dragged to therapy,” Hiori said. “I go willingly,” Kiyora replied. “Beta behavior,” Kunigami muttered. “I heard that.” The laughter slowly faded as they returned to their usual semi-chaotic dynamic. But for a moment, the camera — if this were a show — would’ve lingered on the hallway door. Where Michael Kaiser was finally, finally inside. Maybe starting the long road toward figuring out the father he wanted to be. Instead of the one his son had already rejected but is the process of accepting.

DAY 7 – 11:12 a.m.

BLUE LOCK – THERAPY ROOM 3

Patient: Michael Kaiser
Therapist: Shane

The room was too warm. Not hot. Not stuffy. Just…warm. Like someone tried to make it comfortable. There was a round blue rug. A pot of tea on the corner table. A couch and an armchair. Books arranged by color. A diffuser humming softly with something floral, and light filtering in through a panel on the wall that wasn’t quite a window. Kaiser didn’t sit. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a long moment, he just stood there. Staring. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up like something was watching. Like the past had followed him in.

He hadn’t been in a room this quiet in years. Shane was already seated on the couch, legs crossed under her, a file closed beside her, her silver eyes calm and unreadable. She didn’t say hello. Didn’t ask how he was feeling. She just nodded once, like she saw him. “You can sit wherever feels safe,” she said. Kaiser scoffed. “Nowhere does.”

Still, he sat in the armchair. Diagonal. Closest to the exit.
That was his rule. Always closest to the door. Always in reach of an escape. Shane didn’t move. She didn’t pick up a pen or clipboard. Her hands were empty. Her posture relaxed. It made him nervous. He wasn’t used to quiet. He was used to tension, to pressure, to someone wanting something from him. He could handle screaming. Control. Conflict. But this… “I don’t do this kind of thing,” he said flatly. “I know,” she said softly. “But you’re here.”

“Only because Noa dragged me.” She smiled faintly. “Dragged or not, you walked through the door.” Kaiser looked away. His jaw was tense. His foot was bouncing. Silence. “Michael,” she said after a moment, “what are you thinking about right now?” He thought about lying. He thought about giving her nothing. But the silence didn’t push. It waited. “…I’m thinking about Theo,” he muttered. “And whether he hates me.” Shane didn’t blink. “Do you think he does?”

“…He should.” Kaiser’s voice was quiet. He didn’t expect it to be. “I look at him, and I see everything I was afraid of becoming. But cleaner. Sharper. He’s got my face. My stare. But none of the rot, you know?” Shane nodded. “I don’t know how to look at him without thinking about my father.” The words spilled out faster than he could stop them. “He used to clean his belt every night. Sat there like it was his ritual. Not a speck of dust on it. Not one scratch. Like it was something holy.”

His throat went dry. “Then he’d use it.” A pause..“I learned quick. If you scream, you get worse. If you flinch, it doesn’t stop. If you cry, you lose. So I stopped crying.”.A flash of memory hit him like ice water:

—kneeling on cold tile
—blood in his mouth
—“Stop crying. Crying’s for cowards.”
—the sound of the belt hitting the floor—

He swallowed hard. His hands were clenched. “I used to pray. Dumb shit. That someone would see me. That someone would come. That someone would say it wasn’t supposed to be like that.” Shane didn’t move. She didn’t pity him. She just waited. “No one did,” he muttered. “So I stopped praying. Started fighting instead.” He leaned back, shoulders stiff. “Football gave me something to aim at. Winning meant worth. Talent meant freedom. I kept my head down, clawed my way up. If I was better than everyone else, no one could touch me.”

“That became your protection,” Shane said gently. He gave a humorless laugh. “It became my whole identity.” Another pause. He didn’t know why he was still talking. “Then Theo shows up.” The name tasted strange in his mouth. “I didn’t ask for a kid. I didn’t want a kid. I barely understand Ness. And now there’s this little version of me, walking around like he’s already decided I’m a mistake.” Shane’s voice was soft. “What makes you think he believes that?”

“He looks at me like—like I already hurt him. Like he knows what I’m capable of.” He stared down at his hands. “They’re the same hands,” he whispered. “Mine. My father’s. I know it.”.Silence. “I’m afraid,” he admitted. Shane didn’t react..“I’m afraid I’ll mess him up. Afraid I’ll open my mouth and say something I can’t take back. That I’ll lose him without ever really having him.” A sharp memory again:.

—“You were a mistake.”
—“Trash like you doesn’t deserve a future.”
—the sound of a door slamming that never reopened—

“I don’t know how to be soft,” Kaiser said. “I don’t know how to be a father.” Shane shifted her posture slightly, still calm. “That’s okay,” she said. “It’s something you can learn.” He laughed bitterly. “From who?”

“From anyone who chooses to stay,” she replied. “From Ness. From Theo. From yourself.” Kaiser looked away again. “Do you want to be better?” she asked. He didn’t answer at first. Then, very quietly, “I don’t know if I can be.”

“That’s different from not wanting to.” She offered him a worksheet. Just a single sheet of paper. On it was a prompt:

“What would you say to your younger self if he walked through that door?”

He stared at it. And suddenly he was nine years old again. Wearing a torn shirt. Shoes with holes. Blood in his socks. Knees scraped from concrete. He’d stolen a can of peaches and eaten the whole thing in an alley. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. No one had looked at him like a person. He remembered feeling like an animal. Forgotten. He swallowed hard. “…I’d tell him it’s not his fault.”

He paused. “I’d tell him that the world’s broken, not him. That one day he gets out. That one day he becomes something.” Another pause. His voice cracked. “I’d tell him someone loves him.” Shane didn’t speak. Tears stung at his eyes. He didn’t let them fall. But they were there. He buried his face in his hands. “I hate that Theo has to see me like this.”

“Like what?” Shane asked softly. “Like I’m broken.” Shane waited, then said, “You’re not broken. You were just never taught how to heal.” He stayed like that—face in his hands, breath shaky—for a long moment. Then he said, barely above a whisper, “…I want to try.” Shane smiled. “That’s enough for today.”

Outside the room. Theo sat on the bench, stiff, back straight. He didn’t know what was being said behind the door. But he was listening. Waiting. The pendant in his palm was warm from his grip. His mother’s initials etched into the back. His anchor. He wasn’t sure if Michael would come out changed. But he was here. And for now, that was enough.

DAY 7 — 1:00 p.m.

PXG DORMITORY WING – OUTER HALLWAY

Rin Itoshi was not pacing. He was waiting. There was a difference. Pacing meant emotion—nerves, worry, anticipation. Pacing meant you gave a shit. Rin, standing with one hand braced against the hallway wall outside PXG’s family wing, wasn’t pacing. He was managing proximity. Managing himself. He’d known the second Sae stepped into the building. You didn’t forget the presence of the head alpha who carved your instincts open like a wound you learned to ignore. Sae walked through PXG like a shadow that pretended it wasn’t one. But Rin felt it. Felt him.

There were footsteps. And then… there he was.
Sae turned the corner, calm as ever. Black hoodie. PXG tag on the hem. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—Rin saw the softness, the kind that didn’t used to exist.
The kind that made Rin’s stomach twist. “Oh,” Sae said when he saw him. “You're still here.”

“I stay here,” Rin bit out. “Unlike you.” Sae stopped.
The silence that fell between them was the kind that used to mean nothing—background noise in the years they never spoke. But now, with five time-traveling kids, three genetically impossible triplets, and one rekindled fated bond with Shidou— Now it was suffocating. “I walked them in,” Sae said. “They’re settling.”

“And you?” Rin asked, voice sharp. “Settled now too?”
Sae looked at him like he wanted to ask if Rin was serious. Rin hated that look most of all. Because it meant Sae still saw him as a child. Still didn’t understand that he’d left a child behind. “You’re mad,” Sae said, low. “Congratulations,” Rin said. “You still know basic emotions.”

“You always do this.”

“Do what, Sae?”

Sae’s voice didn’t rise. “Start fights like a shield.” That did it. Rin took a step forward before he could stop himself. “Shield?” he said. “You think this is about starting fights? You think I’m here for drama?”

“You always have been.”

“You always left,” Rin spat. And that landed. The hallway air dropped several degrees. Sae didn’t speak. So Rin filled the silence, bitter and fast. “You left when I was eleven. You left and didn’t look back. You didn’t write. You didn’t visit. You made me watch you smile for cameras while I spent every night wondering if you ever missed home.” Sae’s lips pressed into a line. “You didn’t leave just the country,” Rin said. “You left me.”

“That wasn’t about you.”

“Bullshit.”

“It wasn’t,” Sae repeated, louder now. “I didn’t leave to hurt you.”

“But you did, didn’t you?” Rin snapped. “You hurt me more than anyone else ever could.” His voice cracked. He hated that. But Sae stood there, still. And Rin burned. He didn’t know when he’d started shaking. Maybe always. Maybe since Spain. Maybe since the first time he curled up on the floor of his room and realized Sae wasn’t coming back, not even to explain. “You were my head Alpha,” Rin whispered, gutted. “You were supposed to protect me.”

“I never wanted that role,” Sae said. “Then why did you act like you did?” Rin shouted. “Why did you hold my hand every night before bed? Why did you let me imprint on you? Why did you let me think we were family if you never planned to stay?” That—finally—seemed to land. Sae flinched. Not visibly. Not to anyone else. But Rin saw it. Sae’s jaw tensed. His fingers twitched at his sides. His breath slowed, controlled. “You’re right,” Sae said, voice rough now. “I didn’t think about what imprinting meant. Not really.”

“No. You didn’t think about what I meant.” Rin's chest was heaving. His vision was blurry. He didn’t know if it was from anger or grief or the ancient ache that cracked wider every time Sae showed up acting like the world hadn’t ended at fifteen. “You don’t know what it’s like,” Rin said, shaking. “To be an Omega without anyone. You don’t get it.”

“I didn’t ask for the familial bond,” Sae said tightly. “And I didn’t ask to be born Omega,” Rin snarled. “But here we are.” Silence stretched. It twisted. This wasn’t a clean argument. It never had been. There was no top or bottom, no winner, no single punch to knock the other down. It was years. Of silence. Of failure. Of words never spoken because Sae thought they didn’t matter, and Rin thought if he asked he’d be pathetic. “You know what the worst part is?” Rin said finally, voice low. Sae looked at him. “I used to think you’d come back. That it was a mistake. That the big brother I knew—the one who brushed my hair, who held my arm when I cried, who said I was his favorite person on earth—that he’d come back.” Sae’s eyes widened.

“I waited,” Rin said. “Every birthday. Every school match. Every time I scored a goal, I thought you might text.”
His throat closed. “I thought if I was good enough, you’d love me again.” Sae stepped forward—only a little—but Rin stepped back immediately. “Don’t,” Rin said. “Don’t pretend you’re trying now.”

“I am trying,” Sae said quietly.

“You’re years late.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Rin hissed. “Do you even know what it did to me? I was an Omega left alone in a house that didn’t care if I bonded with anyone again. I had suppressed heats until I was fifteen. I started fights just to feel adrenaline because I didn’t have a single person left to ground me—”

“I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“You didn’t ask!” Rin snapped. Silence. There it was again. The gaping hole where Sae’s voice should’ve been for the last five years. “You left,” Rin said again, hoarse. “And then you left again. And now you want to walk around with three kids and pretend you’re the adult in the room.” Sae’s hands were shaking now. “They’re not just mine,” he said. “They’re Shidou’s.”

“Oh right,” Rin said bitterly. “Shidou. The Omega you chose.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” Rin snapped, “what’s not fair is that he got you to stay. And I didn’t.” The silence this time was louder than a scream. And for a second—just one—Rin wished he could take the words back. But he couldn’t. Sae stepped back. He looked—Rin didn’t know. Shaken? Hollow? Something. He opened his mouth. Didn’t speak.

And then— The door next to them opened. A sleepy voice cut through the tension like a soft blade. “…You’re loud,” Shidou muttered, rubbing his eyes. His hair was messy. He was barefoot, wearing a PXG hoodie two sizes too big. “The kids just fell asleep. Can you two not scream about trauma for five minutes?” Rin froze. Sae froze. Shidou yawned. “Gods,” he said. “I know it’s a sad hallway, but even I don’t deserve this much secondhand grief.”

He stepped between them—casual, tired, completely unimpressed. “Go outside if you’re gonna fight,” he said. “Or better, go to therapy. The hallway didn’t ask to be part of your brother issues.” He turned to Sae. “You good?” Sae didn’t answer. Shidou looked at Rin. “You?” Rin looked away. Shidou sighed. He turned, walked back into the room, and closed the door behind him. The quiet that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was sharp. Still. Rin didn’t speak. Sae didn’t either. They stood there, a foot apart, years between them. And nothing else was said.

Sae stood there, spine straight, fingers twitching at his side, jaw locked. The hallway still smelled like hospital soap and recycled air. It was a nowhere space—meant for transit, not confrontation. He hadn’t planned to stop. Hadn’t planned to speak. But Rin was waiting. Not pacing. Waiting. And it had all happened so fast. But not really. Nothing between them ever happened fast. It just waited. Years of silence like rot beneath floorboards. You didn’t see it until the damage bled through.

Now it had. And Sae felt it. He wasn’t sure what hurt more—Rin’s words, or the fact that he’d earned them. He turned his head slightly. Rin still wouldn’t look at him. Shoulders stiff, eyes averted, rage clamped down like a vise. The same rage Sae had once admired—cold, sharp, useful on the field. Except now, that fire was twisted at the root. Not competitive. Not proud. Wounded. He should say something. But the words sat like stones in his throat.

He wasn’t built for this. He was made for focus, for victory, for detachment. That was what the world wanted from an Alpha like him. Not comfort. Not softness. Just results.

“Don’t cry, Sae. You’re the big brother now.”

He had been seven. His mother had said it without turning from the mirror. Lipstick in one hand, keys in the other. Sae had clutched Rin’s tiny hand as they stood in the hallway, suitcases packed, their father's voice muffled by bedroom walls.

Be the big brother.
Hold it together.

So he had. He learned early that emotion wasn’t useful. That Alphas who showed pain were pitied or punished. That even when you wanted to reach out—hold someone, protect someone—you had to choose silence, or you’d be devoured. And so when Rin imprinted on him, without Sae realizing, without either of them knowing what it meant—He had gone still. Because even then, part of him knew he couldn’t be that for Rin. Couldn’t carry someone else’s need when he barely knew his own. So he left.

And now Rin was telling him exactly what that had done. And Sae— Sae had no answer. “I didn’t know,” he said again, quiet, barely a breath. Rin didn’t flinch. Didn’t respond. Because the damage was already done. And the worst part? Sae believed him. Every word. Every accusation. Rin had waited. Had hoped. Had believed that maybe—just maybe—if he was good enough, Sae would love him again.

But Sae had walked away. No, he hadn’t just walked away. He’d erased the trail. Blocked every exit. Shoved every piece of that boy into a drawer and locked it, hoping if he never looked back, the guilt wouldn’t follow.
And now? Rin was standing in front of him, grown, furious, half-shattered. Still aching. Still wanting answers Sae didn’t know how to give. They had grown up on opposite sides of a broken lineage.

Rin, the Omega left behind. Sae, the Alpha who made leaving look effortless. But it had never been effortless. It had been survival. And survival didn’t leave room for second chances.

“You were my head Alpha.”

The words echoed in Sae’s chest like a scream underwater.

Not brother.
Not just sibling.
Head Alpha.

That wasn’t a bond you chose. That was something the world shaped you into whether you wanted it or not. A position of power, protection, imprint—meaning. Sae hadn’t asked for it, but he had accepted it in silence. Held Rin’s hand. Brushed his hair. Made promises he didn’t realize counted. And then he’d left.

So of course Rin thought it was about him. Of course he thought Sae had chosen Shidou instead. He hadn’t. But it didn’t matter now. The bond had shattered the moment Sae looked back at the boy he’d left and saw a stranger waiting for an apology that would never be enough. “I know I’m late,” Sae said, finally, quietly. “But I didn’t forget you.” Rin didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Because some wounds don’t react to words. Not until you show up for real.

And Sae wasn’t sure he knew how to do that. He wasn’t Ness. He wasn’t Isagi. He didn’t know how to try and mean it at the same time. But Shidou— Shidou was changing things. Slowly. Unintentionally. Just by being. That morning on the bench, talking in circles, barely admitting what he felt—it had been enough. The way Shidou had laughed again, like the future wasn’t lost yet—it had reminded Sae that maybe trying, even now, was better than staying frozen. And yet—

And yet— He couldn’t do that for Rin. He didn’t know if Rin would ever let him. The silence between them settled like dust. Shidou’s voice lingered from minutes earlier: “Go to therapy. The hallway didn’t ask to be part of your brother issues.” God. Sae almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he let the silence sit a moment longer. His hand twitched. He looked over. Still—Rin wouldn’t look at him. Maybe he never would. And Sae… he couldn’t make him.

He didn’t have that right anymore. Not after letting a child carry five years of grief alone. Not after coming back too late, again. He thought about what Shidou said last night—“Maybe liking someone is enough to give them back fire before the flame goes out.” He didn’t know if that was true for siblings.

But he hoped—
Maybe—
One day.
Not today.

Today, all he could do was leave the space between them open. And try not to close it again with silence. So he stepped back. Just one step. Then another.
And walked away. He didn’t look back. Because even now— Even still— He was afraid that if he did… Rin might already be gone.

DAY 7 — 3:00 p.m.

PXG DORMITORY – COMMON ROOM

The scene was already on fire by the time Rin walked in.
Not literally—though with Hikaru in the room, that was always a coin toss. But the chaos was thick in the air. Shouting, thudding, sprinting feet. A sock nailed to the ceiling with chewing gum. A stack of overturned stools that had once been a respectable coffee table.

And in the eye of the storm: Hikaru Itoshi, age seven, Alpha designation, crimson-haired devil child of the apocalypse, holding a stolen PXG practice cone like a megaphone. “THE TIME OF THE MORTALS IS OVER!” he shrieked, standing on the back of the couch like a pint-sized dictator. “BOW BEFORE THE TRIPLET TRINITY!”

“Get down before I break your kneecaps!” Haruna roared, dragging one of the discarded stools behind her like a weaponized cart. “Violence!” Zantetsu gasped, halfway through tying his own shoelaces together because Hikaru dared him to. “Oh my god,” Karasu whispered from behind the mini kitchen bar, holding a ladle like a crucifix. “It’s worse than yesterday.”

“I think they multiplied,” Tokimitsu whimpered, hiding behind the coat rack, clutching a stress ball that was visibly leaking foam. Nanase tried to intervene. He got bit. And then—like a cherry on this unhinged sundae—the couch tipped. Reika, still curled under a blanket like the ghost of aesthetic sadness, softly muttered, “Oops,” as she rolled onto the floor, entirely unbothered.

Rin stopped in the doorway. Stared. Breathed in. Then turned back toward the hallway. “Don’t,” Shidou’s voice called from behind him. “I see that look. You’re not escaping.” Rin muttered something anatomically impossible under his breath. Behind him, Shidou emerged with wet hair, hoodie half-zipped, and the smug chaos energy of a man who’d just tamed three rabid wolves by making them do a coordinated TikTok dance.
“Look, it’s Auntie Rin!” Hikaru shouted. “You’re late! We already started the cult.”

“Kill me,” Rin said. “No thanks,” Reika mumbled from the floor, rolling her blanket cocoon a few feet toward the bookshelf. “You're the pretty one. We need you for bait.”
Shidou grinned. “She’s not wrong.”

“I will walk into traffic,” Rin muttered again. But it was too late. Haruna had spotted him. “Auntie Rin,” she yelled, stomping over with her fists wrapped in gauze like she was ready to go twelve rounds with God. “Hikaru stole the orange juice and said it’s his ‘royal serum.’ He also told Charles that our dad eats his enemies.”

“He does!” Hikaru chirped. “He doesn’t,” Rin snapped. “He’s a tactical midfielder, not a cannibal.” Hikaru pouted. “You’re no fun.” And then, as if summoned. Charles Chevalier flung open the dorm door with all the dramatics of a theater major crashing an audition. “MAMAN RYU!” he cried, arms outstretched. “My mother has returned from exile!”

“Not this again,” Rin muttered, already done. Charles beelined across the room with the grace of a falling chandelier, dramatically collapsing at Shidou’s feet.
“You look radiant,” Charles whispered, clinging to Shidou’s arm. “Did your pheromones get stronger? I’m swooning.”

“Down, CharChar,” Shidou said mildly, poking Charles’s forehead with one finger. “You’ll scare the children.”
“I am a child,” Charles whispered back. “A child with abandonment issues.”

“You saw me this morning.”

“Exactly. Tragedy.”

Meanwhile, Reika had climbed onto Zantetsu’s back like a sleepy koala and was gently braiding his hair while muttering something about existentialism and fairy kings. “You’re so calm,” Zantetsu whispered, tears in his eyes. “I like your vibe,” she said dreamily. “I finally matter,” Zantetsu whispered. Karasu had given up and was filming everything on his phone.

Nanase was applying ice to his own bite wound. Tokimitsu had vanished entirely. And Rin… Rin was vibrating. Not with anger. Not really. With something he couldn’t name. Something raw and restless. Because this—this loud, idiotic, relentless chaos—it shouldn’t feel familiar. But it did.

The triplets weren’t just there. They were present. They yelled, they touched, they pushed, they demanded attention. Hikaru pulled at his sleeve every five seconds. Haruna tried to wrestle him over juice. Reika asked him what kind of flower he thought matched his soul.

They didn’t hesitate around him. They didn’t fear him. And it felt like the first time someone had ever looked at Rin and expected him to stay. He didn’t know what to do with that. “You’re getting soft,” Shidou said beside him, tossing an empty juice box in the trash with sniper accuracy. “Your nostrils flared like you were gonna cry.”

“I will end you.” Shidou grinned. “See? That’s the Rin I know.” Hikaru, still standing on the back of the couch, suddenly screamed, “WE DECLARE THIS LAND THE ITOSHI EMPIRE!” Reika, still on Zantetsu’s shoulders, whispered, “You’re gonna get us arrested.” Charles clapped once. “If I join the empire, do I get diplomatic immunity?”

“No,” Haruna said, “but you get a uniform.”

“What kind?”

“Spiked.”

“Sexy.”

“Charles,” Rin growled. Charles threw both hands up. “Sorry! I forgot I’m in the presence of Auntie Supreme.”

“I hate that name.”

“You love us,” Hikaru said smugly. “I tolerate you. With reluctance.”

“That’s love in Rin language,” Shidou said, ruffling his hair. Rin smacked his hand away, face hot. But his hand didn’t shake. Not this time. Because the triplets were still here. Still laughing. Still calling him Auntie. Still arguing over who got to paint their claws with Nanase’s nail polish stash. And for once… for once… the noise didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like company. It felt like maybe he wasn’t alone in his name anymore.

DAY 7 — 2:32 p.m.

BASTARD MÜNCHEN DORMS – NESS’S ROOM

Michael Kaiser didn’t knock. Knocking was permission. It implied you thought the other person might tell you to leave. Kaiser didn’t do permissions—not with Ness, not with anyone. If he was here, it was because he wanted to be. And Ness needed to listen. The handle gave under his palm easily. The door wasn’t locked. Of course it wasn’t—Ness had never been one to barricade himself from an Alpha, especially not his Alpha.

Inside, the room smelled faintly of training bib fabric, laundry detergent, and the low citrus-sugar hum of Omega pheromones that had always been uniquely Ness. Not the strong, commanding throw of a high-dominance Omega trying to stake territory—but the softer, anchoring kind that filled the air like warmth radiating from a small heater in a winter room.

Ness sat at his desk, folding and refolding that same bib like it had personally wronged him. His fingers moved in mechanical precision, but the tell was in the shoulders—drawn up just enough to show he’d felt Kaiser enter before a word was spoken. Kaiser leaned on the doorframe, letting his presence settle in the space. Alphas had that effect—filling a room without touching anything. “You planning on avoiding me until match day?” he asked. Ness’s hands stilled but didn’t lift from the fabric. “Wasn’t avoiding,” he murmured. “Just… thinking.”

Thinking was dangerous. Thinking meant he wasn’t leaning on instinct. And instinct was where Kaiser held his grip on people. When Ness thought, he remembered all the times Kaiser had crossed lines, all the times he’d used the bond to keep him compliant instead of connected. “You’re bad at lying,” Kaiser said. Ness’s head dipped slightly. “And you’re bad at making people feel safe,” he replied without looking up.

It landed like a punch—not in the ribs, but lower, in that hidden place where bonds connected nerve-deep. Kaiser felt the twitch in his scent before he could stop it, a sharp metallic edge curling into the air. Alphas hated being told they weren’t safe; it was like being told they’d failed at the most primal thing they were biologically built to be. Kaiser crossed the threshold, letting the door swing shut behind him. “You want to fix this bond,” he said.

Ness finally turned, magenta eyes searching him with a rawness that made Kaiser’s stomach pull tight. “Don’t you?” Kaiser didn’t answer right away. Wanting wasn’t the problem. He wanted plenty of things. The problem was how you got them without handing over your throat in the process. “You think it’s just… easy?” Kaiser asked. “We talk, we forgive, we go back to the way it was?”
Ness shook his head. “No. I think it’s hard. And I think we start anyway.”

If Kaiser closed his eyes, he could still see Magnus—the future son with eyes like his but harder. Nine years old and already carved into something brittle.

If you hurt Mother again… I’ll take him as far from you as possible.

He hadn’t said us. He hadn’t said you and me. Magnus had drawn a line, and Kaiser had been on the wrong side of it. And now here was Ness, same Omega as always, still in the present tense, still here. Kaiser didn’t understand it. He stepped closer, boots scuffing the carpet. The faint hum of Ness’s pheromones reached him properly now—warm citrus laced with the tiniest trace of sharpness, like the white pith under an orange peel. Omega distress. Subtle, but there. It pulled at something in his chest he didn’t like to name. “Tell me something,” Kaiser said. “Why now?”

“Because I saw our future,” Ness replied, voice steady, “and I hated it.” Kaiser’s gaze narrowed. “You hated me.”

“I hated what you became,” Ness corrected, and that precision cut cleaner than anger ever could. “I don’t want to hate you. Not now. Not in the future.”

The bond pulsed. The words rattled through the bond between them like a faint drumbeat, and Kaiser felt it respond under his skin—muted, faint, but not gone. Not dead. There was still something to answer to, even after all the corrosion he’d poured into it. Kaiser’s jaw flexed. “And if I told you… I don’t know how to stop being that person?”

“Then I’d tell you I’m still here,” Ness said, and his pheromones softened with it—edges curling into something that brushed against Kaiser’s Alpha instincts instead of bristling at them. “And that you don’t have to figure it out alone.” Kaiser should’ve stepped back. He should’ve drawn the line. Alphas didn’t let themselves be comforted by their Omegas—it made the balance tilt, made you forget who was supposed to lead.

But Ness’s presence pressed low and steady against the instinct in him that said protect, keep, hold. “I can’t promise I’ll change overnight,” Kaiser said at last. “I’m not asking you to,” Ness replied. “I’m asking you to try.” Kaiser’s hand lifted almost without his permission, fingers hovering before they settled lightly against the side of Ness’s neck. The bond flared faintly under his palm—a small, pulsing rhythm. His thumb brushed once, more instinct than thought.

The citrus scent in the air deepened, warmth blooming as Ness’s body recognized the contact for what it was: an Alpha’s touch that wasn’t about claiming, just… connection. He remembered the first time the bond had locked in—how it had been a rush, almost chemical, Ness’s eyes wide and trusting, the heat of knowing someone was yours. That had been a lifetime ago. He’d buried it under arrogance and distance until the trust went brittle.

But right now, the pulse under his hand didn’t feel like a leash. It felt like a lifeline. “Mutual agreement,” Kaiser murmured. “We try. I stop using you as my punching bag. You stop pretending everything I do is fine.” Ness’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile. “Deal.” Kaiser let go before it became too much—before instinct urged him to seal it with something more binding, more dangerous. Vulnerability sat hot in his chest, irritating, but Ness’s shoulders looked lighter..And maybe that was enough. Maybe trying wasn’t about fixing the past in one breath. Maybe it was just about not making the same wound twice.

DAY 7 — 6:45 p.m.

BLUE LOCK CAFETERIA

Dinner in Blue Lock was rarely quiet. It was supposed to be the one neutral space in the building — a place where meals were shared under the illusion of normalcy, with teams and egos simmering down long enough to put food in their mouths. But that fragile balance depended on one critical factor: not having five time-traveling children, each genetically blessed with the instincts of their volatile parents, set loose in the room at the same time.

Tonight? That balance shattered before anyone even reached the serving line. The doors slid open, and the triplets came first — Hikaru striding like he owned the cafeteria, Haruna right on his heels, Reika drifting in behind them like the world was a dream she hadn’t decided to wake from. Behind them, Ren Nagi barreled in, hands tucked into the sleeves of an oversized shirt, violet eyes scanning the tables like a wolf in the body of a gremlin. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to acknowledge PXG or Ubers or Manshine City. He made a beeline for the Bastard München section. Specifically, for Theo.

“Enemy spotted,” Ren announced, hopping up onto the bench beside him without asking. Theo didn’t even glance up from his perfectly aligned plate. “You’ve been here seven days and you’re already the most irritating person I know.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ren said, leaning into his space. “I’m here to make sure you’re not brainwashed by your Alpha parent.” Across the table, Kaiser — who had been in the middle of sipping water — paused mid-swallow. His blue eyes slid from Theo to Ren, then up to Ness, sitting beside their son like this was all perfectly normal. “You’re letting him talk to Theo like that?” Kaiser asked Ness in a low voice. Ness didn’t look at him. “You’re letting him sit here like that,” he countered.

Kaiser’s mouth twitched — not quite a smirk, not quite irritation. “He’s not mine to control.” Theo finally looked up, fixing his father with a stare so icy it could’ve frozen the tableware. “That’s the first accurate thing you’ve said all week.” From two seats over, Isagi coughed into his drink to hide a laugh. Raichi didn’t bother — he barked one loud, delighted “Pfft—” before Kurona elbowed him.

Ren’s grin widened. “So, Theo, your plan tonight is to eat boring food, sit like a robot, and keep pretending you’re not fun?” Theo’s fork didn’t slow. “Better than your plan, which is to exist at maximum annoyance.”

“That’s called having a personality,” Ren said. “That’s called lacking restraint,” Theo countered.bFrom the next table, Raichi snorted into his drink. “Kid’s got more bite than half the league.” Kurona elbowed him before Theo could retort, but Ren was already smirking like he’d won the round. “Tell you what,” Ren said, lowering his voice in a mock conspiratorial tone. “After dinner, we sneak into the PXG side and—”

“No,” Theo said flatly.

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

“I didn’t need to.” The tension wasn’t hostile yet, but it was heating — like the room had two storms circling each other, building speed. Ness’s Omega instincts pricked the air around him. He knew that tone from Theo — calm, clipped, and waiting to go surgical if provoked.

Meanwhile, PXG’s section was already boiling with its own energy. Hikaru had gone directly to Karasu, challenging him to an arm-wrestling match for dessert rights. Haruna was busy trading insults with Tokimitsu over “defensive footwork” while Reika sat quietly between Charles and Shidou, hands folded in her lap.

The triplets were already stirring toward the disturbance. Hikaru abandoned an arm-wrestling match with Karasu mid-contest and hopped over to lean across the Bastard table. “What’s going on here? Feels like a fight I should be part of.”

“No,” Theo said again. “Yes,” Ren said, at the exact same time. Shidou, still across the room with a plate in front of him, didn’t even look up as he called, “Hikaru. No instigating.” Hikaru groaned but — shockingly — didn’t push it. Instead, he sat down right beside Ren, shoulders brushing. Haruna appeared next, scanning the room like she was casing it for enemies. “Who’s bothering my brother?” she asked. “Me,” Ren said proudly. “Me,” Theo said, equally flat. “Neither,” Ness cut in, his voice calm but edged. “Both of you need to eat.” Ren leaned back like he’d been challenged. “I am eating. I’m eating his patience.”

Theo’s jaw tightened. “Good luck. There’s not much to take.” By now, Reo had arrived from Manshine City’s table, having clocked Ren’s trajectory the second the boy entered the cafeteria. He came to a stop behind his son, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Ren,” he said, soft but firm. “Why are you here instead of at our table?”
Ren didn’t look at him. “Recon mission.”

“Against your own friend?”

“Especially against my friend,” Ren said, grinning. Across the table, Ness had shifted slightly closer to Theo, posture protective without being obvious. “Theo,” he said lowly, “you don’t need to engage.” Theo’s fork hovered. He wanted to argue — Ness could see it — but instead he exhaled and went back to his plate. Ren pouted. “Boring.” Shidou’s voice cut across the room again, lazy but precise. “Ren.” Ren twisted in his seat. “What?”

“Don’t push people who can out-plan you,” Shidou said, still not looking over. “Makes you look sloppy.” It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even particularly stern. But Ren sat back down properly, muttering under his breath, and Theo’s shoulders lost the slight lift they’d had. That was the thing about Shidou. People saw the chaos — the grin, the wild eyes, the irreverence — and assumed his parenting was just as unfiltered. But the triplets never missed a cue from him. The way his voice could thread into their instincts, not as an order but as an inevitability, made compliance seem like their own choice.

Shidou himself looked… different. Not in the bright, sharp, feral way most of the players were used to, but softer at the edges. Hoodie hanging loose, hair unstyled, eyes half-lidded. His heat still clung to him in invisible threads — pheromonal aftershocks that made the Omega settle closer to his Alpha even in public. Charles noticed. He always noticed. His gaze flicked between Shidou and Sae like he was tracking a chessboard only he understood. Every shift in distance, every look, every nothing that meant something. When Shidou leaned just slightly toward Sae to murmur something, Charles’s fork stilled against his plate.

“Mama Ryu,” Charles muttered, almost to himself. “Back in the building, and sitting with him.” Karasu shot him a knowing grin. “Jealous much?” Charles didn’t deny it..Back at Bastard München’s table, Ren was now poking Theo in the arm. “You’ve got that Alpha look,” he said. “All stiff and judgey. I can fix that.”

“You can’t fix anything,” Theo said. “I can fix you.”

“You can’t even fix your socks,” Theo shot back, flicking his eyes to the mismatched mess on Ren’s feet. “Fashion statement,” Ren said, unbothered. Kaiser was watching the exchange with a strange blend of fascination and alarm. He’d only had Theo in his life for three days, and already the boy could dismantle a conversation like a professional striker dismantled a defense line. The resemblance — not just in looks but in sheer verbal precision — was unsettling. He leaned toward Ness, voice low. “Does he always talk like a forty-year-old politician?”

“Only when he’s feeling merciful,” Ness said dryly. At that moment, the triplets drifted over from PXG’s section, drawn by the gravitational pull of chaos. Hikaru climbed directly onto the bench across from Ren and Theo, planting his elbows on the table like a challenger entering the ring..“This seat taken?”

“Yes,” Theo said. “No,” Ren said at the same time.
Hikaru grinned, all teeth. “Cool. So. Which one of you’s winning?”

“Winning what?” Theo asked. “Existing,” Hikaru said.
Haruna arrived next, sliding in beside her twin with the air of a bodyguard taking up position. Her teal eyes scanned the Bastard players like she was memorizing faces for later retaliation. Reika was last, soft and quiet, slipping into the only open space — next to Ness. She didn’t speak, just leaned her chin into her hand and studied Theo with an expression halfway between curiosity and a kind of unspoken knowing.

And just like that, the Bastard München table was full.
The rest of the cafeteria had already adapted to the disturbance. Barou’s table (Ubers) had implemented a “no minors within five meters” rule, enforced by a death glare. Aryu was waving across the room at Reika, calling compliments she ignored. Manshine City was betting on how long before Haruna punched someone.

Only Shidou seemed unbothered. He was halfway through his plate, occasionally glancing over to make sure the triplets weren’t actively destroying property. His version of parenting was less preventing chaos and more steering it away from catastrophic damage. “Haruna,” he called without looking up, “no elbows on the table.” She groaned, dropped them anyway. “Hikaru,”
Shidou added..“What?”

“Don’t throw food.”

“I wasn’t gonna—”

“You were,” Shidou said, still not looking. And somehow, Hikaru sat back. Sae ate quietly beside him, observing the room like an analyst watching footage. He caught Charles’s glare once, met it for exactly two seconds, then looked away. The food line moved. Plates filled. Conversations layered into one another — Theo explaining to Ren why dessert before dinner was a tactical error, Hikaru loudly disagreeing, Haruna threatening to “restructure” Raichi’s jaw if he called her “small fry” again.

And through it all, Kaiser kept sneaking glances at Theo. Noticing the way the boy’s hands moved like his own — precise, controlled, no wasted motion. Noticing how he mirrored Ness’s posture without realizing it. Noticing, uncomfortably, how much of himself was in there too.
He didn’t know if that was good or bad.

Reo had the kind of smile that looked like it belonged in a sponsorship ad — calm, warm, patient. It stayed on his face now, even though his son was digging in his heels like a cat being carried away from a sunny windowsill.
“Ren,” Reo said again, his tone all velvet edges, “we’re going back to our table.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

Ren’s mouth twisted into a grin aimed over Reo’s shoulder at Theo, like this isn’t over. “Fine,” he muttered, letting Reo guide him away, but not before dragging his fingertips along the edge of Theo’s plate just to see if it would get a rise. Theo didn’t flinch. He just flicked his eyes down at the empty space Ren’s touch had left and picked his fork back up. Across from him, Ness’s posture softened — not because the tension was gone, but because the storm had shifted away for now. He leaned slightly toward Theo, lowering his voice so it didn’t carry. “You okay?” Theo’s gaze stayed on his food. “Yes.”

“You don’t have to let him bother you,” Ness said gently. “I didn’t,” Theo replied. It wasn’t defensive — just fact.
Kaiser, beside Ness, had gone quiet. His eyes stayed fixed on Theo, but not in challenge. More like he was trying to map an unfamiliar country without a compass. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust himself not to make it worse.

Meanwhile, the triplets had followed Ren’s return. Hikaru lit up like a flare. “Ren-Ren! What’d you do? Did you win?” Ren hopped into the seat between Hikaru and Haruna. “Not yet. He’s a fortress. Gonna need new tactics.”

“Punch him,” Haruna suggested immediately, mouth half-full. Reo shot her a look. “No punching friends at dinner.”

“It’s not dinner, it’s training,” Haruna argued. “It’s dinner,” Reo said, firmly but still smiling. Ren and Hikaru both groaned like they’d been sentenced to a lifetime of boredom. Reika, who’d been quietly nibbling bread, tilted her head. “You’re loud,” she told them softly. Before either boy could shoot back, Shidou’s voice drifted over — lazy, like he wasn’t even paying attention, but threaded with something that hooked their instincts like a leash. “Sit down, eat your food.”

Hikaru straightened. Haruna swallowed her protest. Ren actually picked up his fork. Reo arched a brow at Shidou from across the table. “You didn’t even look at them.”

“Don’t have to,” Shidou said, still focused on his plate. “They know when I mean it.” It was true. The triplets’ energy didn’t vanish — they still nudged each other under the table, still exchanged exaggerated eye-rolls, still tried to smother giggles when Reo leaned in to cut Ren’s meat for him — but they stayed in their seats.
Haruna whispered something to Hikaru that made him choke on his water. Reika hummed under her breath, leaning against Shidou’s arm until he absentmindedly reached up to fix one of her buns. Ren watched all of it with the expression of a kid trying to memorize a new game’s rules so he could break them later.

From the Bastard München table, Kaiser’s gaze flicked once toward the PXG side — to the three red-haired kids eating like they hadn’t been mid-chaos three minutes ago — and then back to Theo. He didn’t say it out loud, but the thought was there, sharp as glass: That… I don’t know how to do.

DAY 7 — 7:54 p.m.

BLUE LOCK – LOUNGE CORNER

The cafeteria noise had faded behind them, replaced by the softer hum of the dorm’s lounge — low lighting, the faint buzz of the vending machines, muffled voices from somewhere down the hall. Most of the players had scattered after dinner, drifting back to their rooms or out to the training pitch. Isagi stayed. So did Rin. Not together — at least not in the way anyone else would say it. Rin was sitting sideways in one of the deep armchairs, long legs stretched out, tapping something on his phone like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Isagi had taken the seat across from him, a casual sprawl that wasn’t casual at all.

He’d told himself he just wanted a quiet space to think about formations for tomorrow’s practice. That was a lie so flimsy he didn’t even believe it. Because here he was, stealing glances at Rin every time the other Omega’s hair shifted in the warm light, catching the way his lashes cast thin shadows on his cheekbones. Watching how Rin’s thumb paused mid-scroll when he was actually reading something. It wasn’t just looking. It was cataloguing. Every twitch of expression, every flicker of softness Rin probably thought he kept hidden.

Most of Blue Lock already knew. He’d heard Kunigami mutter it once under his breath, had caught Reo giving him that knowing smirk, even Charles had once leaned across a cafeteria table and whispered, “Your Omega’s over there, mate,” just to watch him choke on his drink.
Everyone knew — except Sae, which was its own ticking time bomb — and Rin himself, which was both hilarious and frustrating.

Rin didn’t do vulnerability unless he was pissed off. And even then, it was the sharp, defensive kind. Isagi had learned to recognize the micro-moments — the ones where Rin’s voice dipped softer, his shoulders dropped half an inch, his gaze lingered for just a beat longer.
Like now. “Why are you staring at me?” Rin asked without looking up. Isagi didn’t even flinch. “Just thinking.”

“Think somewhere else.”

“Can’t,” Isagi said, leaning forward like that would anchor him here. “My brain works better with you around.” That earned him the side-eye — sharp at the edges, but not cutting. “That’s pathetic,” Rin muttered. “Maybe,” Isagi said easily, because he’d figured out that agreeing with Rin’s insults somehow made them less effective. “Still true.” He watched the way Rin’s jaw shifted, a muscle twitching like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the angle. It was small, but Isagi knew what it meant: he’d scored a point, not on the field, but here — in that half-guarded space Rin kept between himself and everyone else.

The thing was, Isagi didn’t just want to win this. He wanted the whole game. He wanted to see Rin without the armor — to know what his voice sounded like when it wasn’t hiding behind sarcasm or that low, flat tone he used to keep people at bay. He wanted to know if Rin’s scent would change when he finally let himself relax, if his expression would soften in a way Isagi could hold onto and think about at night.

And, okay, maybe he wanted to know what Rin’s hand felt like in his. Rin’s phone screen dimmed. He didn’t put it away, just let it rest on his thigh like he’d decided the conversation was less annoying than whatever he’d been reading. “You planning on saying whatever’s rattling around in your head, or are you gonna just keep looking like you’re about to confess your sins?” Isagi laughed before he could stop himself. “You always think I’m plotting something.”

“You usually are.”

“Yeah,” Isagi admitted. “But not tonight.” Rin finally looked at him fully, teal eyes catching the light like seawater in the dark. There was that softness again, buried under the weight of suspicion, but still there. “Then what?” 'You', Isagi thought. 'It’s always you'. He didn’t say it. Not yet. Instead, he leaned back, making it look like he was giving space when really he just wanted to watch Rin in this rare almost-calm. “Just thinking about how tomorrow’s scrimmage will go. We’ll need to work around Karasu’s speed, and—”

“You’re lying,” Rin cut in. Isagi blinked. “What?”

“You’re lying,” Rin repeated, voice low. “Your face does that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where your eyebrows twitch like you’re trying not to smile.”

That threw him more than it should have. Rin noticed his eyebrows? “Fine,” Isagi said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “You caught me. I was thinking about you.” He expected an eyeroll, maybe a scoff. What he didn’t expect was for Rin’s gaze to drop for half a second — a micro-flinch, so quick anyone else would have missed it. Then: “Don’t waste your time.”

The words were sharp, but the delivery wasn’t. And Isagi caught it — that fractional delay between thought and speech, the one that said this isn’t what I really mean.
“Not a waste,” Isagi said quietly. “Never is.” Rin stared at him like he was trying to figure out whether that was a challenge or a confession. Maybe it was both. The clock on the wall ticked past 7:54. In another minute, someone would probably wander in, break the moment, reset them back to their usual dynamic.

Isagi didn’t push. Not tonight. But he filed away every detail — the way Rin’s shoulders had settled lower than when they’d first sat down, the fact that he hadn’t actually told Isagi to leave, the way his scent was just a little warmer now. Progress. Small, but real. And Isagi was nothing if not patient when the win was worth it.

The lounge had gone even quieter, the kind of stillness that made every small sound carry — the faint hum of the vending machine, the soft creak of Rin shifting in his chair. Isagi was halfway lost in mapping out plays in his head when a plastic thunk hit the low table between them. He blinked down. A bottle of water. Cold enough to bead condensation onto the wood. He looked up. Rin was still leaning back in his chair, eyes on his phone, but his hand was retreating like he’d just realized what it was doing. “You looked thirsty,” Rin muttered, without looking up. Isagi’s chest went stupidly warm. “You got this for me?”

“It was next to me,” Rin said, too fast. “I didn’t want it.” Right. And Rin had just happened to pick up the coldest bottle from the vending machine and slide it across without being asked. “Thanks,” Isagi said, letting the smile into his voice on purpose. He twisted the cap open, took a long drink, and didn’t miss the way Rin’s thumb paused on his phone screen. “You’re staring again,” Rin said after a beat. “Yeah,” Isagi admitted. “Because you’re being nice.”

That got him a sharp glance — and there it was. The faintest flush dusting across Rin’s cheekbones, creeping toward his ears. It was quick, almost defiant, like Rin’s body had betrayed him before his brain could put up the usual walls. Isagi felt his pulse kick. “You’re imagining it,” Rin said flatly, already turning his gaze back to the phone. But his grip on it was tighter now, and he didn’t shift in his seat the way he usually did when dismissing someone.

“Nope,” Isagi said, grinning into the water bottle. “Not imagining anything.” Rin didn’t answer. But the tips of his ears stayed red. And Isagi — analytical, patient, competitive Isagi — locked that image away like it was a winning goal.

Rin didn’t know why he’d grabbed the water bottle. It was just there. The vending machine was next to him, the cold air brushing his wrist when he pulled one out. And Isagi… well, Isagi looked like an idiot, hunched forward with that laser focus, talking himself into dehydration. It wasn’t a gesture. It wasn’t anything. So why the hell did his chest feel tight when he slid the bottle across the table? “You looked thirsty,” he said, keeping his eyes on his phone. He could feel Isagi looking at him — really looking — and that was already too much.

“You got this for me?” Rin almost scoffed. “It was next to me. I didn’t want it.” He said it fast, clipped, the verbal equivalent of shoving his hands in his pockets. But the warmth pooling at the back of his neck didn’t go away.
Then Isagi had to go and say it. “Thanks.” Like it actually meant something. Like Rin’s fingers had reached across the table to do something for him.

Rin could hear the cap twisting open, hear the water glugging down Isagi’s throat, and suddenly every small sound was too loud. His thumb froze on the phone screen. He wasn’t scrolling anymore. “You’re staring again,” Rin said, needing to break the moment before it started to feel like—like something. “Yeah,” Isagi replied, no hesitation. “Because you’re being nice.”

And that— That was when it happened. The heat spiked before Rin could stop it, a rush straight to his cheekbones. It was infuriating how fast it hit him, how his own body decided to broadcast something he’d never admit out loud. Rin could feel it, the faint burn along his skin. His ears were probably betraying him too. And Isagi—smug, perceptive bastard—was watching.
“You’re imagining it,” Rin muttered, tone flat. He turned his eyes back to the phone, refusing to adjust his posture, refusing to give away more.

Inside, his heartbeat was irritatingly loud. It wasn’t about him. Isagi was just like this—too forward, too comfortable leaning into people’s space. Except… he wasn’t like this with everyone. Rin’s jaw tightened. He hated the thought spirals, the way they kept coming back lately whenever Isagi’s attention lingered too long.
He kept his gaze on the phone until the moment passed, until the heat in his face dulled. But his pulse never really calmed. And for the rest of the night, every time he glanced at Isagi, he had to pretend he didn’t notice the way that damn Alpha kept smiling like he’d just won something.

DAY 7 — 9:30 p.m.

MANSHINE CITY DORMS

Ren was already knocked out by the time Nagi wandered into the room. Kid had a gift for burning every ounce of energy before bedtime, then face-planting like someone had hit his “off” switch. Tonight was no different — messy white hair sticking out like he’d been in a wind tunnel, one sock half-off, sprawled sideways across the bed with the stuffed fox clutched to his chest like a hostage.

Reo was next to him, tucking the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He moved with that same soft focus he used when cleaning his boots after a match — precise, no wasted motion, but… gentler. He brushed Ren’s bangs away from his forehead, leaned down, and pressed a quiet kiss there. It was a small thing. But for some reason, Nagi’s chest felt heavier just watching it.
He stood in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame. He didn’t need to be in here. They’d already put Ren down for the night; he could’ve been in his own room, zoning out with a game or scrolling on his phone. But his feet had carried him here anyway.

Not because he was jealous. He wasn’t — not of Ren, at least. But something about Reo like this… so warm, so present… made him stop and watch like an idiot. It hit him — how easy it was for Reo to just be with people. To notice the little things that made them comfortable. To show care without needing an excuse. Nagi… didn’t really have that. He’d never been that type of Alpha. He wasn’t bad at looking out for people — but it was always… quieter.

Not the way Reo did it. When Reo finally straightened, he caught sight of Nagi leaning there. “You fuss over him a lot,” Nagi said, his voice low so they wouldn’t wake Ren. Reo gave him a small smile. “He’s a kid. That’s what you do. You take care of them.” Nagi’s mouth tugged into something almost-smile. “You take care of me.”

“That’s different,” Reo said without hesitation. “Not really.” Reo’s eyes softened a fraction, but he shook his head, stepping toward the door. Nagi didn’t move, so Reo had to stop close enough that Nagi could see the faint crease at the corner of his mouth. “You’re looking at me weird,” Reo murmured. Nagi shrugged, slow. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“You,” Nagi said simply. And that was the truth. He’d been thinking about him all day — how Reo’s voice cut through the noise, how his laugh made it easier to move, how his scent lingered on Nagi’s hoodie from earlier like a tether. Reo blinked, and something unreadable flickered in his expression. “…That’s new.”

Nagi let his gaze dip. Not far — just enough to notice the shape of Reo’s mouth, the way his lower lip curved in a way that always made Nagi want to press his thumb there. His Alpha instincts were humming, not loud or pushy, but steady — like background static. He shifted a fraction closer. Not enough to crowd, but enough that Reo’s scent wrapped around him, warm and bright under the faint lavender from the laundry soap.

Reo didn’t step back. He never did. Maybe that was why Nagi’s pulse picked up. For someone so laid-back, he didn’t get urges like this often. But when he did, they were sharp. Clear. Like seeing a path in a game and knowing exactly where to go. He leaned down — slow, giving Reo plenty of time to push him away if he wanted. But Reo didn’t move. Didn’t even blink, just looked up at him with that steady, expectant gaze. Nagi leaned down, slow enough that Reo could have stopped it if he wanted. But Reo didn’t move — and that was all the permission Nagi needed. So Nagi closed the last inch.
The kiss was soft at first. Lazy. Just a press, testing. His lips against Reo’s, warm and a little dry from talking all day.

Then he felt Reo breathe in — just a little — and it pulled him deeper without even trying. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t grab or push. Just stayed there, letting the contact sink in, letting his thumb brush against Reo’s wrist. Thee world narrowing to the point where he could hear Ren’s faint breathing on the bed and the almost-silent hitch in Reo’s when Nagi tilted his head slightly.

When he pulled back, Reo’s lips curved in that small, quiet smile Nagi knew too well — the one that I knew you’d get here eventually. “Took you long enough,” Reo murmured. Nagi blinked. “…Wasn’t in a hurry.” Reo’s laugh was soft, almost smug. “Sure you weren’t.” Nagi didn’t argue. He just stepped back, flicked off the lamp, and followed Reo out of the room. His heartbeat was still faster than he wanted it to be. But whatever. He could live with that.

DAY 7 — 10:04 p.m.

Ego’s Office

The Blue Lock command room was quiet in the way only late nights could make it — the air thick with the hum of machines and the slow, rhythmic tick of the wall clock. The desk lamp threw a tight pool of light across Ego’s workspace, catching on the glass surface of his tablet as his stylus scratched in precise, staccato strokes.
The Omega didn’t look up when the door clicked open. He didn’t have to.

Noa’s scent reached him before the man’s voice — clean, cool, faintly metallic, like steel that had been left in crisp winter air. It was sharp enough to pull at his instincts, but Ego’s mind reacted faster than his body could. He kept his head bent over his work, controlling his breathing to keep his pupils from betraying anything. “You’re working late again.” Noa’s tone was even, not accusing — a simple fact, delivered in that low timbre that always seemed to fill the room without effort.

Ego didn’t glance up. “You’re here too.” His voice was dry, clipped, as if stating your point? The sound of steady, unhurried footsteps moved further inside. Noa didn’t approach the desk yet. Instead, he crossed to the small counter in the corner, where the electric kettle sat between stacks of matcha tins and Earl Grey packets. Without asking, he filled one of the two mismatched mugs with hot water. Ego’s stylus froze for exactly half a second before moving again.

He listened to the faint clink of a teaspoon against ceramic, the crinkle of a tea bag wrapper. Noa didn’t speak until the cup was set down on the far edge of Ego’s desk, the steam curling upward into the lamplight.
“You haven’t had anything to drink in hours,” Noa said.
“I’m fine,” Ego replied automatically. Noa’s brow barely moved. “That’s not what I said.” Ego’s gaze flicked toward the mug, then away. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” Noa’s voice stayed steady. “But if I left it to you, you’d forget.” Silence fell again, but it wasn’t empty. Noa leaned a hip against the desk, arms folded across his chest. From the corner of his eye, Ego could see the Alpha’s calm posture, the faint tilt of his head — assessing, but not pressing. “You’ve been at this since morning,” Noa said after a moment. “Even you can’t run on analysis alone.”

Ego allowed the faintest twitch of his mouth, almost a smirk but dulled into something unreadable. “That’s the point of an Alpha, isn’t it? Assuming the Omega can’t manage without interference?” Noa didn’t take the bait. “That’s the point of a mate,” he corrected quietly, “to make sure you don’t burn out.” The word mate landed like a dropped pin in the still air. Ego didn’t flinch — but his grip on the stylus tightened, and he deliberately kept his gaze on the tablet.

“I’m fine,” he repeated. The lie was smooth, practiced.
Noa didn’t move closer right away. He was patient, always patient. He let the space between them breathe for a moment, then circled behind the chair. His hand rested lightly on the backrest — close enough to be felt without touching Ego directly. “You still tense up when I walk in,” he murmured. “But you don’t move away.” Ego’s stylus stilled again. “…Observation noted.”

“That means there’s still something here.” Ego exhaled slowly through his nose. “Or it means I’ve learned to tolerate your proximity for efficiency’s sake.”

“Maybe.” Noa’s tone was neutral, but the warmth in his presence was deliberate, as if he knew Ego’s instincts would notice even if Ego refused to acknowledge it.
The bond between them — frayed but unbroken — hummed faintly, like a thread pulled taut. Ego could feel it in his pulse syncing, just barely, to Noa’s slower rhythm. He hated that he noticed, but he didn’t tell him to step away.

Noa stayed there a moment longer before pushing off the chair and stepping back. “Don’t stay up all night.”
Ego’s voice came only when Noa was halfway to the door. “…Leave the tea.” Noa glanced over his shoulder, and for a second his mouth tilted in the barest ghost of a smile. “Wasn’t planning on taking it.” The door shut softly behind him.

Ego set the stylus down. His hand drifted to the mug. The ceramic was warm against his palms, grounding in a way he refused to name. He took a sip. It was exactly how he liked it — just enough sugar, no lemon.
For all his precision, Noa never asked for measurements. He just knew.

Chapter Text

DAY 8 — 6:28 a.m.

Bastard München Dorms

The first thing Isagi registered was the weight. Something small was pressing into his mattress — too light to be a teammate, too deliberate to be an accident. The second thing he noticed was the sound: a steady, impatient tapping near his shoulder, like someone trying to wake a stubborn cat. His eyes cracked open to the grey-blue haze of early morning seeping through the blinds. For a moment, he thought maybe Kurona was messing with him again, but Kurona’s pranks didn’t come with the faint scent of grass and warm sunlight, and they definitely weren’t accompanied by two figures standing at his bedside.

It took his sleep-clogged brain a few seconds to focus. The first was short, all restless energy bottled into a lean frame, leaning forward with their hands on their hips like they had every right to be here. A stubborn spike of hair — one ridiculous ahoge — stuck up at the top of their head, refusing gravity’s rule. Their eyes were startlingly bright blue, narrowed at him in a way that reminded him vaguely of… well. Himself, if he was being honest. Only sharper.

Behind them stood a second figure, taller but still clearly a kid. Dark hair, green so deep it caught faint green in the early light, and cut neatly enough to pass for deliberate. Narrow teal eyes scanned the room with unnerving precision, and when they landed back on him, Isagi felt like he was being measured — and maybe not found impressive. Neither of them said anything at first. They just looked at him.

Isagi pushed himself onto his elbows, his mind doing that thing it did in matches when the situation didn’t make sense — gathering details, filing them into patterns. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong people.
They were strangers. He was certain of it. And yet—
“Yo,” he rasped, voice still heavy with sleep. “Who the hell are you?” The smaller one — the ahoge gremlin — tilted their head, not answering immediately. Instead, they stepped forward until they were close enough for Isagi to notice the way their sneakers squeaked faintly against the dorm floor, untied laces flicking with each step. “You’re slow,” they said finally, as if that was some kind of evaluation. Isagi blinked at them. “Excuse me?”

The taller one stayed back, silent, but the corner of their mouth tugged upward like they found something funny. Not a ha-ha laugh, more like they’d been expecting this exact reaction and were pleased to be proven right. Across the dorm, Yukimiya groaned from under his blanket. “What the hell, Isagi? It’s six-thirty.” His voice was muffled by the fabric. “Tell whoever’s bothering you to go bother someone else.”

“They’re kids,” Isagi said automatically, before his brain could catch up and point out that he had no idea why.
Yukimiya made another noise, this one more confused than annoyed, but didn’t emerge from his blanket fortress. Kurona, from the far corner, had one eye open, head tilted just enough to see. Hiori hadn’t moved at all — the man could probably sleep through an earthquake.
Isagi swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing a hand down his face. His instincts prickled — Alpha instincts, the kind that kicked in when something small and possibly vulnerable was standing too close in unfamiliar territory. He didn’t like it.

Not because the feeling itself was wrong, but because it came with an undercurrent that was too familiar for strangers. The ahoge kid leaned forward until they were almost in his space. “We need to talk,” they said, like they were the one in charge here. Isagi narrowed his eyes. “Do we? Because I don’t even know your names. Or why you’re in my dorm. Or how you got past security.” The taller one finally spoke, voice quiet but certain. “Names won’t change anything.”

Something in the tone made the back of Isagi’s neck tense. It wasn’t just the words — it was the way they looked at him as they said it. Like they already knew exactly how this conversation would go. “Try me,” Isagi said, a little sharper now. “What’s going on?” The ahoge kid grinned — not a friendly grin, but one with teeth. “You’ll find out.” They glanced toward the taller one, who gave the faintest nod. And just like that, they both seemed to lose interest in explaining themselves, instead stepping past him to peer at the rest of the dorm.

“Hey!” Isagi stood, following them with long strides. “You can’t just—” The ahoge kid ignored him, poking at the edge of Kurona’s bedframe. “Is this guy always this quiet?” Kurona sat up a little, his hair sticking up in every direction, and gave Isagi a bewildered look. “You know them, them?”

“No,” Isagi said flatly. The taller one’s attention drifted to Hiori, who still hadn’t moved. “He sleeps like Mom,” they murmured, too soft for anyone but Isagi to hear. Isagi froze. His mind caught on the word — not the generic mom but the personal way they’d said it. Like they were talking about someone specific. Someone they knew. Someone he knew.

The ahoge kid noticed his pause and smirked. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Isagi exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice even. “You’ve got five seconds to tell me why you’re here before I—” Before he what? Call security? Drag them out himself? His Alpha instincts balked at both options, because the truth was… he didn’t sense danger from them. Just familiarity. And that was the part that was driving him insane.

Isagi’s brain was already running plays — not on the field, but in the weird mess he’d woken up to. Two kids in their dorm. No signs of forced entry. No panic from them, which meant they weren’t lost or scared. And the kicker? They were acting like he was the one who didn’t belong.

The taller one — teal-eyed, too calm for a kid — had moved closer to the wall, leaning against it with hands in their pockets. The pose was so practiced it almost looked… learned. Not something most kids pulled off naturally. The ahoge menace was still orbiting Kurona’s bed. “Hey,” Isagi called again, trying to inject some authority into his voice. “Step away from my teammate.”
Kurona’s eyes flicked between them, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying he was this close to laughing. “They’re fine, Isagi. Don’t look like they’re gonna stab me, me.”

“They broke into our dorm,” Isagi shot back. The taller one finally spoke again. “If we wanted to hurt anyone, we’d have done it already.” Calm. Flat. Like stating the weather. Yukimiya muttered something in German from under his blanket — probably a prayer, maybe an insult. He rolled over, the covers shifting enough for him to squint at them. “They yours?”

“What? No!” Isagi turned so fast his neck twinged. “Why would they—? No.” The ahoge kid tilted their head, watching him like they were picking apart his reaction. “Touchy,” they said. Isagi dragged a hand down his face. “I’m not touchy. I’m—look, seriously, how did you get in here? Security’s supposed to—”

“Security’s slow,” the smaller one cut in. “Doors aren’t.”
Isagi stopped. “You picked a lock?” They shrugged, unapologetic. Kurona snorted. Yukimiya groaned. Hiori finally stirred, blinking awake, and the first thing out of his mouth was: “Why are there children here?”

“Thank you,” Isagi said, pointing at him like that proved his point. “Exactly! Why are there children here?”

“Ask them,” Hiori mumbled, already sliding out of bed to find his hoodie. “I tried,” Isagi muttered. He looked between the two intruders. “You got names or am I supposed to keep calling you hey and you?” The taller one’s lips quirked again, like they knew something he didn’t. “Names are… complicated.”

“Not really,” Isagi said, patience fraying. “You open your mouth, you say your name, we’re done.” The ahoge menace leaned on Kurona’s desk now, rifling through a stack of notes without permission. “It’s more fun this way.”

Isagi’s voice dropped without him meaning to. “Fun for who?” They grinned, all sharp edges. “Us.” His instincts were screaming something at him now, but it wasn’t danger. It was… wrongness. Not bad wrong, but the kind that made you look twice at a face in a crowd because you swore you’d seen it before. The taller one’s eyes, the way they scanned the room like they were assessing threats; the smaller one’s easy, reckless confidence — it all tugged at something buried.

And then the taller one murmured, almost to themselves, “Dad looks younger than I thought.” Isagi froze. “What did you just—?” But the kid was already looking elsewhere, their expression shuttered. “Okay,” Isagi said, taking a step closer, “you’re gonna explain that right now.” The ahoge menace hopped down from the desk, stepping into his space until they had to tilt their head up to look at him. No fear. “You’ll figure it out.”
Isagi clenched his jaw. “I’m not playing games.” They smirked. “Yes, you are. You just don’t know the rules yet.”

Isagi Yoichi had been through some strange wake-ups in Blue Lock — 5 a.m. drills, Bachira kicking his mattress for a 1-on-1, Rin glaring at him across a breakfast table like they’d been mid-argument in a dream.nBut nothing topped this. Two kids. In the Bastard München dorm.
One leaning against the wall like they were casing the joint, the other crouched on Kurona’s desk with their fingers on his pens.

They weren’t screaming, crying, or looking for an adult.
They were… watching him. Isagi scrubbed a hand over his face. “Alright. You—off the desk. You—stop acting like you own the place.” The desk goblin — small, wiry, hair sticking up in a stubborn ahoge — jumped down but didn’t move away, tilting their head up at him with a grin that was all sharp edges and mischief. The other one stayed where they were, teal-green eyes cool, assessing. Hands in pockets. That posture wasn’t something you saw on eight-year-olds.

Kurona sat on the edge of his bed, biting back a laugh. Yukimiya groaned into his pillow. Hiori looked like he’d walked into the wrong universe. Yukimiya sat up, muttering something that sounded like this is your problem. Hiori was already pulling on a hoodie, staying out of range. The taller one finally spoke, voice low and even. “We needed to see you.”

“See me?” Isagi repeated. “Why? I don’t even know who you are.” The ahoge menace grinned wider, rocking on their heels. “You will.” Something about it— Isagi froze. The grin. The eyes. Blue. His exact blue. Bright and cutting, framed by Rin’s sharp glare. And the hair—black, messy, with that cursed ahoge that no amount of water or gel ever fixed. His stomach dropped. He looked at the other one. Dark green hair. Teal-green eyes with a focus so sharp it felt like a blade. The way they scanned the room, the way their expression barely shifted—Rin.

Pure
Rin.
No.
No way.

“You…” His voice caught. “You’re…” The ahoge kid tilted their head. “What?” Isagi’s heart was pounding. He’d done this before. The cafeteria with Ren. The hallway with Theo and the triplets. That same wrong-but-right feeling, that pull in his gut like his instincts already knew what his brain refused to say out loud. “You’re… bond children.” The words left his mouth before he could stop them. “From the future. You came back.” Kurona blinked. Yukimiya actually sat up straighter. Hiori stared.

The ahoge kid’s grin softened into something warmer. The taller one’s eyes flickered — surprise, then resignation. Isagi took a step closer. “Are you—” he swallowed hard, “—my kids?” Silence. Then the ahoge kid planted their hands on their hips, beaming like they’d just scored the winning goal. “Took you long enough, Dad.” Kurona choked on a laugh. Yukimiya swore under his breath. The taller one straightened from the wall, walking toward him with measured steps. “Aoi Isagi,” they said, jerking a thumb toward the ahoge menace. “Your… problem child, apparently.”

“Aoi” Aoi said proudly, like it was a badge of honor. “Menace. Pick one.”

“And I,” the other said, voice calm but carrying a faint edge, “am Sato Isagi.You’ll figure out the rest.” Isagi just stood there, looking between them, his chest tight and hot all at once. Aoi’s untied sneakers. Grass stains. That unstoppable grin. Sato’s straight posture. Eyes that weighed and measured. That faint Rin-ness in the way they didn’t waste words. It was impossible not to believe them. And it was impossible not to feel something twist in his chest — awe, fear, and a little bit of pride all tangled together. “…Shit,” he muttered. “I really am screwed.” Aoi smirked. “Yep. But you’re also our dad, so—congrats.” Sato just looked at him, cool and quiet. “You’ve got work to do.”

Isagi couldn’t move at first. Not because he didn’t believe them — if anything, the certainty in his gut hit harder than the words. Rin. Rin was his. Not now. Not here. But somewhere ahead. Far enough for these two to exist, to be old enough to glare at him and bicker in the middle of the Bastard dorm. His pulse pounded in his ears. Rin’s face flashed in his mind — the way he frowned when thinking, the micro-smiles he tried to hide, the way his voice went quiet when he wasn’t on the attack. That was his future.

And that made his chest ache in a different way. Because bond-children only came back for one reason. Something went wrong. He swallowed hard. “So… why? Why are you here?” Aoi just flopped onto Kurona’s bed like she owned it. “We told you. You’ll find out.” Sato didn’t sit. He stood there, watching Isagi like he was deciding how much information to give. “It’s not about you yet.” Yet. Isagi’s jaw tightened. His instincts itched — Alpha pull telling him to keep them safe, to figure out what had gone wrong before it touched Rin. Before it touched them.

Because the thought of Rin hurt enough in the present was bad enough. The idea of Rin hurt in the future — his Omega, their bond breaking enough to send their children back — made his stomach knot. Kurona leaned in toward Yukimiya. “Wait, so this means…”

“Yeah,” Yukimiya whispered back. “Rin’s his.” Hiori looked between Isagi and the kids. “I thought everyone already knew?” Isagi shot them all a look that shut them up fast. It didn’t help that Aoi was grinning like she was enjoying this more than anything, or that Sato was still scanning the room like a hawk, probably memorizing exits. “Alright,” Isagi said slowly, forcing his voice steady. “You’re not telling me much now. Fine. But if you’re staying here, you follow the rules. No picking locks. No wrecking the place.”

“Define wreck,” Aoi said instantly. He stared. “No.” She smirked. “Then define fun.” Isagi pinched the bridge of his nose. She’s exactly like me. And Rin. That’s a terrifying combination. Sato finally moved to sit, perching neatly on the edge of Yukimiya’s desk like it was his own. “We’ll behave… if you ask Mom to visit soon.” The word Mom made Isagi’s chest clench. He didn’t have to ask who they meant. Rin. Their mom was Rin. It wasn’t just theory now — not just a maybe or a joke. It was fact, spoken with the unshakable certainty only kids had.

And if they were here because of something that broke between them… then every day until that future was one step closer to whatever caused it. Isagi forced a smile, even though his thoughts were spinning. “Yeah. I’ll talk to him.” Aoi perked up. “Good. ‘Cause we’re not above causing trouble until you do.” He almost laughed — almost. But underneath the banter, a part of him had already shifted into overdrive. Because if these two were his future, then whatever was coming for them, he wasn’t going to let it win.

PxG DORMS - 6:35 a.m.

Rin woke to the wrong kind of warmth. Not the steady heat from the PXG dorm heaters, or the sunlight leaking past the half-shut curtains. This was weight—small, soft, and breathing against him. It didn’t make sense at first. His brain was still half-asleep, drifting in the fuzz between dream and wakefulness. Then a shift — the faint rustle of fabric — and something tightened around his middle. His eyes snapped open.

The first thing he saw was hair. Dark auburn, soft and wavy, lying against his chest like it belonged there. His mind stalled, trying to remember any scenario where this would be normal. Nothing came. His body went rigid. Rin turned his head, slow and careful, because whoever it was— There was another. Smaller. Curled at the very edge of his bed, back pressed to the wall. Wispy navy hair tangled under a pale ribbon, tiny limbs tucked in tight.

His pulse kicked up. This wasn’t his bed alone anymore. And it wasn’t just some random prank. The PXG dorms weren’t exactly open to the public — hell, even team members knocked before barging into someone’s room.
Rin’s voice came out low, rough from sleep. “What the hell—” Nanase’s muffled voice floated over from the opposite bed. “Oh… you’re up. Uh… yeah, they were here when I came back from the bathroom.” Rin’s head jerked toward him. “You what?” Nanase held up both hands, still lying down. “They weren’t… doing anything? They were just sleeping. I didn’t think waking you up was—”

“You didn’t think—” Rin cut himself off when the auburn-haired kid stirred, a soft hum pressed into his shirt. He could feel the small hands clutching the fabric. Everything in him went taut. The boy tilted his head back just enough to blink up at him. Blue eyes — bright, too bright for the dim light — stared back. And Rin’s breath caught. Isagi’s blue. The realization hit like a ball to the chest — sharp, off-balance, and impossible to shove aside.

Before Rin could form a word, the boy’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. Not shy. Not hesitant. Like this was normal. Like waking up against Rin was something he’d done before. And then— “Mama.” Rin’s spine went stiff. His mouth worked before his brain caught up. “Don’t—” His voice cracked, and he had to swallow before he could steady it. “Don’t call me that.”

The kid didn’t look away. Didn’t even seem fazed. Just blinked once, slow, like Rin had said something irrelevant. Movement on the edge of the bed drew Rin’s gaze to the smaller one — the girl. She rolled over, pale blue eyes with a silver sheen catching the light. Her gaze locked onto his, quiet but intent. No words. Just watching him, as if committing every detail to memory.

Rin’s pulse skipped again, and this time he didn’t know if it was wariness or… something else. Something his instincts wanted to call recognition, even though that was impossible. “…Who are you?” he asked finally, tone flat but quieter than usual. The boy answered without hesitation, voice as certain as his stare. “Mama's baby.” The air seemed to thin.

Rin’s mind was a locked room, but the boy’s voice slipped right through the cracks. “Mama's… baby,” the kid said again, like it was a fact Rin should’ve already known. Like saying sun rises or grass is green. His tone wasn’t demanding. It was certain. And that certainty bothered Rin more than if he’d yelled. From the edge of the bed, the girl made a soft babble — nonsense syllables in a lilting rhythm, almost like she was explaining something in her own private language. Her tiny hands were fisting the blanket near her chin, head tilted in quiet observation.

Rin sat up a little, slow, careful not to dislodge the boy still holding onto him. “You’re not making sense,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “You—” The boy shifted suddenly, wiggling up until he was practically nose-to-nose with him. Rin froze. Big, bright blue eyes — Isagi’s blue — were staring at him with complete trust. No fear. No hesitation. The kid grinned, small teeth showing. “Mama’s grumpy.” Rin’s brain blanked for a second. “…Don’t call me that.”

“You are Mama,” the boy said, like this was the dumbest argument in the world. Then, as if clarifying, he pressed one tiny hand against Rin’s chest. “My Mama.” His mouth opened, then closed again. He didn’t know why his throat felt tight. The girl let out a soft coo, like she was chiming in, and Minato twisted toward her. “See, Ami,” he said, his consonants a little wobbly in that way toddlers had. “Told ya Mama wake up soon.” Ami. So the girl had a name.

Rin’s gaze flicked between them, slow and assessing. The girl — Ami — kicked her legs a little under the blanket, the ribbon in her hair slipping sideways. She didn’t speak, but her eyes never left him. “…You broke into my room?” he asked finally, though his voice had lost some of its usual bite. Minato tilted his head, confused. “No. We find you, that's the angel said.” That made his gut tighten. “Find me?”

“Mhm.” The boy nodded like it was obvious. “’Cause you’re lost.” Something in Rin’s chest pulled tight — instinct, warning, and something warmer all tangled together. Rin’s eyes narrowed — not because he didn’t understand, but because he did.

Mama's baby.
Find you.
Lost.

His mind replayed the cafeteria chaos from days ago, the first time those strange kids appeared — Ren with his gremlin grin, Magnus with that icy glare that reminded him too much of Kaiser, the triplets calling Shidou and Sae Okaa-san and Otou-san without blinking. The bond-children. From the future. Here again.

The pieces fell together so fast it made his pulse spike.
He looked at the boy — at the dark auburn hair that didn’t match him or Isagi, except… it did. Sae’s color, Isagi’s eyes. And the girl — Ami — with navy-black hair like his and pale blue eyes like a washed-out version of Isagi’s. Rin felt his jaw tighten. “…You’re from the future,” he said flatly. It wasn’t a question.

Minato’s little face lit up like Rin had given him a gold star. “Mhm! We come back!” The girl squealed softly at that, like she agreed completely. “And let me guess…” Rin’s voice was low, sharp, but his heartbeat was heavy in his ears. “…You’re mine.” Minato grinned again, the kind of unshakable, sunny grin that didn’t belong in Rin’s world — but somehow still hit something deep in him. “Uh-huh! You an’ Papa!”

The words landed like a strike to the chest. Rin went still.
Papa. He didn’t have to ask who that was. Isagi. His stomach knotted. That meant— That meant what he’d been denying, avoiding, shoving aside — it happened. Somehow, in the future, he and Isagi— Rin’s voice came out quieter than he wanted. “Why?” Minato tilted his head, confused. “Why what, Mama?”

“Why are you here?” he asked, and it came out sharper, almost demanding. “What went wrong?” The boy’s smile faltered for the first time, and Ami’s hand reached for her brother’s shirt like she sensed it. Rin didn’t miss that. He didn’t miss anything. Minato blinked at Rin’s sharp tone, then puffed his cheeks out like he was really thinking hard. “Uh…” He tapped his tiny chin with one finger. “We… need… you.” Rin stared at him. “…Need me for what?”

“’Cause,” Minato said simply, nodding once like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s not an answer,” Rin deadpanned. “Yes it is!” Minato insisted, hands on his little hips now. “Mama is Mama. Mama fix it.” Ami, still clinging to her brother’s sleeve, bobbed her head in agreement. “Mammm… fix.” Rin pinched the bridge of his nose, his Omega instincts screaming at him to keep them close even as his logical mind demanded more information. “What exactly am I fixing?”

Minato’s expression turned thoughtful again. Then, very seriously, he said, “The big oops.” Rin froze. “…The what?”

“The BIG oops.” Minato held his arms out as wide as they’d go to show just how big it was. “It’s real big.” Ami added a soft, “Big…” like she was providing backup to her brother’s claim. Rin’s mind was already racing through scenarios — injuries, betrayals, broken bonds — but every time he tried to frame it into something coherent, Minato’s innocent face staring up at him threw the logic off balance. “What big oops?” he asked one more time, voice low. Minato just grinned again, unbothered. “We here now. S’okay. You’ll see.” That last part sent a chill down Rin’s spine — because it wasn’t comforting. It was a promise.

Rin exhaled slowly, forcing the tension out of his shoulders. Ami had started rubbing at her eyes with tiny fists, her soft curls bouncing with each little movement. Without thinking, Rin crouched down and slid an arm under her, lifting her easily against his chest. She settled instantly, head tucking beneath his chin like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her faint baby scent — milk, soft cotton, and something faintly floral — slipped past every mental defense he had.

Minato’s eyes followed the motion, and Rin noticed the way he relaxed too, like Mama’s arms meant safety no matter the timeline. “Alright,” Rin muttered, adjusting Ami’s weight until she was snug against him. “If we’re going to play this game, start with your names.” The boy perked up. “I’m Minato,” he said proudly, puffing his chest out like he’d just scored a winning goal. Then he pointed at his sister. “And that’s Amane. But we call her Ami or Fina or ‘No touch that!’” Rin arched an eyebrow. “…‘No touch that’?”

“She touches everything,” Minato explained solemnly, as if this were a tragic flaw. Ami, oblivious, reached for the zipper on Rin’s jacket and started fiddling with it. Rin’s lips twitched before he could stop them — not quite a smile, but dangerously close. “Minato and Amane,” he repeated under his breath, testing the names like he was trying to figure out where they fit in the puzzle forming in his head. Minato nodded again, certain that had been a satisfactory introduction. “Yep. Now you know.”
Rin did know. And he hated how much it was starting to make sense.

Rin kept his expression flat, but inside… every cell in his body was already vibrating with certainty. His Omega instincts didn’t hesitate — no second-guessing, no weighing probabilities like his rational mind always did. The moment he’d opened his eyes to that ridiculous auburn-haired toddler and the wide-eyed baby in his bed, his scent recognition had fired like a lightning strike. Mine.

Not just in some vague protective way, either. The bond-deep kind. The kind that was impossible to fake.
Minato. Amane. Names that shouldn’t mean anything to him yet… but his body reacted like they’d been carved into his bones. His logical side tried to push back — You’ve never even seen them before. You don’t have kids. This doesn’t make sense. But Omegas weren’t built on sense alone. They were built on instinct, scent, blood, bond. And all of those were screaming these are yours.

The boy had Isagi’s eyes — that sharp blue cut, that way of narrowing them in observation before speaking. And the girl… even in baby form, she had that quiet focus he’d seen in the mirror since he was small. But worse — no, better, if he was honest — was the scent. Softened by their youth, mixed with something distinctly Isagi. Warm. Steady. Infuriatingly comforting. It hit him in the chest, twisting tight. They smelled like home.

Rin shifted Ami slightly, letting her rest her tiny hand over his hoodie. Minato leaned forward just enough that their knees touched, like the physical contact wasn’t negotiable. His Omega didn’t fight it — hell, it welcomed it, soaking in the closeness like he’d been starved for it.
“Minato and Amane,” he said again, quieter this time, almost tasting the names. His voice didn’t give him away, but his body had already decided. They weren’t strangers. They never had been. And that was the most terrifying part.

DAY 8 — 7:20 a.m.

BLUE LOCK CAFETERIA

The cafeteria was already loud before Isagi even got there. Forks and chopsticks clinked, trays slammed, and someone — probably Ren — was making monkey noises from somewhere near the juice machine. Bastard München’s table was half full, PXG’s crew had claimed a corner like they were guarding national treasure, and the Ubers sat like they were filming a mafia movie. Manshine’s trio were mid-banter, and Barcha’s Otoya and Bachira were having an unspoken competition over who could eat the most toast.

And then the doors opened. Isagi walked in with Hiori, Kurona, and Yukimiya at his side… and two kids trailing behind him like he’d just picked them up from soccer detention. One had short, messy black hair with a stubborn ahoge stabbing the air, bright blue eyes locked on the room like she was hunting prey. Sportswear. Grass stains. Untied sneakers. She was practically vibrating.

The other was taller, dark green hair neatly in place, teal-green eyes scanning the tables with surgical precision. Plain clothes, hands in his pockets, already moving like he was disappointed in everyone here. The noise didn’t die down. If anything, it got worse. Barou, halfway through a protein bar at the Ubers table, froze. His crimson eyes narrowed, then widened in genuine alarm. “…Not again,” he muttered, low enough for Aryu to hear but loud enough for half the table to turn and stare.

Barou’s “Not again” was still hanging in the air when the first real explosion went off. From the far side of the room, just past PXG’s claimed territory, Haruna froze mid-step with her tray. She’d been chatting with Hikaru and Reika, but now her teal eyes locked on something across the cafeteria like a sniper spotting her sworn nemesis. It wasn’t subtle.

Sato, still at Isagi’s side, caught the movement instantly. His teal-green eyes narrowed in sharp, calculating dread. He knew that look. The “final boss” wasn’t Sae today. It was Haruna. “You,” Haruna’s voice carried across the cafeteria like she’d swallowed a megaphone.
Sato straightened, deadpan. “Me.”

“You’re here?” she barked, slamming her tray onto the nearest empty table so hard her juice wobbled. Then she stomped toward him like the floor had personally insulted her bloodline. “You’re loud,” he shot back. “Final boss fight, let’s go!” Haruna declared, pointing like she was calling him out in a boss arena. “I’m eating first,” Sato said flatly, unmoving. “Coward!”

“You’re just like Auntie Rin,” she snapped, “always stalling when you know you’ll lose!” That got half the cafeteria to choke on their breakfast. Someone from the Ubers table muttered, “Dude, this is like watching Rin and Sae fight but… tiny.” Sato’s eyes narrowed. “Lose? You cried last time.”

“I tripped!” Haruna snapped back. “Because you cheated!”

“I don’t cheat. You’re just slow.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Yeah-huh!”

“You can’t even climb the tree in Grandma’s yard without getting stuck!”

“That was one time—”

“And you screamed for Mama Rin like a baby!”

Half the room was leaning in now, whispering, placing imaginary bets. Meanwhile, over at the Manshine table, Ren had been halfway out of his seat chanting, “FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!” when a lazy arm looped around his shoulders. Nagi. Without a word, the Alpha hauled Ren sideways until the kid was tucked into his side like a portable heater. Ren froze for a second, then melted into the hold with the kind of boneless relaxation only Nagi could coax out of him.

Reo, smiling like this was the most natural scene in the world, slid a plate closer and started feeding them both without missing a beat. “Open.” Ren obeyed first, Nagi second, and somehow the feeding rhythm worked without either of them noticing they were being synced like toddlers at the breakfast table.

Sato and Haruna were nose-to-nose now, neither backing down. “You’re still short,” Sato said, tone calm as if announcing the weather. Haruna’s eyes widened in outrage. “I’m average! You’re just a green bean with legs!”

“Better than being a squeaky wheel.”

“I’m not squeaky!”

“You’re squeaking right now.”

“AM NOT!” Haruna stomped her foot hard enough to rattle her tray. Isagi stood awkwardly between them, one hand half-raised like he might play referee, the other holding his own breakfast. His head ping-ponged between them as they traded blows — verbal ones, for now — and he had absolutely no idea what the hell he was supposed to do. “Uh… kids—”

“Stay out of it, Dad!” Sato snapped without looking away from his target. That “Dad” had Isagi freezing mid-breath, but before he could even process it, Hikaru’s voice floated in from Haruna’s flank. “Get him, Haru,” Hikaru said, grinning wide and leaning forward like he was narrating a street fight. “He’s all talk.”

“I am not!” Sato barked, shifting half a step like he might charge her. “Oh, you are,” Hikaru sing-songed. “Bet you can’t even outrun her.”

“I could outrun you.”

“Not in those boring clothes, you couldn’t.” Hikaru smirked and threw in a wink at Haruna. “Swing at him. I dare you.” That was all it took. Haruna drew her arm back with all the fire of a seven-year-old who thought physics was a suggestion—and was promptly scooped off her feet like a kitten by a much taller figure. “Otou-san!” she kicked and wriggled, tray abandoned. “Let me at him!”

Sae, still holding her effortlessly under one arm, arched a brow down at her. “You’re noisy in the morning.” Sato’s glare shifted from Haruna to the man holding her. His teal-green eyes narrowed in something colder. “Tio Sae.” The words had weight — not quite venom, not quite warmth. Sae’s gaze lingered on the boy for a beat too long. The green hair, the eyes, the set of his mouth… it was like looking into a smaller, sharper mirror of Rin.
And just for a moment, before the noise of the cafeteria came rushing back in, he remembered.

A time when Rin used to grin up at him, tug on his sleeve to show him something stupid and brilliant all at once. When their fights were quick to spark but quicker to burn out. When “big brother” wasn’t an insult in Rin’s mouth. It was gone in a blink, buried under the habitual detachment, but the resemblance stayed — stubborn, irritating, impossible to ignore.

Sae didn’t put Haruna down. If anything, he adjusted his grip so she couldn’t wriggle free, one arm under her knees and the other braced across her back like she weighed nothing. Sato didn’t look away. “Something you want to say, kid?” Sae’s tone was calm, but there was an undercurrent to it — not quite a challenge, but not an invitation either. “You’re in my way.” Sato’s voice was even. Flat. The same kind of flat that made adults forget they were talking to an eight-year-old. A low hum from Sae, almost amused. “In your way for what?”

“To win,” Sato said simply. Haruna snorted from under Sae’s arm. “Win what? You’re not even—”

“Shut up,” Sato cut in without sparing her a glance, eyes locked on Sae like the rest of the cafeteria didn’t exist. “You know what I mean.” Sae studied him, the way his small shoulders squared and his jaw didn’t tremble. The kid wasn’t bluffing. That much was clear. And that stubborn spark in his eyes — it was almost too familiar.
It made his chest feel… tight. Uncomfortably so.

“You think you can take me?” Sae asked, just enough of an edge in his voice to make nearby players lean in, sensing the shift in tone. “I know I can,” Sato said. “Not now. But someday.” The cafeteria seemed quieter for a second. Even Haruna had stopped squirming. Sae tilted his head, lips curving just faintly — not a smile, exactly. More like he’d just been handed an unexpectedly interesting puzzle. “Someday, huh?”

Sato didn’t blink. “Final boss.” It was the exact kind of thing Rin would’ve said when they were kids. The memory slipped in without permission — Rin, scrawny and furious, pointing at him across the backyard dirt and declaring, “I’ll beat you one day, nii-chan!” with that same certainty. And for a split second, Sae wasn’t looking at Sato. He was looking at Rin, years younger, years softer, years before everything went to hell. He shoved the thought aside. “Then train harder,” he said finally, setting Haruna down without looking at her. “Because right now, you’re not even close.” Sato’s glare didn’t waver. “I will be.”

Sae didn’t wait for a response from Sato. Without another word, he turned on his heel, the rest triplets falling into step behind him. Haruna was still muttering “put me down, put me down” under her breath, but he didn’t oblige until they reached PXG’s table. “Yours,” Sae said simply, handing Haruna over to Shidou like a package delivery. Shidou caught her effortlessly, grinning wide despite the faint flush of heat still clinging to his skin. “Heyyy, my little hellraiser.”

Haruna immediately stopped thrashing. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck in an exaggerated squeeze, but her glare over his shoulder at Sato could have melted steel. Sato stared right back, jaw set. “Oi, oi, don’t laser-eye your cousin while you’re in my arms,” Shidou said, smirking as he tapped her nose with a finger. “Save it for the field, hm?” She huffed, but stayed curled into him.

Across the cafeteria, Isagi exhaled — maybe the war was over for now. At least nobody was throwing trays. He glanced to his side to check on Aoi— Empty space.
He scanned the room, a prickle of dread climbing up his spine. Then he saw her. Already standing in front of the Bastard München table, squared up like she was about to issue a challenge. And directly across from her, Theo had paused mid-bite, eyes narrowing as if sizing up a dangerous animal. “You,” Aoi announced, pointing at him with all the subtlety of a siren. Magnus arched an eyebrow. “You again.”

“You’re still here, Royal Ice Cube,” she said, drawing out each word like it was a personal insult. The entire table went still. Ness blinked, looking between them. “Uh—Royal what now?” Magnus set down his fork with deliberate precision. “You’re still running your mouth, Goal Gremlin.”

“Better than being boring,” Aoi shot back instantly.
Kaiser, halfway through a drink, choked. “Goal Gremlin?” He looked at Isagi like what have you unleashed. Isagi was already moving forward, trying to wedge himself between them. “Aoi, come on—” She sidestepped him without breaking eye contact with Theo. “Scared to lose again?” Theo leaned forward, smile sharp. “In your dreams. Or did you forget who won last time?”

“That wasn’t regulation,” Aoi snapped. “And you cheated.”

“Wasn’t cheating. Was strategy. Not my fault you can’t keep up.” The players nearby exchanged glances like they were watching a miniature, gender-flipped version of the Isagi–Kaiser rivalry playing out in real time.

Magnus' eyes lit up — not with friendliness, but with the smugness of a nine-year-old who smelled blood in the water. “Back up? You came here just to lose again?” Aoi’s sneakers squeaked as she took a step closer, hands on her hips. “Please. I only came to remind you who’s better.”

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Charles muttered from PXG’s table, leaning forward. Theo tilted his head, looking her up and down. “You sound like—” He glanced sideways at Isagi, then smirked. “—him.” Aoi’s grin widened. “Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Kaiser snorted loud enough for Isagi to hear from across the gap. “Who’s this? A clone of you, Isagi?” Isagi shot him a glare. “Shut up. Like I’d ever let a mini-me fight your kid and lose.” Theo’s eyes flicked to Kaiser, then back to Aoi, like a lightbulb went off. “Ohhh right… you’re his kid.”

“And you’re his,” Aoi retorted, jerking her chin toward Kaiser. “Figures you’d both be annoying.” That hit its target. Theo straightened in his chair, voice going cold. “Annoying? Says the one who couldn’t score on me if her life depended on it.”

“I was going easy on you!” Aoi yelled. “Didn’t wanna break your precious little ego.” The entire Bastard München table was now fully invested. Raichi was whispering bets under his breath, Kunigami looked torn between stopping them and letting it play out, and Ness was massaging his temples. “Okay—” Ness cut in, stepping between them with both hands raised. “We’re not doing this in the cafeteria.”

“They started it,” Magnus and Aoi said at the same time, pointing at each other. Kaiser smirked from his seat. “Huh. Guess the talent for excuses runs in the family.” That was the spark Isagi needed to snap. “Oh, you wanna talk about hereditary? Your kid’s just as bad as you.”

Kaiser’s grin sharpened. “Bad? Please. He’s competitive. At least he’s not losing every argument like someone I know.” By now, Ness was physically holding Theo back with one arm while trying to block Aoi with the other, looking like he was regretting every life choice that led to this moment. “You’re both as bad as the kids,” he muttered. From a few seats down, Kiyora didn’t even look up from his food. “It’s hereditary.” That earned him a chorus of groans from Ness, Isagi, and Kaiser — though Aoi and Theo just doubled down, talking over each other at increasing volume:

“I’m faster than you—”

“I’m smarter than you—”

“You wish you could beat me—”

“You’ve never scored without luck—”

“You see this?” Isagi jabbed a thumb at Aoi. “I’m not letting some Kaiser clone take her down—”

“Clone?” Kaiser scoffed. “You should be thanking me for giving your kid a challenge.” Theo, still straining against Ness’s grip, shouted, “I don’t need help beating her!” Aoi stomped her foot hard enough to make her ahoge bounce. “You’ll never beat me, Royal Ice Cube!”

Ness’s smile was dazzling. That should’ve been the first warning. “All right,” he said in a sing-song tone that made both Theo and Aoi freeze mid-retort. “Here’s what’s going to happen—” He crouched down between them, still smiling like he was about to serve them dessert instead of verbal discipline. “You’re going to sit. You’re going to eat. And you’re going to keep your little mouths shut until you’ve swallowed every bite.”

Theo opened his mouth. Ness’s eyes snapped to him, still smiling, but the smile had teeth. “Not. A. Word.” Even Aoi, who had been gearing up for round two, shut her mouth with an audible click. From across the table, Kaiser was leaning back in his chair, enjoying every second of this like it was a premium theater performance. “Wow. You’re terrifying when you’re mad, Ness.” Ness’s head turned slowly toward him. Still smiling. “Oh, you think you’re not in trouble?” Kaiser’s grin faltered just a touch. “I didn’t even—”

“You encouraged it,” Ness cut in, voice sweet as sugar. “You loved every second. Don’t think I didn’t see that smug little face of yours.” Isagi, sensing an opportunity, snorted. “Finally, someone calls him out—” Ness’s gaze slid to him without missing a beat. “And you. Letting your kid talk like that, jumping in to make it worse, then picking a fight with him—” He jabbed a finger toward Kaiser without looking away from Isagi. “You’re both pathetic.”

The whole cafeteria went silent. Even Raichi had stopped muttering bets under his breath. “You’re going to sit here,” Ness continued, voice now the kind of calm that promised devastation if disobeyed, “and set an example. Which means no arguing, no passive-aggressive comments, and no making faces at each other when you think I’m not looking.”

Theo risked a glance at Kaiser. Aoi risked a glance at Isagi. Both men looked… weirdly like schoolboys being scolded by a teacher. Kaiser leaned toward Isagi, muttering out of the corner of his mouth, “Is it bad I’m kinda impressed?” Isagi muttered back, “Shut up before he kills us.”

It was almost peaceful. Almost. Ness had corralled Aoi and Theo into side-by-side seats — a diplomatic disaster waiting to happen — with Kaiser and Isagi across from them like some failed attempt at parental supervision. Ness himself sat at the head of the table like a king keeping watch over his unruly court. That was when a shadow fell over the table.

Sato slid into the empty spot beside Aoi without a word. No greeting. No explanation. Just… sat down, arms crossed, sharp teal-green eyes fixed directly on Theo like he was lining up a sniper shot. Theo, mid-bite, froze. “…What?” Sato didn’t answer. Just kept glaring, the air between them dropping a few degrees. Isagi blinked. “Uh, you okay, Sato?”

“He’s fine,” Aoi said, not looking up from stabbing her food. “That’s just his face.”

“Your face is rude,” Theo shot back. “You’re breathing,” Sato replied evenly. “That’s rude.” Kaiser choked on his water. “Oh, I like this one.” Ness’s chair scraped back. “Sato,” he said with that same deceptively light tone, “I know you just got here, but the same rules apply to you. Sit. Eat. No picking fights.”

“I wasn’t picking—” Ness’s eyes narrowed just enough to make Sato’s mouth snap shut. Across the table, Isagi was trying very, very hard not to laugh. “Man, you’re scary.”

“Not scary,” Ness said, sitting back down with perfect posture. “Just tired of everyone here acting like they’re in kindergarten.”

“Uh,” Hiori piped up from a nearby table, “to be fair, half of them are in—”

“Don’t help,” Ness cut in, still smiling. Sato slowly picked up his chopsticks, picking a piece of food like it had personally wronged him. Theo mirrored the motion, the two of them locked in silent, furious imitation. Kaiser leaned his chin on his hand, smirking at the symmetry. “This is incredible. They’re like tiny, angrier versions of us.” Isagi shot him a glare. “Shut it before Ness yells at you again.” From the way Ness’s eyebrow twitched, they were already one snide comment away from round three.

From across the cafeteria, PXG’s table was already buzzing like a nest of hornets. Charles, leaning halfway across the table to Karasu, whispered loudly enough for half the room to hear, “So… those two?” He tilted his chin toward Aoi and Sato. “They look like they popped straight outta Rin and Isagi’s gene pool.” Karasu smirked. “Didn’t the triplets say yesterday they have five kids in the future?” Zantetsu, halfway through a mouthful of bread, nodded. “Yeah. They said it like it was a weather report. Completely normal.”

Tokimitsu looked pale. “W-Wait… is this like… time travel again? Because I-I’m not sure I can handle more surprise kids…” Nanase, ever the peacemaker, tried, “Maybe they’re just… cousins?” Charles laughed. “Sure. Cousins who look like carbon copies of Rin and Isagi.”

Meanwhile, at the Bastard München table, the tension was… weird. Theo was doing his best to eat like nothing was wrong, but every so often his eyes flicked to Sato — who was still watching him like a hawk. It wasn’t active hostility so much as the quiet, simmering kind that says if my sister hates you, I hate you too. Kaiser, amused beyond measure, leaned toward Isagi. “They’ve got the sibling bond thing down already.” Isagi didn’t rise to the bait this time — which only made Kaiser smirk wider. “What’s the matter? Realizing your daughter already declared war on my kid?”

“Your kid started it,” Isagi shot back, low. “It’s really hereditary.” Kiyora’s voice was flat from two seats down, eyes on his tray like he wanted no part of this but couldn’t resist the jab. Aoi, oblivious to the adults’ verbal sniping, was busy poking at Theo with her fork like she was testing the structural integrity of his patience. “Royal Ice Cube,” she muttered. Theo’s jaw tightened. “Annoying Goal Goblin.”

“Better than boring,” she sing-songed back. Kaiser chuckled under his breath. Ness didn’t even look up from his food — his tone perfectly calm as he said, “If one more person at this table calls someone a name, all four of you are on clean-up duty after lunch.” That got the kids to look away from each other… but Sato’s fork still stabbed his food with unnecessary force, and Aoi’s sneakers kept bouncing restlessly under the table.

From PXG’s side, Shidou leaned toward Sae, a slow grin curling his mouth. “Oi, Sae-chan. Y’think Rin’s gonna have a meltdown when he walks in and sees that?” Sae didn’t answer. He was watching Sato too closely, eyes narrowing at the resemblance. The sharp teal-green glare, the posture, the unflinching way he stared back — it was like looking at Rin at eight years old. For a moment, Sae’s lips twitched, not in amusement, but in something heavier. Old memories.

The cafeteria door opened again. It wasn’t unusual for someone to walk in this late into breakfast, but what was unusual was the sight that came with it — Rin Itoshi, looking like he had just fought off an entire morning’s worth of irritation, one arm balancing a sleepy toddler against his chest and the other trying to keep hold of the small boy clutching his sweatpants with both fists.

The boy — maybe three — had soft, wavy dark-auburn hair that looked far too much like Sae’s for coincidence, his small face scrunching every time someone got too close. He was in a cozy sweater, shorts, and… slippers.
The toddler in Rin’s arm — a tiny girl with wispy dark hair and pale blue eyes — was chewing on the ribbon in her hair like it was the most important task of the morning.
It was the kind of entrance that made everyone pause just enough to notice.

Isagi’s head turned at the sound of the door, and before he could even process Rin being there, the little auburn-haired boy spotted him. “Papa!” Minato let go of Rin’s pants and made a beeline across the cafeteria, his slippers squeaking against the floor as he ran straight for Isagi like he’d been looking for him all morning.

If anyone had blinked, they would have missed the way Aoi and Sato instantly brightened — like they’d been switched from “mild annoyance” to “full sunlight” in half a second. Aoi was the first to move, shooting up from her chair with so much energy she nearly knocked her tray over. Sato followed at a calmer pace, but his eyes never left Rin — sharp, assessing, and just a little too familiar in their focus.

They didn’t even seem to notice the stares from the rest of the room as they crossed the gap to meet Rin halfway.
“Mom!” Aoi called, her voice carrying, unapologetically happy. Rin froze for half a heartbeat, his Omega instincts snapping tight under his skin.

Aoi didn’t slow down. She launched herself forward, sneakers squeaking, and wrapped both arms around Rin’s free side with a grip that could rival a tackle. “You’re here!” she blurted, like this was the best thing that had happened to her in years. “You’re really here!”
Rin staggered a half step, startled, but his arm instinctively tightened around Amane so she wouldn’t jostle. His Omega instincts — the ones he had spent years locking behind walls — hummed sharply under his skin.

There it was. That deep, bone-deep click that didn’t need logic to explain it. The certainty that no matter how insane the situation was, this girl pressed into his side was his. He didn’t have to see her face to know it. He could feel it — the way her scent tangled faintly with his own, the familiar pulse in her Alpha energy. Sato came to a stop just beside them, slower, deliberate, his teal-green eyes sweeping Rin’s face. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. That steady, evaluating gaze was almost a mirror image of Rin’s own when he was trying to read a match.

The boy didn’t reach for him, but he stayed close enough that Rin could’ve put a hand on his shoulder without moving more than an inch. And Rin’s instincts screamed the same thing they had for the girl: mine. It took effort — real, concentrated effort — to keep his face neutral. “What—” Rin started, but his voice snagged.

Aoi leaned back just enough to beam up at him, her bright blue eyes blazing with Isagi’s exact color, Rin’s sharp glare softened by excitement. “I missed you, Mom!” There was a thunk somewhere behind them, probably from someone dropping their tray. Rin’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “…Mom?”

Sato finally spoke, voice flat as if this were the most obvious fact in the world. “That’s what you are.”.Around them, the cafeteria buzz shifted into an outright murmur. The PXG table was openly staring now, Charles whispering something to Karasu that made the latter choke on his drink. Manshine’s side was watching with barely concealed smirks, while at the Bastard table, Kaiser was giving Isagi a look like he’d just been handed a plot twist in real life. From somewhere near the back, Kunigami muttered, “Wait. Didn’t the triplets say yesterday Rin and Isagi had five kids?”

“Yeah,” Raichi confirmed, eyes glued to the scene. “Guess we just met two more.”

The murmuring in the cafeteria was getting louder by the second. It was the kind of background noise that carried too many versions of the same question, bouncing between tables like gossip on fast-forward.
“Wait—” Gagamaru’s voice cut through just enough for half the room to catch. “If Rin and Isagi have five kids in the future…”

“That’s four,” Raichi counted aloud, pointing like he was doing forensic math. “Ahoge girl, green-haired kid, tiny Sae clone, baby with the bow. Where’s the last one?”

“Maybe they left them in the future,” Zantetsu suggested, sounding completely serious. “They’re time travelers, not a pizza order, you idiot,” Karasu groaned. Rin didn’t need to hear the rest to know exactly where this was going. Nothing stayed secret in Blue Lock for longer than it took Shidou to open his mouth in a press interview. The moment the triplets had blurted out yesterday that he and Isagi had five children in the future, Rin had already known this scene was inevitable.

He wasn’t surprised. Just… irritated that it was happening before he’d had coffee. Still holding Amane against his chest, Rin glanced between the two unfamiliar faces — ahoge girl still clinging to his side with an unshakable grin, and the green-haired boy watching him like he was memorizing every word and movement for later use. Minato was still clutching the waistband of Rin’s sweats, looking around like he’d stumbled into a zoo exhibit, which… fair.

Rin exhaled through his nose, sharp. “Since everyone’s already talking—” his voice was flat enough to slice through the chatter “—you might as well introduce yourselves.” Both new kids blinked at him. Aoi recovered first, rocking back on her heels like she was about to start a soccer match. “Okay!” She turned to face the cafeteria, completely unfazed by the way at least fifty sets of eyes zeroed in on her. “I’m Aoi! I’m ten, I’m an Alpha, I’m Mom and Dad’s second-born, and I’m faster than everyone in this room.” A couple of Bastard players snorted. Kunigami muttered, “She’s definitely Isagi’s.”

“Second-born?” Ness echoed quietly, already glancing at Theo, who was glaring daggers at her from across the table. Sato stepped forward next, his delivery the exact opposite of Aoi’s. “Sato,” he said plainly, teal-green eyes sweeping the room once like he was logging enemy positions. “Eight. Beta. Third-born.” His gaze landed briefly on Sae, and the air between them crackled for half a second before he moved on. “I like strategy. I don’t like broccoli. Or losing.”

“Mini Rin,” Raichi whispered, which earned him a sharp kick under the table from Kurona. Minato tugged at Rin’s pants until Rin crouched slightly so he could speak at a more equal height. The toddler’s voice was small but certain. “Minato,” he announced, clutching the hem of Rin’s hoodie with one hand. “Three. Omega. Fourth-born. I don’t like green stuff.”

“Another broccoli hater,” Bachira grinned. Then Amane, sensing the attention shift to her, made a happy little babble noise that was almost a sentence, then beamed at the room with all the authority a one-year-old could muster. “That’s Amane,” Minato supplied helpfully, patting her leg like a proud handler. “She’s one. Beta. Fifth-born. She likes music.”

A hum rippled through the room — the kind that meant the information had been absorbed, processed, and was now fueling twenty different theories. From the Ubers table, Barou muttered just loud enough to carry: “Not again.” Aryu laughed under his breath and adjusted his scarf. Charles leaned toward Karasu, still eyeing Aoi like she was a particularly shiny trophy. “You see that? That’s definitely Mama Ryu’s rival in chaos.”

“I’m more concerned that mini Isagi and mini Rin exist at the same time,” Karasu said dryly. “That’s a structural hazard.” Isagi, for his part, was standing near the Bastard table with his arms crossed, watching the scene with a mixture of disbelief and something tighter in his chest. He’d already recognized them the moment Rin walked in. The resemblance wasn’t subtle — Aoi had his eyes, his ahoge, his sheer refusal to tone it down for anyone. Sato… Sato was Rin’s expression copied and pasted onto a smaller face.

He couldn’t help the thought that crept in, uninvited but solid: They’re ours. And just as fast, the next thought: What the hell went wrong that they had to come back here? But he didn’t say it. Not now. At the PXG table, Shidou was making exaggerated “awww” noises at Haruna, who was still glaring over his shoulder at Sato like she was plotting his demise. Sae sat beside them, his expression unreadable, but Rin caught the way his eyes had lingered on Sato for a fraction too long — just enough to betray the flicker of recognition in their dynamic.

Theo, meanwhile, had slouched further down in his seat next to Ness, clearly deciding that the sudden reveal of two more future kids had nothing to do with him… except for the way Aoi’s gaze had already swung back to him like a heat-seeking missile. Rin could feel the tension crackling between all these small, stubborn forces. The cafeteria wasn’t just buzzing now — it was waiting.

The introductions were barely over before the room’s volume spiked again — not in shouts, but in overlapping streams of commentary. It was the sound of every table re-arranging its internal rankings for “wildest thing to happen this week.” “Five kids, kids,” Kurona muttered like he was still doing the math in his head. “Four here,” Yukimiya corrected, already frowning thoughtfully. “One missing.”

“Bet it’s a secret weapon,” Gagamaru said, deadpan.
Across the room, the PXG side was buzzing just as much. Charles was poking Zantetsu in the shoulder. “Mini Yoichi over there looks like she’s about to throw hands with Theo again. Should we stop it?”

“Nah,” Zantetsu replied. “It’s like… tradition now.” Isagi didn’t hear most of it. His attention was fixed entirely on the way Rin adjusted Amane in his arms so she could see better, murmuring something under his breath that made the baby giggle. Minato was still holding onto his leg like it was an anchor, leaning just close enough that their heads almost touched.

Aoi was hovering to Rin’s left, vibrating with energy but not interrupting. Sato stood to his right, posture straight, teal-green eyes scanning like he was Rin’s self-appointed bodyguard. It was ridiculous how natural they looked around him. Like they’d done this a thousand times. Like this was just… their normal. Isagi felt it hit — sharp at first, then warm, settling in his chest. The kind of warmth that made him want to grab onto this image and never let it go. Rin surrounded by their children. Rin not alone. Rin with a family that was half him, half Isagi, and entirely theirs.

The pull was so strong it almost drowned out the background noise of laughter, clattering trays, and half-whispered bets on which kid would start the next fight.
Almost. Because Aoi had just elbowed Sato. And Sato had just muttered something that made her smirk like she’d won a point. It wasn’t lost on Rin either. He shifted Amane’s weight to one arm so he could ruffle Minato’s hair with his free hand, his gaze flicking between Aoi and Sato. He didn’t know these two yet — not the way he knew Minato’s sleepy mumbling or Amane’s snack-stealing habits — but his Omega instincts didn’t care.
They were his.

The little tells were all there — the faintest edge of his own gait in Sato’s stance, the sharp focus in Aoi’s eyes when she zeroed in on a target. The stubborn set of their shoulders. The way both of them softened, just slightly, when his attention landed on them. Yeah. He knew. And he also knew — from the rising hum of voices around them — that if he didn’t get ahead of this, they’d be fielding questions for hours.

“Alright,” Rin said, voice cutting clean through the cafeteria’s chatter. “You’ve met them. You know their names. Yes, they’re from the future. No, I’m not answering anything else right now.” It earned a ripple of groans and disappointed sighs, but it also shut down the most aggressive speculators. For now.

Isagi was still watching him — not just because Rin had taken control of the room without even raising his voice, but because he couldn’t stop replaying that mental snapshot: Rin, Amane on his hip, Minato clutching his side, Aoi and Sato flanking him like a guard detail. It made something deep in him settle. And something else spark.

The introductions were done, Rin’s short announcement had killed most of the direct questions… but Blue Lock was never quiet for long. Especially not with four kids from the future parked in the middle of the cafeteria like walking puzzle pieces. It started with a murmur from the Bastard table, just loud enough to carry.

“They don’t seem to have a problem with either of them, them,” Kurona said, nodding at where Aoi had stepped closer to Rin and was animatedly telling Minato something that made the toddler giggle. “Yeah,” Yukimiya added, narrowing his eyes. “Actually… they’re—”

“—the picture-perfect happy family,” Hiori finished for him, tone halfway between wonder and suspicion.
That thought spread like wildfire. Across the cafeteria, you could see heads turning, lips moving in hushed repetitions of the same line. And then Theo — still sitting stiffly beside Ness, fork clinking against his plate — broke the rhythm. “They were.”

The word was quiet, but it carried. Everyone within earshot went still for a beat, because there was something in his voice — envy, sharp and unpolished, like he’d been holding it in too long. He didn’t look at Kaiser when he said it. Didn’t look at Isagi either. Just kept his eyes on his food. But the silence that followed was loaded. “What do you mean ‘were’?” Charles asked from PXG’s table, brows knitting.

That’s when the triplets piped up, all talking over each other like they’d been waiting for this moment.
“They were happy—” Hikaru started. “—really happy,” Reika supplied, leaning forward like she was spilling a secret. “Until the bond broke,” Haruna finished with a shrug, tone matter-of-fact. Now it wasn’t just quiet — it was frozen. Every set of eyes that wasn’t already on Rin or Isagi was now staring at them like the answer might just fall out of their mouths. Isagi’s heart gave a sharp, uneven thump. Rin’s grip on Amane didn’t change, but his eyes flicked to Isagi — quick, assessing, and impossible to read.

The hum of whispered speculation around Rin and Isagi’s kids was still thick in the air — the kind of murmuring that carried across tables, little gasps and “what do you think happened?” traveling like static.
And then the cafeteria doors swung open again. Two new figures stepped inside — and it was like the whole room’s attention shifted in a single heartbeat. The first was impossible to miss.

Long, glossy black hair flowed down their back like a waterfall, catching the light with every deliberate step. Their eyes were sharp garnet-red, the kind that didn’t just look at you — they assessed, judged, and filed you away like a curiosity. Their outfit was immaculate: crisp lines, fabrics that draped just right, and accessories chosen with precision. But there was one detail deliberately out of place — a single, bright teal sneaker peeking out beneath otherwise perfectly pressed trousers. It was the kind of calculated imperfection that screamed: I want you to notice me, and I want you to wonder why.

They didn’t glance around the cafeteria. Didn’t hesitate at the doorway. Instead, they walked with a runway-level poise, chin high, pace unhurried but unyielding — like the crowd was expected to part for them. Their destination was clear from the moment they stepped in: the Ubers table. Specifically — Aryu and Barou. They stopped in front of them with theatrical precision, tilting their head ever so slightly before speaking.

“Madam,” they said smoothly, eyes on Aryu. Then, pivoting toward Barou, their tone shifted — not softer, but somehow sharper. “Boss.” Barou’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. His crimson eyes narrowed in instant suspicion. “The hell—”

“Sorry I'm late,” the stranger cut in, smirking like they’d just stolen his next line. Aryu blinked, one perfect brow arching. “And you are…?” The smirk deepened, rich with knowing amusement. “The best-dressed surprise of your week.” The Ubers table erupted into hushed murmurs, and across the room, heads turned like dominos falling. PXG’s players were openly watching now, and even Bastard München’s conversation had stilled. But before the ripples from that scene could settle, the second newcomer stepped forward.

He was quieter — so quiet, he almost slipped in behind the first one unnoticed. Lean frame, casual neutral-toned clothes that made him blend into the background, but there was a calculated sharpness in his movements — like a fox that could vanish into shadows at will. Deep green hair fell in layered strands that framed his face, and his eyes — sharp, foxlike blue — were locked in a slow, scanning sweep of the room. They were the kind of eyes that missed nothing, taking in the layout, the people, the exits. And then they landed on Rin.

For a moment, his careful mask slipped. His stride broke. The calculated pace turned into a quick, almost stumbling urgency as he cut across the room — ignoring the stares, ignoring Isagi’s startled step toward him — and came to a sudden stop right in front of Rin’s table. The way he looked at Rin was… unguarded. Like someone who had been waiting years for this moment, afraid it might dissolve if he blinked. And then, in a voice rough with a mix of relief and disbelief, he spoke. “…Mom.”

The word sliced through the cafeteria noise like a whistle blast. PXG’s table froze mid-bite. The triplets’ chatter cut off entirely. Kaiser’s smirk faltered. Rin’s brows furrowed instantly, his Omega instincts spiking sharp and protective. Amane shifted in his arm as if sensing it, while Rin’s grip on her tightened. He didn’t recognize the boy — and yet his gut twisted with the strange, electric certainty that this wasn’t random. The teenager didn’t explain himself. Didn’t even seem to notice the stunned silence around them. His eyes stayed locked on Rin, as if daring the world to interrupt.

Aryu was the first to recover from the initial freeze, tilting his head just enough for his glossy hair to cascade over one shoulder. “Well, you certainly dress like you belong to me,” he said lightly, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. “But usually I have a say in who claims that privilege.” The stranger smiled like they’d been waiting for that exact line. “Oh, Madam, you had a say. You just didn’t know you used it yet.”

Barou’s jaw flexed. “Oi. Don’t flirt with him like that in front of me.” That earned him a look — slow, deliberate, and dripping with the same crimson intensity as his own glare. “Relax, Boss. You’ll find out soon enough why I’m here. Until then…” The stranger’s eyes flicked down at Barou’s plate, then back up with a smirk. “…you might want to work on your presentation. Madam’s letting you get away with a very unfortunate lack of garnish.” Barou slammed his fork down, half-standing. “You wanna get launched across the room?”

“Tempting offer,” the stranger murmured, clearly enjoying themselves, “but not before we’ve had a proper reunion.” Aryu’s manicured fingers tapped the table once, a signal Barou ignored. “You do have my cheekbones,” Aryu mused aloud, leaning back to study them. “And my sense of flair. Though the shoes—” his eyes flicked down at the mismatched sneakers “—are not mine.”

“They’re his,” the stranger said, jerking their chin at Barou. Barou’s glare deepened. “I’d never wear—”

“They’re attitude,” the stranger interrupted, “not fabric.”
Aryu covered his mouth with one perfectly shaped hand, but the sparkle in his eyes gave away his amusement. “King, they do sound like you.” Barou growled. “I don’t sound like that.” The stranger only smiled wider, crimson eyes glinting in open challenge. “Keep telling yourself that.”

By now, the surrounding tables were leaning in to watch like it was premium entertainment — PXG’s table was openly whispering, Bastard München’s players were craning their necks, and even Chigiri had abandoned his food in favor of staring. And still, the stranger stood there, utterly unbothered by the stares, waiting for Barou or Aryu to make the next move.

Barou’s “You wanna get launched?” was still hanging in the air when the stranger suddenly straightened, placing one hand on their hip and the other against their chest like a theater performer about to deliver a monologue.
“I suppose,” they said, voice carrying just enough to catch the attention of the entire cafeteria, “it’s time to end the suspense.”

Aryu arched a brow. “By all means, darling.” The stranger’s crimson gaze swept dramatically across the room before locking on both of them again. “I am your bond child.” The words dropped like a grenade in the middle of lunch. Conversations died mid-sentence. Chopsticks hovered halfway to mouths. Even Shidou paused mid-bite. Aryu blinked once. “My what?” Barou’s brows drew down so hard it was a miracle his forehead didn’t crack. “The hell did you just say?”

“Your bond child, Kai Barou,” the Kai repeated, enunciating like they were speaking to children. “Born of you—” a graceful nod toward Aryu “—and you—” a finger flicked toward Barou “—though honestly, the aesthetic influences are wildly unbalanced.” Aryu’s lips curved in intrigue. Barou looked like he’d just been told to babysit an entire kindergarten.

Kai wasn’t done. They straightened further, chin tilting just enough to let the cafeteria lights catch the red in their eyes. “My parents are Aryu Jyubei and Barou Shouei. Don’t worry, I’m not here because your bond is broken in the future—” their gaze flicked between the two like they were reading a private joke “—I just came here for fun… and to be moral support for my best friend over there.”

They extended one perfectly manicured finger across the room toward a second newcomer. The room followed the gesture — and found a boy standing just inside the doorway, shoulders tight, eyes fixed on Rin with an intensity that made it impossible to look anywhere else. If the first stranger had arrived like a stage actor demanding attention, this one looked like he’d walked straight out of someone’s unspoken memory.

Dark green hair — Rin’s shade, but a little messier — framed a face that was all quiet calculation, and his fox-sharp blue eyes shimmered dangerously in the light. His fists were tight at his sides, jaw clenched like holding back words… or tears. And Rin, still holding Amane on his hip with Minato clinging to his pants, froze mid-step. The boy’s lips pressed together — then curved upward just slightly, not in amusement, but in relief so raw it almost hurt to look at. The tension in the room spiked instantly.

From somewhere near the Manshine table, Chigiri’s voice cut through the buzz. “The fifth,” he said slowly, eyes flicking from Aoi and Sato to Minato and Amane, then to the teal-haired boy still rooted in place. “And probably the eldest.” It was like he’d dropped a match into dry grass — the whispering ignited instantly. “That makes five…”

“So the triplets weren’t exaggerating—”

“Holy crap, that’s Rin’s face—”

Isagi’s mouth went dry. Rin’s entire body had gone still beside him, and Aoi and Sato were already halfway leaning out of their places like they were ready to sprint over. But the boy — the one Kai had pointed out — didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed locked on Rin, a war going on behind them. Then, slowly, he stepped forward. One, two, three measured paces that cut the chatter around him like a blade.

When he stopped, he didn’t look at Isagi. Didn’t even glance at the other kids. His gaze stayed on Rin, steady enough to make the Omega’s grip on Amane shift. “My name,” the boy said at last, voice low but carrying across the tables, “is Itsuki Isagi. I’m your bond child.” The words landed heavy — no stammer, no hesitation. Just fact. “I’m thirteen. Alpha,” he added, as if ticking items off a list. “Eldest of five. My Mom—” his eyes softened, barely — “is you.” His gaze cut sideways, just briefly, to Isagi. “My Dad is him.” The cafeteria collectively inhaled.

“And before anyone asks—” his tone sharpened, the faintest curl of a smirk ghosting over his mouth — “yes, I’m from the future. No, I’m not here to explain why. And yes… I know exactly what’s going on here.” It was like watching Rin’s glare transplanted into a younger face, wearing Isagi’s calm edge like it was second nature. Minato made a tiny, delighted sound from Rin’s side — “’Tsuki!” — but Itsuki didn’t break eye contact with his mother. Across the room, Ness leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper. “Definitely the eldest.”

Rin didn’t need the name. Didn’t need the Alpha declaration, the birth order, or even the pointed way the boy said Mom. The moment his eyes landed on that face — sharp blue, the set of the jaw, the precise control in his posture — something in Rin’s chest went click. Omega instinct was merciless like that. He’d woken up this morning expecting the usual battle for peace in PXG’s dorms, not to be standing in a cafeteria holding his youngest daughter while the eldest he’d never met stared at him like they’d known each other all their lives.

Amane shifted against his shoulder, her tiny fingers curling into his shirt. She wasn’t looking at him anymore — she was looking at the boy. Itsuki. Watching him the same way Rin was. Minato, who had been tugging on the hem of Rin’s pants a moment ago, let go and took a few quick steps forward. His slippers made soft scuffing sounds against the tile. “’Tsuki!” he called again, brighter this time. Like there was no doubt in his little voice that this was family.

The boy’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second. Not enough for anyone else to catch it, but Rin saw. Felt it. The quiet, instinctive recognition between siblings that went deeper than words. The sound in the cafeteria was shifting — PXG’s table buzzing with questions, Bastard München’s players leaning forward like they were watching the opening moves of a match. “Rin,” Isagi’s voice was low beside him, almost wary. “He’s really—”

“Yes,” Rin cut in before he could finish, not looking away from Itsuki. “You’re sure?”

“I don’t need to be sure,” Rin said flatly. “I know.” It wasn’t just knowing — it was the bond-thread that wasn’t supposed to exist yet, tugging faint and unfamiliar between them. Not as strong as what he’d have with a bonded child in his own time, but enough for every cell in his body to recognize him as mine.

Itsuki didn’t move closer. He didn’t need to. That quiet Alpha confidence — Rin’s confidence, tempered by Isagi’s calm — filled the space between them. From the PXG table, Charles muttered under his breath, “The triplets weren’t lying. Five kids. What the hell.” Karasu leaned back, eyes flicking from Itsuki to Rin to Isagi. “And none of them seem scared of either parent. That’s… not what I expected.”

Theo, sitting stiffly between Ness and Kaiser, spoke without looking away from the scene. “They’re not. They were—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “They were… the picture perfect happy family.” That got heads turning. Even Kaiser glanced at Theo then, brow furrowed. “You say that like it’s past tense,” Ness said softly, and Theo didn’t answer. The triplets, never ones to let a statement hang, leaned in from their seats at the PXG table. Haruna grinned like a shark. “It is past tense.”
Reika tilted her head. “Something went wrong.” Hikaru just hummed, eyes on Rin. “And that’s why they’re here. Why were all here."

It was like the air itself tightened around them, the ripple of curiosity spreading faster than Rin could shut it down. Aoi and Sato didn’t even hesitate. They were already halfway to him, bright-eyed and bristling with energy. Minato was bouncing on his toes, and Amane was still watching Itsuki like he was the most fascinating thing in the room. And Rin… Rin braced himself, because if this was only the start, the real storm hadn’t even arrived yet.

The cafeteria had been loud before — the usual crash of trays, the thud of boots on tile, players swapping insults across tables. Now, the noise had dimmed to a simmering murmur, the way a crowd goes still before a penalty kick. Itsuki stood there like he’d been planning this moment, even though Rin could see the faint tightening at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t dart his gaze around like the younger kids. He looked at Rin and Isagi directly, and when he spoke, his voice carried in a way that made the whole room lean closer without realizing it.

“You’re all wondering,” he began, tone even but not cold. “So I’ll tell you. We weren’t always… like this. We weren’t kids from different places, turning up in your time like we’re on some mission. We were a family.” No one dared interrupt. “Uncle Reo told us once,” Itsuki went on, “that Dad had to court Mom for two years. He said it like it was the most dramatic thing in the world — like every game was secretly part of some romance arc. ‘It was about time they got together,’ that’s what he said.”
Ren, from the Manshine table, grinned and gave a theatrical thumbs-up.

“And when they finally did, they didn’t waste time. Got married. Then…” Itsuki’s voice shifted, a faint glint of amusement under it. “Dad got Mom pregnant immediately.” A ripple of laughter went through the room. Even Kaiser smirked, earning an elbow from Ness. “Uncle Reo also told us,” Itsuki continued, “that when Mom announced he was pregnant with me, Dad said ‘GOALLL!’ — loud enough to scare the neighbors. But when it sank in, he fainted.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Mom just left him there on the floor until he woke up. And when he did, he smiled at Mom.” That drew a laugh from Aoi, who piped up from her seat, “Bet you fell straight on your butt, Dad.”

Isagi rubbed the back of his neck, flushing. “I did not— Okay, maybe I did.” Itsuki didn’t pause to give him room to recover. “Mom and Dad were busy with football, but they always came home. Mom made sure we had routines. Even Minato’s stupid star-shaped dinners.” That earned a loud protest from Minato. “Not stupid! They were cute!” Aoi leaned on the table, smirking. “They were awesome.”.Minato crossed his arms. “Star broccoli was NOT awesome.”.The corners of Itsuki’s mouth lifted — not quite a smile, but close — before settling again. “We were happy. People used to say we were the picture-perfect family. And they weren’t wrong. Five kids. Two parents. A bond that felt… unbreakable.” He glanced between Rin and Isagi, letting the weight of that sink in.

“Mom and Dad made sure they spent equal time with us, no matter how busy their schedules were. They showed up to school events. To matches. They didn’t dump responsibility on me just because I was the eldest. Dad always said they were the parents, so that was their job. My job was to be a kid — to have fun, to figure out who I was before I had to think about prioritizing others.”.He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. “That’s something I think a lot of people don’t get. Even in our world, people said… things. About Mom being better off staying home. Being a good Omega. But Dad shut that down so fast the press didn’t know what hit them. He called a conference the next day. Said Mom and Dad made each other better — on and off the field. That’s just how they were.”

Theo, sitting stiffly beside Ness, looked down at the table, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “We were happy,” Itsuki repeated, softer now. “When Mom announced he was pregnant again, our sixth sibling, he took a break from football. Said he’d always wanted a big family. Dad did too — he grew up as an only child. He wanted us to grow up with siblings. We fought sometimes — of course we did. But Mom never let it get to name-calling. He always said if you label someone — ‘irresponsible,’ ‘lazy,’ whatever — you’re just putting them in a box in your head. Then you never talk about what you actually feel.”

At that, Sato’s gaze dropped, suddenly quiet. “Mom said siblings are the ones who’ll still be there when life gets hard. That you have to talk about what made you upset. That yelling doesn’t make you right. I think that’s why they never fought seriously. Not once, not in front of us. We were happy.” The pause this time was heavier. Itsuki’s eyes lowered briefly before lifting again, fixed on Rin. “Then… one day, Mom felt dizzy. We thought it was normal. He was pregnant — it happens. But it got worse. More frequent. By the second month, he was fainting a lot.”

Amane gave a small babble from Rin’s arms, oblivious to the tension rippling around her..“The doctor said if it had been detected early, Mom would’ve lived,” Itsuki said flatly. “It was something rare, but preventable. We didn’t catch it in time. And then… Mom was gone. The baby, too.”.The words were stripped of flourish, but the effect was worse for it. Rin’s throat tightened. Isagi’s jaw worked, his hands curling into fists on the table.

“After that,” Itsuki continued, “Dad tried. He really did. But a bond doesn’t survive when one half is gone. The house felt empty. We had each other, but it wasn’t the same.” A moment passed, just the faint clatter of a tray somewhere in the background. “That’s why we’re here. Not to fix fights. Not to change who you are. Just to make sure that day never happens. Mom gets checked. We know what to look for. We go back. And in our future, it never happens. That’s it.”

Itsuki stepped back, and the silence he left behind felt different now — not the tense quiet of curiosity, but the kind that came from the truth landing right where it was meant to. Rin held Amane a little closer. Isagi’s gaze stayed locked on Itsuki, pride and grief tangled in equal measure. From the PXG table, Haruna whispered to Hikaru, “They really were happy.” Theo, voice low but audible, added, “They were the picture-perfect family.” And though the words were steady, there was a sharp edge of envy that drew a few curious glances.

The silence after Itsuki’s words wasn’t just quiet. It was heavy — the kind that made even the most restless players shift uncomfortably. Trays were set down without a clatter. Forks hovered mid-bite. No one quite knew if they were supposed to breathe yet. Then— “Nii-chan is a liar!” Every head turned toward the source. Minato stood in front of Itsuki now, his tiny hands balled into fists, his slippers squeaking faintly against the tile as he stomped. His cheeks were already blotchy, his bright blue eyes brimming with furious tears.

“You said—” his voice cracked, the words breaking in the middle — “you said Mama was just asleep! That he’d wake up! Minato’s not dumb!” His little chest heaved. “You just said now that Mama’s gone. I know what dead is!” The last word hit like a slap. Before anyone could move, Minato lunged forward, his tiny fists thudding against Itsuki’s legs. They didn’t hurt — not physically — but the sound of them, the desperation behind every swing, made something in Rin’s chest twist painfully.
“Take it back!” Minato’s voice pitched high, cracking again as fat tears spilled down his face. “Mama’s not gone! Mama’s right there!” He pointed at Rin with the frantic certainty of a child clinging to the world he knew.

Itsuki didn’t flinch from the blows. His hands stayed at his sides, eyes locked on Minato’s face. He opened his mouth once, closed it again, and instead just stood still — letting Minato hit him, as if he believed he deserved every strike. Aoi was next. She shoved back her chair so fast it scraped the floor, darting to Minato’s side and wrapping her arms around him. “Hey, hey—” Her voice was shaking now. “Don’t cry, Mina.” But she was already crying herself, hot streaks of tears cutting down her flushed cheeks.

Sato’s reaction was quieter, but no less sharp. His eyes — Rin’s exact shade, narrowed with the same intensity — went glassy as his lower lip trembled. He didn’t move toward anyone, just sat rigid at the table, fists clenched in his lap until his knuckles turned white. But when Minato’s cries hit their peak, Sato’s composure cracked and tears started spilling silently down his face.
And then Amane… She had been sitting in Rin’s arms, clutching the ribbon on her little dress. But when her wide, pale-blue eyes saw her siblings crying, her mouth wobbled. The first whimper was soft — barely audible — and then she broke into a wailing sob, burying her face into Rin’s shoulder.

That sound undid Rin. His instincts — his Omega instincts — surged to the forefront, drowning out the noise of the cafeteria. He shifted Amane securely against his chest, free arm automatically reaching toward Minato, even from across the small distance between them. “Minato,” Rin called softly. The boy froze mid-swing at Itsuki’s legs, hiccuping through his sobs. His head jerked toward Rin instantly, and the moment their eyes met, Minato stumbled forward, leaving Aoi’s embrace to fling himself into Rin’s open arm. “Mamaaa,” he wailed, his face pressed against Rin’s shirt.

“I’m here,” Rin murmured, his voice as steady as he could make it, though his throat burned. “I’m right here.”
Minato clung tighter. The room stayed silent, every player watching but no one daring to speak. Even Kaiser, who usually thrived on chaos, sat frozen with an unreadable look on his face. Isagi looked between Rin and the kids, his jaw tense. He’d heard every word Itsuki said — the warmth, the laughter, the way the story had bled into grief — but seeing their children cry over a future that shouldn’t happen… it was crushing in a way no game loss could touch.

Aoi sniffled and shuffled closer, curling herself against Rin’s other side, one hand still resting protectively on Minato’s back. Sato, after a moment of stubborn stillness, slid out of his seat too and came to stand just within reach, eyes fixed on the floor like he couldn’t stand to see anyone looking at him right now.
Rin didn’t try to make them talk.

He just pulled them in — all of them who would let him — and let them hold on. Across the room, Ness’s fingers tightened around his water glass, his usual soft smile gone. Theo shifted in his seat, looking away, shoulders stiff. No one said anything about Itsuki for a long moment. But Rin, even with his arms full, could feel the weight of the boy’s gaze on him — sharp, steady, and older than his years.

Rin didn’t even have to say it. One glance at Isagi across the cafeteria — the silent exchange of we can’t do this here — and they moved. “Come on,” Rin murmured against Minato’s hair. The boy’s sobs had quieted to sniffles, but his fists were still gripping Rin’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Rin adjusted his hold, shifting Amane higher against his left hip, then scooping Minato into his right arm with practiced ease. The toddler’s slippers dangled slightly as he curled into Rin’s chest, still hiccuping.

Isagi was already up, his chair sliding back with a soft scrape. He bent, scooping Sato into his arms without warning. Sato startled — eight years old and far too proud to be carried — but when Isagi’s arm anchored him in place and his other hand reached down to take Aoi’s, he didn’t protest. Aoi gripped her dad’s hand tightly, her thumb rubbing against the rough seam of his palm in a quiet, grounding motion. “Itsuki,” Rin said, his voice steady but low.

The thirteen-year-old had stayed rooted to the spot through all of it, hands in his pockets, gaze on the floor. At the sound of Rin’s voice, his eyes flicked up — sharp blue, unreadable — and then he nodded once, following without a word. They walked out together, weaving through the narrow path between tables. The cafeteria’s noise didn’t resume. Conversations didn’t pick back up. Players just… watched them go.

No one dared block their path. Even Kaiser, leaning back with his fork in hand, kept his mouth shut — though his eyes tracked every step. Ness’s gaze lingered the longest, soft and uneasy, before dropping back to Theo. By the time they cleared the doorway, Rin’s arms ached faintly under the weight of his two youngest, but he didn’t shift them. He wouldn’t—not until the door was closed behind them and no one else could see.

The corridors of Blue Lock were cooler, quieter. Their footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floor.
Sato rested his head against Isagi’s shoulder now, his eyes still sharp but his body relaxed just enough to let himself be carried. Aoi stuck close to her dad’s side, glancing back once at Itsuki before turning forward again. Itsuki walked a step behind Rin, his pace even. Not dragging, not rushing. Just… steady.

DAY 8 — 7:38 a.m.

BLUE LOCK STRATEGY ROOM C

They reached one of the unused strategy rooms — empty, quiet, with a single couch against the wall and a low table. Isagi pushed the door open, holding it long enough for everyone to file in before shutting it firmly behind them. The hum of the outside world cut off instantly. Rin finally set Amane down on the couch, keeping one hand on her as she looked around the unfamiliar room. Minato slid down from Rin’s arm reluctantly, immediately pressing against his leg like he was afraid someone might take him.

Isagi lowered Sato to the floor too, crouching to meet his eyes. “We’re here, okay? No more crowd.” Sato nodded once, lips pressed thin. Itsuki stayed near the door, eyes scanning the room before settling on Rin again. Rin’s gaze swept over all five of them — the familiar ones and the ones he’d only just met. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease, but his voice was softer now. “Alright,” he said quietly. “We talk here.”
Isagi glanced at him, then back at the kids. “Everything. No holding back this time.” Itsuki’s expression didn’t change, but there was the faintest flicker in his eyes — like he’d been expecting this.

Rin shifted his weight, settling on the arm of the couch beside Amane while Minato clung to his thigh. Isagi stayed crouched a moment longer in front of Sato, searching his son’s face for any sign he might bolt. When Sato didn’t move, Isagi rose, stepping back so he and Rin stood at opposite ends of the low table — an unspoken frame for the circle of their children. “Start from the beginning,” Rin said, looking directly at Itsuki. “All of it. No skipping.”

Itsuki’s shoulders rose and fell once, a slow inhale, then he stepped forward. “You already know the headline,” he said quietly. “Mama got sick. It was… preventable. But no one knew until it was too late.” Minato’s grip on Rin’s pants tightened. “You said he was just sleeping.” Itsuki glanced down at him, his voice dipping even lower. “I didn’t want you scared, Mina.”

“But you lied,” Minato shot back, voice wobbly. Itsuki didn’t deny it. He looked at Rin again. “You don’t like people making a big deal out of you. That’s why you didn’t tell anyone right away. Even when Dad told you to see a doctor, you brushed it off. You said you were fine.” Rin’s lips pressed together, a faint flare of his nostrils the only outward reaction. “You weren’t fine,” Itsuki continued. “The dizzy spells turned into fainting. By the second month, you were barely keeping food down, but you hid it. I think…” He exhaled slowly. “…I think you didn’t want to scare us. Or maybe you didn’t want to slow down.”

Isagi’s jaw tightened. His hands curled on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. “And I let you. I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge the thought. “Mom still smiled every morning,” Sato said suddenly, voice sharp in the quiet. “Like nothing was wrong.” His eyes burned as he looked at Rin. “Why would you do that?” Rin opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His gaze dropped to his hands, fingers flexing once against his knees. Itsuki’s voice softened. “You didn’t just get sick out of nowhere, Mama. It started before that. Years before.” He looked directly at Rin now, no hesitation. “When Uncle Sae disowned you, you didn’t… heal from that. You acted like you did, like it didn’t matter, but it stayed. You never closed the wound.”

Rin stilled, breath caught halfway. Itsuki went on, tone steady but not unkind. “That kind of hurt doesn’t stay in your head. It goes everywhere. You carried it for years — the rejection, the way your own brother looked at you like you weren’t worth keeping. It didn’t matter that Dad loved you or that we did. That first bond… it was family, and it broke.” The room was quiet but for Amane’s small, restless shift on the couch. “Doctors in our time,” Itsuki said, “called it a drop. First it’s just in your head — sleepless nights, getting tired faster, forgetting things. But it grows.” He ticked symptoms off slowly, each one like laying down a stone.

“Persistent dizziness and fainting — low blood pressure, cortisol shock from long-term stress.” Rin’s hand on Minato’s shoulder tightened slightly. “Severe fatigue, insomnia, confusion — because your body can’t keep a healthy rhythm when it’s always braced for something bad. Rapid heart rate, nausea, chest pain — that’s your body stuck in fight-or-flight mode even when you’re safe. Headaches and vision changes — high blood pressure, blood flow getting messed up from the constant tension.”

“And then,” he paused, voice dipping lower, “the emotional crashes. Panic that comes out of nowhere. Crying in the kitchen over nothing. Snapping at us for being too loud, then apologizing before the words even finish.” Rin’s throat bobbed. Isagi’s eyes had dropped to the floor, but his hand rested on the table’s edge like he needed something solid. “You managed it for years,” Itsuki said, “because Dad was there and because you poured yourself into us. But pregnancy… it pushed your body too far. The drop hit harder, and by the time anyone realized, it wasn’t just stress anymore. It was killing you. And the baby.”

Minato’s little voice broke through, high and trembling. “Nii-chan’s a liar! You said Mama was just asleep! That he’d wake up!” His tiny fists punched at Itsuki’s legs. “I’m not dumb! You said just now Mama’s gone! I know what dead is!” Aoi’s face crumpled, tears spilling as she pulled Minato into her arms. Sato turned away, knuckles pressed to his eyes, and Amane began to cry simply because everyone else was crying.

Isagi’s chest rose and fell unevenly as he moved to pick Sato up, holding him tight against his shoulder while his other hand reached blindly for Aoi. Rin bent to gather Minato and Amane, murmuring low and steady until their sobs quieted just enough to breathe. Itsuki stood still, eyes glistening, but his voice was firm when he finally spoke again. “We’re here because it doesn’t have to happen this time. You just have to catch it early. That’s all.”

Rin looked at him over the tops of the children’s heads — pale, eyes bright with something heavy. “I hear you,” he said quietly. Isagi nodded once. “We’ll get checked. Both of us. No waiting, no excuses.” Itsuki’s shoulders eased for the first time all day. “Then we’ve already changed the future.”

Rin didn’t answer right away. For a long moment, he just looked at Itsuki — at the boy who stood too still, who carried his voice too evenly, who had been holding up this story like it was something fragile that might break if he set it down too fast. Then Rin shifted, leaning forward off the arm of the couch. His free arm slipped around Itsuki’s shoulders without warning, pulling him in tight against his side.

The change was instant. Itsuki’s breath hitched once, sharp and unsteady, and then the control he’d been holding like glass just… cracked. His hands clutched the back of Rin’s shirt, his face burying into his mother’s shoulder as the first sob escaped. It wasn’t loud — it was the kind that shook his whole body, the kind you’d been biting back for years. Minato, pressed between Rin’s leg and the couch, peeked up with wide eyes. Aoi’s grip on him loosened just enough for her to shift closer, brushing against Rin’s other side. Sato turned toward the sound, his earlier tears sparking fresh at the sight of his big brother folding in on himself.

Isagi watched for half a second — that single breath where his throat worked like he was swallowing down his own emotions — before he moved. He stepped forward, one arm looping behind Aoi to pull her in, the other snagging Sato from where he’d been hovering. In the same motion, he pressed in toward Rin, crowding the space until all of them were pulled together in one uneven, messy circle.

Minato found himself caught between them all, tiny hands grabbing at whatever fabric he could reach. Amane, sensing the warmth and press of bodies, let out a hiccupped babble before leaning her soft weight into Rin’s chest. It wasn’t graceful. A knee knocked into someone’s shin, someone’s elbow dug into a rib, and Minato complained quietly about being squished. But nobody moved away. For a long, uncounted minute, they just stayed there — Rin’s hand on the back of Itsuki’s head, Isagi’s arm locking them all in place, the children pressed close enough to feel each other’s heartbeats.

If anyone in the room dared to breathe too loud, it might break the spell. But in that moment, it wasn’t about preventing the future or fixing the past. It was just about holding on, all of them at once, and not letting go.

Isagi didn’t let go right away. Even after the kids’ sniffles quieted, even after Itsuki’s breathing started to even out against Rin’s shoulder, he kept them all close. His gaze flicked over each of their faces — Minato’s damp cheeks, Aoi’s red eyes, Sato’s furrowed brows, Amane’s sleepy confusion — before landing back on Itsuki.

The boy’s earlier words replayed in his mind like they’d been branded there. You were solid. That’s why losing mom broke everything. It wasn’t just about the warning. It wasn’t just about the illness. It was about how much their family had meant — still meant — to these kids who had lived both the best and worst versions of their home. Isagi swallowed, feeling that lump in his throat dig deeper. Slowly, he loosened his arm from around the group, straightening just enough to look Itsuki directly in the eye.

“You did good, Tsuki,” he said quietly, voice steady but carrying weight. “Better than I probably would’ve at your age.” He glanced at the rest of them, then back to his eldest. “But your mom and I need a few minutes.”
Itsuki’s brows drew together, but Isagi’s tone stayed even — not a request, but not a command meant to push him away either. “Take your brothers and sisters to the cafeteria. Get yourselves breakfast. Something warm.” Minato immediately started to protest, hands tightening on Rin’s pants. “But—”

Isagi cut him off gently, crouching so he was eye-level with the little boy. “I’ll bring Mama after, okay? You’ll see us in a bit.” Aoi hesitated too, looking between Rin and Isagi like she wasn’t sure which parent to obey. Sato, for once, stayed quiet, his eyes still sharp but his shoulders lowering. Itsuki didn’t argue. He just gave a single short nod, the kind that said he understood more than he’d let on. Reaching out, he hooked a hand toward Minato, then Aoi, then Sato. “Come on,” he said, his voice calm but with a note that brooked no refusal.

Aoi grumbled under her breath but moved toward him. Sato gave Rin one last glance before following. Minato resisted until Amane, still tucked against Rin, let out a little coo that made him sigh in reluctant surrender. When they finally filed out — Itsuki holding the door open with Amane balanced against his hip — the quiet they left behind was heavier than before. Isagi turned back to Rin, meeting his eyes across the small gap between them. “Now,” he said, voice low, “you and I need to talk.”

The door clicked shut behind Itsuki, and their voices faded down the hall with the shuffle of little feet. The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable — it was dense, like the air in a locker room before a penalty kick, when the whole stadium is holding its breath. Rin didn’t move to sit. He stayed where he was, one hip against the edge of the low table, arms loosely crossed. To anyone else, he probably looked composed.

But Isagi had been watching him too long, too closely. The Omega’s weight was just slightly uneven, one shoulder lower than the other. His scent — normally crisp rain with that cutting mint edge — was muted, diluted, as if he was working to keep it steady. “You’ve been having them here too,” Isagi said, voice low.
Rin’s head tipped, a sharp little movement. “Having what?”

“Spells,” Isagi said. “The things Itsuki talked about. Dizziness. Skipping meals. That time in the cafeteria when you sat down like the floor tilted under you.”

“That was nothing—”

“It wasn’t nothing,” Isagi cut in, sharper than intended. “It’s not one thing, Rin. It’s a pattern. I’ve been putting it together since we got here.” Rin’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer. His fingers tapped once against his bicep, an old fidget he used to do in high school when he was about to say something he’d regret.

Isagi took a step closer, watching him the way he’d watch a striker lining up a shot. “You brushed it off then, too. Just like Itsuki said you did in the future. You think if you keep moving, no one will notice.” Rin’s eyes narrowed, but before he could retort, his body betrayed him — a tiny sway in place, just enough that his knee brushed the table for balance. It was quick, over in a blink, but Isagi had already reached out, palm warm around Rin’s forearm.

“Rin,” Isagi said quietly, the warning in his voice cutting deeper than a shout. “I’m fine,” Rin said, but it was too quick, too practiced. Isagi held him there, feeling the faint tremor in the muscle under his hand. “You’re not fine. It’s the same list Itsuki gave us — dizziness, fatigue, skipping meals, headaches. That’s not random. That’s exactly how it starts.”

Rin’s eyes flicked away, and his scent sharpened — not aggressive, but edged with the bitter sting of discomfort.
“Itsuki didn’t tell you everything,” Isagi went on. “But he said enough. He said it started before the pregnancy. Before the illness. Before all of that—” He stopped, inhaling through his nose, steadying himself. “—It started because of Sae.”

The name landed like a weight in the room. Rin’s scent flinched sharp and cold, the mint turned biting. “I already knew,” Isagi said. “He let it slip earlier. Something about the bond drop not being about us.” Rin’s arms tightened over his chest, shoulders angling defensively. “It’s ancient history.”

“It’s your history,” Isagi countered. “And it’s still in your body. You can pretend it doesn’t matter, but every time you get like this—” his hand flexed slightly on Rin’s arm “—your body’s telling me it does.” For a beat, Rin didn’t speak. Then, so quietly it was almost swallowed by the silence, he said, “He was supposed to be head Alpha. Not in the mate sense — just… in the way that mattered when we were kids. He was everything. And when he turned his back—” His voice cut off, like he’d bitten the end off the sentence.

Isagi’s chest tightened, a visceral ache at the thought of a younger Rin carrying that kind of wound. “That bond,” Rin went on, voice rough, “was supposed to protect me. And when it snapped, it—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not— I’m not some weak Omega who’s still crying about his brother.”

Isagi stepped closer until their knees almost brushed. “You’re the Omega I’m fated to. And you’re still here. And I’m telling you, I don’t care how far we have to go or what I have to do — I’m not letting you end up like that future.” Rin looked up at him then, really looked, and for once there wasn’t a wall there. Just exhaustion, and something too raw to name.

“I mean it,” Isagi said. “If it means dragging you to every check-up, if it means standing between you and your brother, if it means… whatever. You’re it for me, Rin. You’ve always been it. And I’m not losing you. Not to him. Not to this.” The silence stretched, heavy but different now — not suffocating, but weighted with something closer to relief. Rin didn’t say thank you. He didn’t say anything at all. But his arms slowly uncrossed, and his scent softened, mint curling into something warmer.

Rin’s arms dropped fully to his sides, fingers curling against the table edge like he needed something to hold on to. His eyes stayed down, lashes hiding most of the emotion there, but his voice lost that practiced flatness.
“It wasn’t just a fight,” he said, tone low but steady. “When Sae left for Spain, I thought—” His throat worked. “—I thought it was temporary. That brothers did that. Came back. Still… cared.” Isagi didn’t move, didn’t speak, just waited.

“He didn’t,” Rin said, the syllables clipped. “He never called. When I did, it was like talking to a stranger. And one day—” He let out a humorless breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “—he told me he didn’t see me as his little brother anymore. Not in any way that mattered. That I should stop chasing him. That… whatever I thought we had wasn’t real.” The words hung there, sharper than any shout. Isagi’s gut twisted, and the anger rose fast, hot, and clean. Not just at Sae’s cruelty, but at the quiet way Rin had carried this for years without anyone to help bear it.

“That’s not something you say to someone you ever loved,” Isagi said, and his voice was tight with the effort of keeping it level. “It’s not something you say to family.” Rin’s jaw clenched, but the fight was draining from his posture. “It hurt. I didn’t… I didn’t want it to. I thought I was stronger than that.”

“You are,” Isagi said instantly. That made Rin finally look up — and in that moment, Isagi let it all show. No judgment, no pity, just the deep, unwavering pull of a bond that had only ever wanted him, exactly as he was.
It broke something open. The tight set of Rin’s mouth trembled, and the heat in his eyes spilled over before he could blink it away. He turned his face slightly, as if hiding it would make it less real, but Isagi stepped in, closing the distance, one hand cupping Rin’s jaw and bringing him back to meet his gaze.

“Hey,” Isagi murmured, thumb brushing away the first tear. “You don’t have to fight me on this. Not me.” Rin shook his head, but the movement was jerky, unconvincing. “You’re not supposed to look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not…” He broke off, voice fraying. “…like I’m not a mess.”

“You’re my mess,” Isagi said, and for the first time since they’d stepped into this room, his mouth curved, just slightly. “And I wouldn’t trade you for anyone. Not even for some perfect, unbroken version you think you should be.” That undid the last of Rin’s defenses. His shoulders slumped, a shaky exhale leaving him as he finally leaned forward, forehead pressing against Isagi’s shoulder. The scent that rose off him was raw and unfiltered — rain after a long drought, clean and vulnerable.

Isagi wrapped his arms around him and held on, letting his own scent wrap solid and grounding around Rin like a net. The anger toward Sae still burned in his chest, but it had a purpose now. He would protect this — protect him — from ever breaking like that again. “You’re not alone in this,” Isagi said into his hair. “Not now, not ever. And we’re not waiting for it to get worse. We’ll get you checked, we’ll watch for every sign, and if Sae so much as looks at you wrong—” He pulled back just enough to meet Rin’s eyes again. “—I’ll be there first.”

Rin didn’t argue. Didn’t roll his eyes or call it dramatic. He just nodded once, slow, and the faintest ghost of a thank-you passed his lips before he leaned back into the embrace, letting Isagi hold him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Rin’s breathing evened out before Isagi even realized it was happening. His weight, usually held like coiled wire, had gone heavy in Isagi’s arms. The tears had stopped, but not because they’d run out — more because exhaustion had finally dragged him under. Isagi eased back just enough to see his face. Even asleep, Rin’s brows were faintly drawn, like whatever dreams found him weren’t entirely kind. That… that made something deep in Isagi’s chest twist.

Carefully, he slid one arm under Rin’s knees and the other around his back, lifting him without effort. Rin stirred once, murmuring something indistinct, but his head dropped against Isagi’s shoulder, trusting him to carry the weight. He crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps, lowering Rin onto the couch. One arm remained under Rin’s shoulders until the Omega was fully settled, head resting against the cushion. A few strands of hair had fallen across his face — Isagi brushed them back gently, thumb lingering against the cool skin of his temple.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Itsuki’s words echoed in his head like a bruise being pressed again and again. The dizzy spells… the fainting… you brushed it off. He’d noticed — small things, in the weeks they’d been here. A hand gripping the wall a beat too long. A shallow breath after practice. Rin masking it with irritation if he caught Isagi looking too closely. Now the pieces clicked together with surgical clarity, and the picture they formed made Isagi’s pulse spike hot and sharp.

Sae.

It was Sae’s rejection — the cruel, calculated severing of that sibling bond — that had started this rot years ago. A wound Rin had been carrying into every breath, every heartbeat, every smile that looked effortless until you learned to see the strain underneath. And in that future? That wound had been the foundation for everything that followed. The stress. The illness. The death.

Isagi’s hand curled into a fist against his thigh. The quiet of the room felt tight around him, like it was holding in the sound of his pulse hammering in his ears. He looked at Rin one more time — pale, lips parted faintly as he slept — and something inside him snapped from controlled rage into decision. This wasn’t going to be another quiet wound they danced around until it killed him.

He stood, every muscle in his body keyed forward, protective instinct thrumming through his scent until the air in the room felt charged. One last glance at Rin — committing the steady rise and fall of his chest to memory — and then he turned for the door. The hall outside felt too bright after the dim of the strategy room. He moved fast, almost silent, but his strides lengthened with every step toward the cafeteria.

He wasn’t going to talk. He wasn’t going to ask for explanations. Sae Itoshi was going to understand exactly what happened when you broke something precious and thought you could walk away without consequence. By the time he pushed through the cafeteria doors, the Alpha in him had drowned out every other thought. His scent spiked sharp, unmistakable, making heads turn before they even saw him.

His gaze swept the room, searching for that familiar cold face — and when he found it, the muscles in his jaw locked hard enough to ache. Sae had no idea what was coming.

DAY 8 — 7:46 a.m.

BLUE LOCK CAFETERIA

The cafeteria was quieter than usual for morning rush. Players sat in loose clusters, half-finished trays in front of them, the scrape of utensils on plates the loudest sound. Conversations, if they happened at all, were short — murmured under breath, eyes darting toward the PXG table and then away again. Everyone was still replaying Itsuki’s words from earlier. Mom’s gone in our future. We came back to stop it. The kind of thing you didn’t just drop in the middle of breakfast without leaving a crater behind.
Now, with training looming, most players were eating on autopilot — but their focus wasn’t on the food. It was on the empty spots in the room where certain people had left earlier, on the heavy silence that made even clinking a fork and chopsticks feel loud.

Bastard München’s table was half-full, players scattered across it: Kiyora methodically picking at toast, Gagamaru nursing a cup of coffee, Raichi tapping his chopsticks against a bowl in short bursts, Kunigami chewing in silence. Hiori and Yukimiya sat side by side, their murmured conversation barely above a whisper. Kurona ate slowly, head down. Kaiser lounged back in his chair like nothing was wrong, though Ness beside him had a stillness that didn’t match his usual soft energy. Theo, legs too short to touch the ground, kicked them idly as he nibbled at fruit — eyes flicking between the adults without saying much.

Across the room, Manshine City’s cluster had Chigiri scrolling his phone, Reo and Nagi leaning in close to talk quietly, Ren sitting between them with that deliberate stillness only a kid who’d learned to read rooms too well could manage. Barcha’s table was quieter still — Bachira twirling a chopsticks between his fingers, Otoya trying for conversation but letting it die after a few failed starts.

The PXG table had more motion, but not much more sound. Tokimitsu’s nervous eating, Zantetsu and Nanase trading baffled side glances, Karasu hunched like he was in deep thought, Charles looking mildly entertained. Shidou leaned back in his chair, spinning a piece of cutlery between his fingers, while Sae sat with the same unreadable detachment that made everyone unsure if he’d heard any of the morning’s gossip. Hikaru, Haruna, and Reika stayed close to their seats — unusually subdued for the trio.

Ubers’ table was anchored by Sendou, Aiku, and Niko, with Don Lorenzo already done eating and watching the room lazily. Barou sat upright like a stone pillar, Aryu half-turned in his seat, talking animatedly to Kai, whose poise was so deliberate it almost felt like theatre. The atmosphere wasn’t silence, but it was close — every scrape of cutlery, every half-laughed comment seemed too loud.

The doors opened again. Itsuki stepped in first, Amane balanced easily on one hip. Aoi and Sato trailed just behind, both looking like they’d just been on the edge of a fight and lost the will to keep it going. Minato toddled in last, one small hand fisted in Itsuki’s hoodie. They made for the buffet line without a word, but the weight of eyes followed them. The tension, already thick, seemed to tighten further with every step they took.

At the table they claimed — not far from where Bastard München’s players were picking at their food — Itsuki began helping Aoi and Sato with their trays. Amane was set into a chair, her little hands grabbing at the edge of the table. Minato scrambled onto the seat beside her, swinging his legs as he peered around like he’d never seen the cafeteria before.

Aoi reached for a slice of toast, Sato for scrambled eggs. Itsuki set a cup of juice in front of Amane, but before anyone could ask where her food was, Minato piped up, his voice carrying just enough to draw nearby attention. “’Mane no need eat,” he said solemnly, chin tipped up like he was making a very important announcement. “Mama already give her milk before we come here. She drink it all.”

He glanced at Amane, who was too busy chewing on the rim of her cup to notice. “See? Full tummy. Mama say so.” It was the kind of toddler logic that didn’t need proof beyond Mama said so, but it still made a few nearby players exchange glances — some softening at the innocence, others more unsettled by the reminder that the “Mama” in question was the same one Itsuki said was dead in his time.

The tension didn’t break. If anything, it deepened, wrapping tighter around the room like a rope being pulled from both ends. And that was exactly when the cafeteria doors slammed open hard enough to rattle.

The air in the cafeteria was already thin — that kind of strained quiet where no one wanted to speak too loudly, as if words might tip something over the edge. Isagi didn’t slow down. His boots hit the floor with sharp, clipped steps, the kind you could feel more than hear. He didn’t look left, didn’t glance at Bastard München, didn’t even acknowledge his own kids. His focus was a straight, unbroken line to the PXG table. Sae’s gaze finally lifted when Isagi was three steps away — too late to move, too late to speak.

The punch cracked through the room like a starting whistle. Sae’s head snapped to the side, jaw tightening as he caught himself from tipping in his seat. Cutlery clattered onto plates across the room; Charles’ mouth fell open. Before Sae could fully straighten, Isagi’s fist was already in his collar, yanking him forward so hard the chair legs screeched against the tile. “You,” Isagi’s voice was low, but it vibrated with something raw and dangerous, “don’t get to break him again.”

Sae’s expression didn’t change much — that calm, unreadable mask — but his shoulders locked like steel under Isagi’s grip. Shidou had frozen mid-spin of his chopsticks, then slowly set it down. His chair scraped back just enough to give him space to stand if he had to. His jaw was tight, eyes flicking between them with the kind of wariness that wasn’t about fear for himself — but readiness to step in if either one of them went too far. “Let go,” Sae said finally, voice quiet but edged.

Isagi didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. “No. Not until you understand—” He pulled Sae closer, their foreheads almost touching. “—that you started this. You severed something you had no right to. And in the future? Rin dies because of it.” The words weren’t shouted, but they cut through the cafeteria all the same. The sharp spike of Alpha scent rolled off Isagi, enough to make nearby players straighten instinctively. Sae’s eyes narrowed — not in guilt, not in anger, but something harder to place.

Shidou finally pushed to his feet, slow and deliberate, hands loose at his sides but his whole frame alert. “Isagi.” His voice carried enough weight to remind anyone listening that Shidou wasn’t all chaos and smirks. “You gonna keep talkin’, or are you gonna throw another one?” Isagi didn’t look away from Sae. “Depends if he keeps pretending it didn’t matter.” The room stayed frozen — nobody daring to move, nobody daring to speak.

Sae didn’t flinch under the proximity. He straightened slowly against Isagi’s grip, the tendons in his neck shifting, that same infuriating composure clinging to him like armor. “It mattered,” Sae said at last, his tone flat as glass. “It just wasn’t my problem anymore.” The words hit harder than another punch. Isagi’s fingers curled tighter in Sae’s collar, jaw grinding. “He was your brother.”

“He still is,” Sae replied evenly. “That doesn’t mean I was going to spend my life cleaning up after him.” The growl in Isagi’s chest was almost audible now, the kind that came from deeper than voice — from instinct. His scent spiked sharper, the air between them practically crackling. Shidou’s weight shifted forward. Not a full step, but enough for his shadow to fall over both of them.

His mouth was tight, a faint crease between his brows. “Alright,” he muttered, voice low but carrying, “let’s keep in mind you’re in a cafeteria, not a cage match.” Sae’s eyes flicked to Shidou briefly, then back to Isagi. “You think I caused whatever’s going to happen to him? You’re giving me too much credit.”

“No,” Isagi shot back. “I’m giving you exactly the credit you earned when you decided he wasn’t worth the effort.” His tone dipped, quieter, but with teeth in every word. “You left a wound that never healed. You made sure of it.” A low scrape of chairs came from the PXG side — Charles half-rising out of his seat, Karasu’s hand snapping to his shoulder to keep him there. On the other side of the room, Kaiser was leaning forward with the kind of smile that wasn’t amusement so much as hungry for drama, while Ness had his arms folded tight, eyes flicking between the scene and Theo.

“Isagi.” Shidou’s voice was a notch sharper now, his stance angling just enough to insert himself if needed. “You keep dragging him, you’re gonna make me get up in your space, and trust me—” his grin was humorless, “—nobody’s gonna like that.” Isagi didn’t break eye contact with Sae. “You want me to stop? Tell me you’ll at least try to fix it. Tell me Rin matters enough to you that you won’t watch him fall apart again.”

Sae’s jaw worked once. For a long moment, he said nothing, just studied Isagi like weighing the value of any answer at all. Finally, his voice came low, almost bored.
“I’ll think about it.” It wasn’t enough — not by a long shot — but it was the closest thing to concession anyone had probably wrung out of Sae in years. Isagi’s grip loosened, but his glare didn’t. He gave Sae’s collar one last shove before stepping back. The Alpha tension still rolled off him in waves, but he forced himself to turn away.

The whole cafeteria seemed to exhale in unison. Chairs creaked, silverware clinked faintly again, but the air was still too thick to feel normal. Shidou didn’t sit back down right away. His gaze stayed on Sae, sharp and assessing, before finally letting his weight ease into his chair. “Guess breakfast is over,” he muttered, spearing the last of his food without looking away from Isagi’s retreating back.

For a moment after Isagi’s shove, the cafeteria felt like someone had sucked all the air out. No one dared to breathe too loudly. The reality of what had been said earlier — Itsuki’s quiet, matter-of-fact confession that Rin was dead in their future — finally seemed to sink in.
Kunigami’s chopsticks was frozen halfway to his mouth. Yukimiya, usually quick with a smirk, had gone completely still, eyes darting between Sae and Isagi like trying to connect invisible threads.

Charles whispered something to Karasu, only for Karasu to shake his head slowly, eyes narrowing. Zantetsu, who clearly hadn’t gotten the full story before, stared down at his plate as if it might offer him a different outcome.
Even Kaiser, who’d been smirking earlier, looked more curious than entertained now — head tilted, gaze sharp in that predatory way. Ness’s arms were folded tight, glancing at Theo, then back to Isagi. Theo himself just sat there, expression unreadable, but his foot tapped under the table in a way that betrayed nerves.

At the Manshine table, Nagi had stopped mid-bite, holding his chopsticks in the air, while Reo’s usually smooth face was drawn tight. Chigiri’s hand was clenched on the edge of the table, knuckles pale. Nobody here had been prepared to hear that one of them — someone still very much alive and kicking across the facility — was fated to die in a matter of years. And not in a match, not in some unavoidable accident, but in a way that could be stopped.

Isagi’s chest still heaved faintly from the confrontation, but his head was already swiveling toward the far side of the room where his kids sat. Itsuki had Amane balanced on one hip, Sato and Aoi on either side of him, Minato perched in the chair beside Aoi. The tension at their table was a whole different kind — the kind that sat heavy and quiet. Isagi strode over, his posture shifting from fight-ready Alpha to father in seconds. He crouched slightly, meeting Aoi’s eyes first, then Sato’s, before resting a hand on Minato’s messy hair.

“You all eating?” he asked, voice softer now. Minato nodded, but added through a mouthful of bread, “’Mane already had her milk. Mama made her drink it before we came here.” His little voice carried in that guileless, three-year-old way, each word slightly blurred but entirely certain. It earned a small, bittersweet smile from Isagi — proof Rin was still doing exactly what he always did, even in this chaos: taking care of them.

Isagi’s gaze drifted over the table, counting heads again even though he knew they were all there. His hand lingered just a moment longer on Minato’s hair before he straightened, but the Alpha in him stayed coiled, restless.

Isagi didn’t move away after straightening — he stayed right there, one palm resting on the back of Minato’s chair, the other braced against the table like he was anchoring himself. Itsuki kept his head down, feeding Amane bits of soft bread, while Aoi quietly sipped her juice. Sato was the only one still watching the rest of the room, sharp little eyes narrowed like he was memorizing every face that dared glance their way. Around them, the players’ conversations had dropped to a low hum, but the words carried.

“Did he really say dead?” Raichi muttered from the Bastard München table, leaning in toward Kurona. “That’s what I heard, heard,” Kurona murmured back, eyes darting to Isagi. “Future. Dead. And they came here to stop it.”

“Which means it’s not fixed yet,” Yukimiya added, his tone sharper than usual. From the PXG side, Tokimitsu’s voice trembled. “So if they fail—”

“—he still dies,” Karasu cut in flatly, his gaze never leaving the Isagi kids. Charles slouched deeper into his seat, eyes half-lidded but his sily smile gone. “Heavy,” he muttered. Even Nagi, who usually floated above everyone else’s drama, had stopped eating entirely. Reo’s eyes flickered to him before settling on Isagi with a look that was almost pity.

Across the way, Aryu tapped a manicured nail against his plate. “If those children are telling the truth…” He trailed off, eyes sharp on Kai, who only shrugged with a cryptic smile. Theo’s gaze, though, was fixed on Aoi — not unkindly, but with something measuring in it. Ness noticed and shifted slightly in his chair, shoulders tense.

Isagi heard every fragment, every mutter, but didn’t address any of them. His focus was here — on these five little people who’d just been handed back to him like pieces of a puzzle he didn’t even know had been scattered. He reached out, brushing crumbs from Aoi’s cheek. “Eat up. All of you,” he said gently, but there was an Alpha’s firmness threaded into the words.

Aoi nodded. Minato hummed around another mouthful, swinging his legs under the chair. Sato didn’t respond, still glaring faintly at Theo across the room. Isagi’s eyes swept over them one more time. The rest of the world could speculate all they wanted — he was staying right here until every one of them had a full stomach and he’d counted their faces again. The tension didn’t leave the cafeteria. It just shifted — quieter, but denser, like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the next move.

Across the room, Shidou sat half-turned toward Sae, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, but there was nothing relaxed in the way his eyes tracked the room. His usual grin was nowhere to be seen — just a thin, tight line as he followed the low ripple of whispers. Sae, on the other hand, looked like he’d been carved out of stone. No reaction, no flicker of expression — just that unreadable mask as he stirred his coffee with deliberate slowness.

But Shidou could see it, the subtle set of his jaw, the way his shoulders stayed just a fraction too stiff. “You’re feeling it too, huh,” Shidou muttered, voice low enough not to carry beyond their table. Sae didn’t glance at him. “I’m feeling the room.”

“Bullshit,” Shidou said, though he didn’t push it further. His gaze flicked briefly to where Isagi was standing over the kids, posture screaming territorial Alpha. “Looks like papa bear’s not leaving that table.” For the first time, Sae’s eyes shifted — a slow, sideways glance at the Isagi brood, then back to his coffee. The tension between them wasn’t loud, but it was thick, coiling tighter with every second.

Shidou’s fingers tapped idly against the table, his voice dropping even lower. “You think this has somethin’ to do with you?” Sae didn’t answer. But his stillness, sharper now, was answer enough.

Chapter Text

🌀 1. Ren Nagi
• Age: 5
• Gender: Male
• Secondary Gender: Omega
• Parents: Nagi Seishiro (Alpha) × Mikage Reo (Omega)
• Nicknames: “Ren-Ren”
• Calls Nagi: “Papa”
• Calls Reo: “Mama”

Appearance:
• Messy, snow-white hair (Nagi’s exact fluff)
• Round, dreamy violet eyes (Reo’s color, Nagi’s sleepy shape)
• Oversized clothes, smudged cheeks, mismatched socks

Personality:
• Gremlin chaos energy
• Shifts from silent mode to loud gremlin in 2 seconds
• Has deep instincts for tension — and makes it worse
• Fiercely attached to Theo, tackles him constantly

Notable Traits:
• Crawls into vents for “stealth missions”
• Cries if you scold him, then five minutes later licks your wall
• Once made a speech that made Reo cry in public

Name Meaning:
• Ren (蓮) – Japanese, “lotus,” symbolizing purity and quiet rebirth

👑 2. Magnus Theodor Kaiser
• Age: 9
• Gender: Male
• Secondary Gender: Alpha
• Parents: Michael Kaiser (Alpha) × Alexis Ness (Omega)
• Nicknames: Theo — only if he likes you
• Calls Kaiser: “Michael”
• Calls Ness: “Mother”

Appearance:
• Platinum blonde hair (inherited from Kaiser)
• Piercing ice-blue eyes (Kaiser’s intense gaze)
• Sharp, elegant features with impeccable posture
• Often dressed in black/navy uniform-styled outfits with regal accents

Personality:
• 70% Kaiser: Charismatic, strategic, proud, brutally honest
• 20% Ness: Polite, emotionally aware, calculating
• 10% upbringing: Cold, protective, deeply focused on justice and reparation

Notable Traits:
• Speaks like a little king.
• Carries guilt for looking like his father.
• Emotionally attached to Ness; treats him like a sacred figure.
• Wants to destroy Kaiser’s legacy and replace it with his own.

Name Meaning:
• Magnus – Latin, “great, mighty”
• Theodor – Greek, “gift of God”

💢 3. Hikaru Itoshi
(Triplet 1 – The Chaos Core Brother)
• Age: 7
• Gender: Male
• Secondary Gender: Alpha
• Parents: Itoshi Sae (Alpha) × Shidou Ryusei (Omega)
• Calls Sae: “Otou-san”
• Calls Shidou: “Okaa-san”

Appearance:
• Crimson red hair in a jagged, Shidou-style cut
• Pink eyes with a fox-like slant
• Signature sharp fang always peeking through his smirk

Personality:
• Charismatic little menace
• Knows how to manipulate and enjoys it
• Provokes both parents for fun, but is deeply loyal to Shidou

Notable Traits:
• Drama king
• Public enemy to substitute teachers everywhere
• Was once banned from speaking for a day at school — started using sock puppets instead

Name Meaning:
• Hikaru (光/輝) – Japanese, “to shine,” “radiant light”

⚡ 4. Haruna Itoshi
(Triplet 3 – The Fierce Defender)
• Age: 7
• Gender: Female
• Secondary Gender: Alpha
• Parents: Itoshi Sae (Alpha) × Shidou Ryusei (Omega)
• Calls Sae: “Otou-san”
• Calls Shidou: “Okaa-san”

Appearance:
• Wild reddish-orange ponytail with jagged edges
• Intense teal eyes like Sae’s narrowed glares
• Athletic build, bandaged fists, slightly chipped tooth

Personality:
• Quick to fight, loyal to the bone
• Extremely protective of Reika and even Hikaru (begrudgingly)
• Idolizes Sae’s control but expresses it through aggression

Notable Traits:
• Punches lockers to “calm down”
• Believes in “talking with your fists first”
• Her favorite phrase is: “What did you just say to my sister?”

Name Meaning:
• Haruna (陽菜) – Japanese, “spring sun,” symbol of warmth and explosive energy

🌸 5. Reika Itoshi
(Triplet 2 – The Soft Dreamer)
• Age: 7
• Gender: Female
• Secondary Gender: Omega
• Parents: Itoshi Sae (Alpha) × Shidou Ryusei (Omega)
• Calls Sae: “Otou-san”
• Calls Shidou: “Okaa-san”

Appearance:
• Long rose-gold hair in twin buns
• Heterochromia: Left eye pink (Shidou), right eye teal (Sae)
• Dreamy, almost too-still gaze

Personality:
• Gentle, poetic, introverted
• Deeply bonded with both parents, especially Sae
• Loves stories, soft music, and hiding in cabinets to cry in peace

Notable Traits:
• Speaks softly, but her words hit deep
• Once asked a striker if his ego “was starving or just lonely”
• Gets prophetic in her sleep

Name Meaning:
• Reika (怜花) – Japanese, “wise flower” or “graceful blossom”

🌊 6. Kai Barou
• Age: 14
• Gender: Genderfluid (keeps it a mystery to keep people guessing)
• Secondary Gender: Beta
• Parents: Barou Shoei (Alpha) × Aryu Jyubei (Beta)
• Nicknames: “The Enigma” “That Menace”
• Calls Aryu: “Madam”
• Calls Barou: “Boss”

Appearance:
• Long, glossy black hair (Aryu’s length and shine)
• Piercing crimson eyes (Barou’s exact shade)
• Always impeccably dressed, but with one detail deliberately “off” just to provoke comments
• Walks with exaggerated poise but smirks like they’re plotting something

Personality:
• 60% Aryu’s flair, dramatics, and aesthetic obsession
• 40% Barou’s blunt confidence and refusal to bend to others’ expectations
• Thrives on keeping people guessing about everything — gender, plans, emotions
• Once convinced half the dorm they were an Alpha just to see the chaos unfold
• Treats conversation like a performance, switching between charm and cutting honesty
• Protective of their parents’ reputation, but in a stylish way

Notable Traits:
• Can roast someone in three languages and still make it sound like a compliment
• Keeps a notebook of “observations” about teammates just to watch them squirm
• Once told a reporter five different “true stories” about their childhood in one interview
• Refuses to confirm or deny anything about their origins

Name Meaning:
• Kai (海) – Japanese, “ocean,” symbolizing depth, mystery, and unpredictability

🌳 7. Itsuki Isagi
• Age: 13
• Gender: Male
• Secondary Gender: Alpha
• Parents: Itoshi Rin (Omega) × Isagi Yoichi (Alpha)
• Nicknames: “Tsuki,” “The Quiet Knife”
• Calls Rin: “Mom”
• Calls Isagi: “Dad”

Appearance:
• Deep green hair (Rin’s shade) in a slightly messy, layered cut that always looks intentional
• Sharp, foxlike blue eyes (Isagi’s color, Rin’s shape) that miss nothing
• Casual, neutral-toned clothes that blend into the background but somehow still stylish
• Always carries his phone, half-hidden smirk when catching people off guard

Personality:
• Sly, composed, and impossible to read unless he wants you to
• Easy-going on the surface, but calculating underneath — always has an angle
• Will only follow Rin’s orders without question, treats Isagi like a comedy target
• Speaks softly but with precision, slipping in subtle digs that stick hours later
• Extremely protective of his siblings, though he rarely makes it obvious

Notable Traits:
• Can vanish in a crowd within seconds and reappear behind you
• Collects little bits of information on people “just in case”
• Loves watching chaos unfold without lifting a finger
• Once convinced an entire team that Isagi was allergic to pineapples just to see if they’d panic

Name Meaning:
• Itsuki (樹) – Japanese, “tree,” symbolizing rooted strength, quiet growth, and hidden depth

🏃‍♀️ 8. Aoi Isagi
• Age: 10
• Gender: Female
• Secondary Gender: Alpha
• Parents: Itoshi Rin (Omega) × Isagi Yoichi (Alpha)
• Nicknames: “Oi-Oi,” “Menace,” “Goal Goblin”
• Calls Rin: “Mom”
• Calls Isagi: “Dad”

Appearance:
• Short, messy black hair with one stubborn ahoge sticking up no matter what (Isagi’s curse)
• Bright blue eyes (Isagi’s color, Rin’s sharper glare)
• Always in sportswear, sneakers untied, somehow has grass stains within five minutes of getting dressed
• Scuffed knees, wide grin, energy practically vibrating off her

Personality:
• ADHD incarnate — zero chill, max chaos, talks at 200% speed
• Has declared Theo her “mortal rival” and will fight him anywhere, anytime (playground, cafeteria, mid-game)
• Fiercely competitive, refuses to admit defeat even when obviously losing
• Thinks strategy is “just run faster” and somehow… sometimes it works
• Absolute daddy’s girl in skill and attitude, but gets mom’s sharp tongue when annoyed

Notable Traits:
• Climbs goalposts “for a better view”
• Once scored a goal against her own team just to annoy Theo
• Has a whistle she blows to interrupt boring conversations
• Can’t sit still for more than 3 seconds unless bribed with snacks

Name Meaning:
• Aoi (葵) – Japanese, “hollyhock,” symbolizing bold ambition and unshakable spirit

💡9. Sato Isagi
• Age: 8
• Gender: Male
• Secondary Gender: Beta
• Parents: Itoshi Rin (Omega) × Isagi Yoichi (Alpha)
• Nicknames: “Sato-kun,” “Mini-Rin” “Little Storm”
• Calls Rin: “Mom”
• Calls Isagi: “Dad”

Appearance:
• Straight, dark green hair (Rin’s exact shade and cut as a kid)
• Sharp teal-green eyes (Rin’s glare, but shorter)
• Neat, plain clothes — unless mid-game, where he’s covered in dirt and scuffs
• Always looks like he’s plotting something, even when silent

Personality:
• Near-perfect carbon copy of Rin in mannerisms, tone, and that “destroy” competitive mindset
• Diagnosed autistic — hyper-focused, prefers routine, doesn’t care for pointless socializing
• Intensely loyal to Rin and sees him as the ultimate role model
• Has openly declared Sae his “final boss” and is determined to beat him one day
• Holds a “seniority complex” over his younger cousins, especially reminding the triplets he’s a year older
• Haruna is his closest age rival — their competitions are legendary and often end in shouting matches

Notable Traits:
• Sharp-tongued for his age, can roast adults without blinking
• Collects soccer strategy notes and drills like treasure
• If Sae is around, Sato stares him down like a predator
• Never backs down from Haruna’s challenges — even if it means climbing a tree in the rain

Name Meaning:
• Sato (悟) – Japanese, “enlightenment” or “understanding,” ironic given his love for destruction

🦖10. Minato Isagi
• Age: 3
• Gender: Male
• Secondary Gender: Omega
• Parents: Itoshi Rin (Omega) × Isagi Yoichi (Alpha)
• Nicknames: “Mina,” “Nato,” “Blue Bean”
• Calls Rin: “Mama”
• Calls Isagi: “Papa”

Appearance:
• Soft, wavy dark-auburn hair (Sae’s exact shade — much to Rin’s eternal irritation)
• Big, bright blue eyes (Isagi’s shape and color, pure sparkle)
• Round cheeks, often slightly puffed in concentration or pout mode
• Usually in comfy sweaters and shorts, running around barefoot indoors

Personality:
• Equal parts Rin’s quiet, sharp-eyed observation and Isagi’s excitable energy from childhood
• Naturally curious and quick to learn, but will drop everything to chase after siblings
• Stubborn in the most inconvenient ways — once decided he’d only eat food shaped like stars for a week
• Surprisingly good at “reading the room” for his age, sometimes copying what others do
• Seeks Rin’s approval instantly, but tries to impress
Isagi with little “goals” during playtime

Notable Traits:
• If you say “goal,” he’ll run for the nearest ball and kick it, no matter the context
• Has an unshakable grudge against broccoli — throws it behind the couch
• Has an adorable “serious face” that looks just like baby Rin’s
• Will bring toys to a sibling fight like he’s offering “battle gear”

Name Meaning:
• Minato (港) – Japanese, “harbor,” symbolizing a safe place amid storms

💫 11. Amane Seraphina Isagi
• Age: 1
• Gender: Female
• Secondary Gender: Beta
• Parents: Itoshi Rin (Omega) × Isagi Yoichi (Alpha)
• Nicknames: “Sera,” “Ami,” “Fina,” “Little Bell”
• Calls Rin: “Mama” (currently more like “Mammm”)
• Calls Isagi: “Papa” (currently “Pah-pah”)

Appearance:
• Wispy deep navy-black hair with a soft curl at the ends (Rin’s color and texture)
• Pale blue eyes with a silvery sheen, giving a dreamy look (blend of both parents’ gaze)
• Always has a ribbon or headband — courtesy of older siblings dressing her up
• Chubby baby cheeks that make her look permanently in awe of the world

Personality:
• Sweet-natured but already shows hints of quiet stubbornness
• Extremely attached to Minato, follows him everywhere like a little shadow
• Laughs easily, but also goes completely blank-faced when concentrating
• Has a habit of “collecting” things in her crib — socks, plushies, the occasional sibling’s shoe
• Loves music; will sway or clap along even if it’s off-beat

Notable Traits:
• Will toddle into the middle of a sibling argument just to hand them a snack
• Her cry is soft but somehow guilt-inducing to everyone in earshot
• Known to babble long “speeches” in baby language like she’s telling an epic tale
• Once fell asleep hugging a football

Name Meaning:
• Amane (天音) – Japanese, “heavenly sound”
• Seraphina – Latin origin, “fiery, angelic one”

☀️ Family & Dynamics Summary:
• Ren: Emotional chaos baby with instincts sharper than knives. The whisperer.
• Theo (Magnus): Cold strategist, trauma son of Kaiser & Ness. Wants justice.
• Hikaru: The devil in a school uniform. Future menace to society.
• Haruna: Punch now, talk never. Emotionally carries the family on her back.
• Reika: Cinnamon roll wrapped in quiet angst. Likely to break hearts in middle school.
• Kai: The stylish chaos child who treats life like an art piece and their parents like royalty.
• Itsuki: Rin’s loyal shadow with a smirk sharp enough to cut Isagi’s ego in half.
• Aoi: Isagi’s chaos clone with Rin’s edge, locked in eternal war with Theo.
• Sato: Rin’s mini-me strategist bent on surpassing Sae, bossy over cousins, and a thorn in Haruna’s side.
• Minato: A pint-sized blend of Rin’s intensity and Isagi’s cheer, with Sae’s hair as the ultimate family joke.
• Amane: The adored baby of the family, soft as clouds but already claiming her own space in the chaos.

Chapter Text

DAY 8 – 6:30a.m.

BLUE LOCK CONFERENCE ROOM

The room was too cold for comfort. Frosted glass walls hummed faintly with the projector system, a single screen waiting like an executioner’s blade. Six chairs lined the steel table, but the weight in the air made it feel like they were thrones in a war council. Noel Noa was already seated. Straight-backed, hands folded, expression carved from ice. He hadn’t spoken since arriving, but silence clung to him like armor. Every second he didn’t move was a reminder: this was Bastard München’s master. He didn’t waste words because he didn’t need to.

Across from him, Chris Prince sprawled in his chair as if it were a beach lounger. White blazer unbuttoned, smile glinting under the sterile lights, hair still damp from his morning shower. He tapped his fingers against the table like a drumline. His grin was wide, but his eyes flicked to the blank screen with sharper interest than he let on. Lavinho arrived next, dancing and humming, a pair of sunglasses already perched on his nose despite the windowless room. He dropped into his chair sideways, legs draped over the armrest, a picture of careless ease. But every so often, his fingers drummed his thigh — restless, sharp, belying the calm.

Snuffy was last of the masters to enter. He set his bag down gently, adjusting the collar of his shirt. There was no swagger, no performance. Just presence. Like the room itself steadied the moment he sat. Then came Loki. Smaller than the others, seventeen but with a gaze that could cut down titans. He leaned back in his chair with crossed arms, one foot tapping lightly against the floor. His expression was unreadable until the door shut behind him — then his brows pulled together in a sharp line.

Ego Jinpachi strolled in as if the world belonged to him. His glasses caught the sterile blue glow of the monitors. A tablet was tucked under one arm, a folder in the other. He didn’t bother to sit. He simply set both objects on the table, then looked at each of them in turn — like he was daring them to blink. “Morning council,” he said dryly. “Congratulations. We’re living through soccer’s version of the apocalypse.”

Anri Teieri trailed in after him, clutching her clipboard like a lifeline. Her hair was pulled back hastily, under-eyes shadowed by lack of sleep. She gave a quick nod to the masters, then moved to the corner seat, avoiding eye contact like it might burn. And then — Shane. The only Omega in the room, apart from Ego. She entered without hesitation, her blue dress swishing softly with each step, silver eyes bright despite the early hour. She carried herself with practiced calm — a therapist who had already seen too much chaos to flinch at a boardroom. She settled in beside Anri, setting her notepad down gently.

Chris’s gaze flicked immediately. “Well, well. As always blue looks good on you, darling.” His tone was playful, lazy, dipped in flirtation. Shane didn’t so much as glance his way. She flipped open her notepad, pen poised. “Let’s focus, shall we?” Lavinho snorted under his breath. Loki rolled his eyes. Snuffy only smiled faintly, like he’d seen this play before. Ego clapped his hands once. Sharp. “Enough theater. Watch.” The lights dimmed. The screen came alive. And the footage began to play.

The silence held for a beat too long. A silence heavy enough that even the hum of the projector felt intrusive. Chris broke it first, of course. He leaned back, arms stretched, flashing that golden grin like the tension belonged to someone else. “Apocalypse, huh? Can’t say I mind. Cameras love chaos. Nothing sells better than strikers in distress.” His eyes slid toward Shane again, playful. “Don’t you agree, sweetheart? Misery makes for the best therapy sessions.” Shane clicked her pen once, calm as a tidepool. “It makes for broken people, actually.” She didn’t look at him — which, perversely, made his grin widen.

Noa didn’t so much as glance their way. “We’re wasting time.” His voice cut clean, low and sharp. “Show the footage. Every second matters.” Ego adjusted his glasses, lips quirking faintly. “Patience, Noa. I know your team runs on efficiency, but here — time is mine to waste.” Snuffy leaned forward, forearms on the table. His tone was gentler, but firm enough to cut through. “Then don’t waste it. We’ve all felt the atmosphere since those kids arrived. It isn’t just chaos, Ego. It’s pain. Deep-rooted.” He glanced at Shane, acknowledging her presence without undercutting it. “And if we’re to guide these players, we need clarity. Not games.”

Shane’s silver eyes flicked to him briefly — a silent thank you. Lavinho chuckled low, twirling his sunglasses lazily in one hand. “Pain, clarity, destiny—what a menu. I’m just here for the dessert. Let’s see who choked, who cried, who kissed, eh? We got a kid running around calling people Mama and Papa — that’s the real match highlight.”

“Shut up,” Loki said flatly. He hadn’t moved, arms still crossed, eyes locked on the blank screen. His voice was sharp for someone so young. “This isn’t a game.” Lavinho raised a brow. “Little Loki with the serious face, eh? Cute.” But Loki wasn’t smiling. His heel tapped against the floor, restless. “Someone’s bond snapped so hard their child had to crawl back through time to fix it. That’s not funny.” He glanced at Ego then, brown eyes glinting.

“And if Rin’s part of this or any of my teammates —if they're hurt—then you’ve already failed.” The words hit harder than expected. Anri shifted uncomfortably, knuckles white against her clipboard. Even Chris stopped drumming his fingers for a second. Ego tilted his head, unbothered. “And here I thought Bastard München was dramatic. Turns out Paris X Gen’s child prodigy has a bleeding heart.”

“I’m not joking,” Loki said, sharper now. “Rin’s a teammate. And if Sae’s involved—” His jaw clenched. “I’ll break him myself.” The air in the room tightened. Noa finally moved, turning his head toward Loki with a calm, clinical edge. “Emotion clouds judgment. Don’t bring it here.” Shane’s pen hovered mid-note. Her voice was quiet, but firm. “It’s not clouding anything. It’s context. You can’t separate the two — not when the children exist to force it.”

That earned her several glances. Noa’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze lingered. Lavinho whistled low. Chris smirked like she’d just passed a test he hadn’t written. Ego exhaled, impatient. “Enough.” He tapped the tablet. The projector hummed louder, screen flickering to life. “You want clarity? You’ll have it. But don’t pretend any of you are watching this objectively. Not when it involves your strikers.” The room fell quiet again. The light shifted, the first frozen frame of the footage glowing across the glass wall.

The footage looped back to the start: the triplets appearing in the central hall, voices sharp, calling out Okaa-san. Shidou dropped to his knees in the recording, arms open wide, breaking into sobs as the children clung to him. His shoulders shook, face pressed against crimson hair and rose-gold buns, tears streaking freely. In the conference room, no one spoke for a long moment. Snuffy broke the silence first. “Shidou Ryusei, crying.” His voice was thoughtful, heavy.

“If the kid is weeping, then this is deeper than spectacle. He knew. If the children had to travel back, then something went wrong.” Shane nodded, pen hovering uselessly above her page. “He understood instantly. That’s why he cried. He felt the weight of what they carried, even if he doesn’t have the words.” Her silver eyes shifted to the still image of Sae — frozen, stiff, unreadable.

“But Sae… he’s locked it all away. That’s dangerous.” Ego adjusted his glasses, the faint smirk on his lips not quite masking the sharpness in his tone. “Of course it’s dangerous. That boy’s a genius at denial. Which is why —” he glanced sideways at Shane, deliberately — “they need therapy. Especially Sae.” Chris let out a low chuckle, crossing his arms. “Therapy, huh? Can’t wait to see Sae Itoshi lying on a couch talking about his feelings. That’ll be the day.”

“Don’t mock it,” Shane said, sharper than her usual tone. “You saw the footage. Reika’s question shattered him. Haruna accused him to his face. That kind of fracture doesn’t vanish. It festers. If we ignore it, those kids disappear.” Lavinho whistled softly, swinging his sunglasses between his fingers. “Ah, but convincing Sae to spill his guts? That’s like convincing the sun to cool off for a nap. Impossible.”

“No,” Snuffy interjected firmly. “Not impossible. But it will be… hard. He’s cold. Detached. A child who’s turned himself into ice isn’t going to melt because someone tells him to.” Ego’s gaze flicked across the table, deliberate, before settling on one figure. “That’s why we don’t tell him. We assign someone he can’t ignore.” His glasses gleamed under the projector light. “Noa.”
The room turned to the Bastard München master. Noa didn’t hesitate. “I’ll do it.” The words landed with the weight of inevitability. His voice carried no doubt, no irritation — only quiet certainty.

For a moment, even Ego’s smirk faltered. Then it returned, smaller, sharper. “Efficient as always.” Something taut flickered in the air between them. Shane felt it immediately — the subtle draw of Alpha and Omega, power and acceptance, a thread neither spoke aloud but everyone sensed. Her pen stilled, her heart giving a small, involuntary kick at the tension. Chris arched a brow, amused. “Didn’t even blink, hm? Quick to say yes to Ego. I’d almost think you enjoy being volunteered.”

“Discipline doesn’t wait,” Noa said flatly. “If Sae is unstable, he’s a liability. I’ll handle it.”

“Handle?” Loki’s voice cut through, sharper than glass. He sat forward now, brown eyes bright with restrained fury. “You don’t handle Sae. You make him answer. He deserves it — for Rin and Shidou, for those kids. For all of it.” Snuffy nodded slowly. “The boy’s right. Sae may not listen, but he must be confronted. That’s not punishment — it’s healing. Forced healing, if need be.” Lavinho leaned back, grin sly. “What a family picture. Sae in therapy with Noa looming over him, Shane with her notepad, Ego watching from the corner like some kind of perverse babysitter. The drama writes itself.”

“Not drama.” Shane’s voice was firm now, anchoring the drifting conversation. “It’s survival. For the children. For Shidou and Rin. For all of them.” The footage continued to roll in silence for a moment, the triplets’ voices echoing:

“You broke Okaa-san.”
“You abandoned us.”

Shidou’s arms tightened around them, Sae’s frozen silence louder than any denial. And in the conference room, the weight of the decision settled like stone.

The screen’s glow dimmed after Ego froze the feed. The last frame: Sae and Shidou, not in the chaos of arrival, but minutes later — seated in the infirmary with their children asleep nearby. The room was heavy with silence, until Chris leaned back and sighed. “Well,” he said, dragging the word out, “that was the quietest apocalypse I’ve ever seen. The two of them, sitting there, not killing each other? Shocking.”

“Not shocking,” Snuffy countered. His voice was even, but serious. “Necessary. Those words between them weren’t fireworks. They were… weight. Pain too long ignored.” Shane’s pen tapped against her notebook. “It was more than pain. It was confession. Did you notice how long Shidou stalled before speaking? Hands twitching, restless. He wanted to explode. Instead, he asked. That’s growth.” Ego smirked. “Growth, yes. But desperation too. Ryusei cried like a child when the triplets arrived, because he knew — he failed. He saw his own failure staring back in miniature. His first words in that room weren’t jokes, weren’t chaos. They were a question.”

Loki, arms crossed tight, finally spoke. His voice was sharp, defensive. “He asked Sae if they hurt the kids that badly. That’s not desperation. That’s guilt. And guilt doesn’t save anyone.” Noa’s eyes remained fixed on the frozen frame. His tone was low, but certain. “It’s still an opening. When someone like Shidou drops the mask, even for a breath, it matters. He admitted he hid behind laughter, behind chaos, thinking it would protect them. It didn’t. He saw that.”

Shane nodded. “Yes. And he realized children always notice when you lie. That broke him. It wasn’t that he failed himself — it was that he failed them.” Lavinho leaned forward now, grin lazy but his eyes sharp. “And Sae, eh? The ice prince finally thawing. He didn’t mock, didn’t dismiss. He sat down.”

“Not touching,” Anri added quietly, surprising herself by speaking. “He sat beside him. That was deliberate.” Snuffy’s voice deepened with approval. “Closeness without contact. That’s how walls crack. He heard the triplets’ words — about silence, about distance. And in his own way, he admitted it: he stopped speaking. He stopped touching. He became unreachable.” Chris chuckled, though it lacked bite. “The great Sae Itoshi, reduced to a man talking about game plans instead of love. What a tragedy.”

“Not a tragedy,” Shane corrected. Her silver eyes softened. “A survival tactic. He thought if he controlled himself enough, if he went silent, maybe love would stop hurting. But all it taught was distance. And children… they felt every inch of it.” Loki’s voice cracked with anger. “So he chose silence, and Shidou chose laughter he became quiet. And the kids—” His hands clenched. “The kids watched their parents survive each other instead of living with them. That’s unforgivable.”

Snuffy turned to him gently. “Is it? The children still draw them together. Even Reika, quiet as she is, still draws them side by side. That’s not hatred. That’s hope.” Noa inclined his head. “Exactly. That was the core of their exchange: the children still want them together. Reika’s drawing was proof. Shidou saw it, Sae admitted it. The silence didn’t erase the bond — it scarred it. But scars aren’t endings.”

Shane’s tone warmed slightly, though her professionalism held. “And Shidou said it plainly: silence is what broke them. Not chaos. Not fights. Silence. He’s been waiting years for Sae to hear that.” Chris whistled low, grinning. “And what do you know — Sae actually listened. Didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t cut him off. Just… let it sit. Hell, he even said something soft back.”

“Not just soft,” Lavinho said, his grin fading to something more thoughtful. “Intimate. He told Shidou he didn’t have to be quiet to be good. That he didn’t have to break himself into pieces to be palatable. For Sae, that’s practically poetry.” Snuffy’s eyes softened. “Because he meant it. And Shidou needed to hear it. That he isn’t a joke. That his role as ‘Omega’ isn’t shameful. That loving loudly isn’t wrong.”

Loki’s lip curled. “Words are easy. Forgiveness isn’t.” Noa’s tone cut clean through. “Forgiveness was already there. The children slept between them without fear. That’s proof enough.” Ego adjusted his glasses again, frowning “Not proof. Leverage. They admitted regret, yes. They admitted failure. But regret isn’t action. What I saw was potential — and potential, my dear Shane, is a currency we can exploit.” Shane gave him a withering look, but chose her words carefully. “They don’t need exploitation. They need structure. Therapy. Consistent pressure until those confessions aren’t whispered in the dark but spoken in daylight.”

Snuffy nodded. “Exactly. Shidou already asked the hardest question — ‘Did we hurt them that badly?’ Sae already broke the first wall by sitting beside him. This isn’t the end. It’s the beginning. But they’ll need help to stay open.” Chris snorted, though softer now. “Good luck dragging Sae to therapy. He barely tolerates teammates, let alone therapists. You’ll be wasting time.”

“Not if it’s Noa,” Ego said sharply. The others turned to him again. “I already said I’ll do it,” Noa replied evenly. “Not as therapy. As necessity. He respects me enough to listen. And if he doesn’t, I’ll make him.” Loki frowned, voice low. “And Shidou?”

“He’ll talk if Sae does,” Shane said confidently. “He’s desperate to be heard. He’s desperate for someone to tell him he isn’t broken. He’ll come, if only to prove himself.” Lavinho grinned again. “So we’ve got a plan then, eh? Noa playing therapist, Shane with her notes, Ego pulling strings. All for the sake of three little gremlins with sharp tongues and sharper instincts. Not bad.”

“No,” Snuffy said softly. “All for the sake of keeping them from losing their Okaa-san a second time. That’s what this is really about. Not Sae. Not Shidou. The children.” The room fell silent again, every eye drifting back to the frozen frame of the triplets curled against Shidou’s chest, Sae’s rigid figure beside them. And slowly, deliberately, the weight of that silence shifted. Not despair. Not chaos. Possibility.

“Let’s move on to another point…” Ego’s voice sliced the air, sharp as the projector’s glow. The next clip flickered alive on the screen: Rin, stiff as a board, triplets clinging to him like decorative chaos. Hikaru’s innocent chirp filled the room: “Hey, Auntie Rin, why do you think we call you Auntie and not Uncle?” Chris Prince nearly choked on his own laughter before the scene was even finished. “Oh, this is going to be delicious,” he drawled, folding one leg over the other like he was settling in for theatre. On-screen, Rin bristled. “I’m a guy. That makes me an uncle.”

“Because you’re pretty. Offensively pretty. It’s your fault,” Haruna replied, arms crossed. The conference room erupted in different ways. Chris slapped the table with glee, Lavinho wheezed behind his sunglasses, and even Snuffy smiled, though he quickly wiped it away. Shane pressed her lips together, silver eyes dancing despite her attempt at professionalism. “I—well, they’re not wrong. Rin is… aesthetically gifted.” Chris pounced instantly. “Aesthetically gifted? Oh, Shane, don’t dress it up. The boy’s a walking model. Even his children can’t deny it.”

“Focus,” Noa said flatly, though his gaze lingered on the footage. Then the bomb dropped. Hikaru jabbed a thumb toward Isagi. “That’s for Uncle Isagi. Your husband.” Isagi’s meltdown was spectacular. Stuttering, flailing, his blush climbing to crimson while Rin practically combusted beside him. Anri gasped into her hands, whispering, “Married…? With kids…?” like she was processing the collapse of her entire reality. Shidou’s laughter echoed through the speakers, manic and delighted. Rin’s voice followed, sharp enough to slice steel: “I WILL END YOU. I WOULD NEVER MARRY HIM. HE’S MY RIVAL.”

The footage froze there: Rin’s death glare, Isagi’s broken posture, Shidou writhing in hysterics, and the triplets smirking like little prophets. Chris leaned back, clapping slowly. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present: the greatest rom-com reveal of our generation.” Lavinho cackled. “A veil! A wedding! I want the photos, amigo. Somebody find me the future scrapbook.”

But Snuffy’s voice cut through the laughter, low and deliberate. “Jest if you want, but don’t ignore the truth buried there. Children don’t invent bonds like that. Not with such certainty. They named Isagi husband. Five children. It is not comedy. That is evidence.” Loki slammed a palm on the table, startling even Chris into silence. His brown eyes burned. “And Rin denied it. Violently. You saw him—he was unraveling. He wants it, but he hates himself for it. That’s not funny. It’s pain.” Shane’s hand stilled on her notebook. “He’s flustered because it’s too close to what he feels. He’s still a teenager. He doesn’t know what to do with wanting something that terrifying. So he denies it.”

Ego’s frown sharpened. “Which makes it leverage. Don’t mistake their banter for harmless. If the children are right, Rin and Isagi’s union is a future with massive consequences. An Alpha and Omega pairing in this facility, bonded, with offspring? That alters dynamics permanently.” Chris grinned wickedly. “Oh, come on, Ego. You say it like it’s a tactical disaster. I say it’s ratings gold. ‘From rivals to spouses—Blue Lock’s greatest enemies become family.’ You can’t script better television.”

“Television?” Loki snapped, eyes narrowing at him. “This is Rin’s life. He has feelings—he isn’t your comedy show.” Snuffy hummed thoughtfully. “And yet… the boy’s denial was violent. That tells me it’s truth he can’t bear to face yet. Not that it isn’t real.” Lavinho smirked. “So what? Let them crash into it when they’re ready. Fire burns brightest when you don’t douse it too early.”

Shane exhaled slowly, tapping her pen against her notebook. “But the children spoke with certainty. That makes it less about if and more about when. And if Rin keeps fighting it like this… he could destroy himself before it ever happens.” Noa finally spoke, voice calm, anchored. “Which means our job isn’t to laugh. It’s to make sure when it happens, it doesn’t break him. Or Isagi.”

Ego steepled his fingers, satisfied. “Exactly. Let the children carry the truth for now. Rin can deny it all he wants. But his future is already written. Our task is to keep him alive long enough to meet it.” Silence settled again, heavy but charged. The frozen frame glowed across the table: Rin glaring, Isagi blushing, the children smirking like fate itself. And beneath it all, the room carried two truths at once: —this was hilarious. —and this was inevitable.

“Now for Kaiser’s progress…” Ego’s voice broke the room’s residual tension. The frozen frame of Rin’s denial flickered off the projector, replaced with neat, clinical notes scrolling across the wall. Names. Dates.

Therapy: Session 1–5.

A column labeled Attendance. Two missed. One dragged. The masters stilled. The laughter that had buzzed minutes before thinned into quiet. This wasn’t comedy. This was case study. The sun slanted low through the glass wall, gold falling across the table. Too gentle for the subject at hand. Shane folded her hands over her notebook. Silver eyes steady, though she knew the air had already tightened around her. “Kaiser skipped the third and fourth session. Noa escorted him to the fifth.” Chris Prince raised both brows, smirking. “Dragged him in, did you?” Noa didn’t blink. “Yes.” Chris laughed under his breath. “God, I wish I’d seen it. Michael, heels dug in, scowling like a schoolboy—”

“This isn’t a performance,” Snuffy cut in, voice sharp. “If he avoids help, he avoids growth. Laugh later. Listen now.” Lavinho leaned his chin into his palm, sunglasses glinting. “Alright, alright. Let the smart doctor tell us what our little emperor confessed.” Shane ignored the “smart doctor” jab, though Chris smirked at it. Her tone didn’t rise, didn’t harden. Only stayed steady. “Session five was the first time Kaiser showed… restraint. He sat closest to the door. Body language defensive. Shoulders braced, eyes down. He didn’t trust the space. But he didn’t run.” Loki crossed his arms, expression cool but attentive. “And?”

Shane glanced at her notes. “He spoke. Not in arrogance. Not in performance. In fear.” The room quieted further. Even Chris straightened. Shane continued, voice gentler now: “He asked if his son hated him. He said Magnus’ eyes are too sharp, too familiar. He said every time Theo looks at him, he sees himself—the same jaw, the same hands. And he’s afraid. Afraid his son only sees danger. Afraid he’s already ruined him.” Anri’s pen stilled on her clipboard. Her throat bobbed once. Snuffy frowned deeply. “That is not arrogance. That’s an inherited wound.”

Noa inclined his head. “Go on.” Shane exhaled. “He spoke about his father. Beatings. The command to never cry it only makes it worse. To fight instead of pray. He said football became the only way to survive. To become someone untouchable.” Chris’s grin faltered. Lavinho’s jaw shifted behind his glasses. Loki’s fingers tapped restless on the table. “And when he spoke about Theo,”

Shane added softly, “he admitted he never wanted a child. He barely understands Ness. And now he fears Theo is only evidence of what he can’t be—gentle. Safe. Good.” Lavinho let out a slow whistle. “That’s heavier than I thought his soul carried.” Snuffy looked toward Noa. “And you dragged him there?”

“Yes.” Noa’s voice was flat as iron. “He refused. Twice. His pride was more important. So I made the decision for him.”

“And he spoke?” Snuffy pressed. “He did,” Noa confirmed. His gaze slid briefly toward Shane. “Because she didn’t flinch.” Shane inclined her head, but her tone sharpened slightly. “Kaiser isn’t hollow. He’s afraid. His entire arrogance is scaffolding. A fortress built by a child who was told crying made him weak. If you strip that arrogance too fast, you’ll break him before you build him.” Loki’s voice was cold but laced with something raw. “So don’t strip it. Replace it. Give him something else to lean on.”

Ego’s glasses flashed. “Soft words from a child still growing into his own arrogance.” Loki shot him a glare, but Noa cut across smoothly: “What else?” Shane flipped a page. Her pen hovered, then pressed. “The breakthrough was small. I asked him if he wanted to be better. Not for his career. Not for Ness. For himself. He hesitated. And then he said: I want to try.” The table stilled. Even Ego’s smirk froze for a second before curving sharper. “Pathetic. But useful.” Snuffy ignored him. His gaze stayed locked on Shane. “And you believe him?” Shane nodded once. “Yes. He meant it.” Chris tilted his head, grin creeping back. “Cute. Our golden peacock finally admits he has a heart.”

“Don’t trivialize it,” Shane said without looking at him. Chris chuckled, but there was no heat in it. Noa’s tone stayed level. “What did you assign him?”

“A worksheet,” Shane said simply. “Write to his younger self. He told the boy it wasn’t his fault. That the world was broken, not him. That one day, he’d be loved.” Lavinho tapped his fingers on the table, slower now. “And did he believe it?” Shane’s lips pressed faintly. “He held back tears. That’s belief fighting shame.” Silence hung, heavy. Then Loki said quietly, “Theo’s watching him. That’s why he hasn’t run. He wants to be seen by the boy who hates him. He just doesn’t know how yet.”

Snuffy nodded. “The child is leverage, yes—but also light. A reason.” Noa’s gaze was cool, unyielding. “I’ll continue escorting him until attendance is consistent.” Ego smirked. “How noble. The Alpha knight dragging the fallen emperor.” But Shane’s voice rose, calm but firm, slicing the smirk in two. “It isn’t noble. It’s necessary. Kaiser isn’t a monster. He’s an injured man with the body of a father and the heart of a frightened child. And Magnus deserves to see that father try.” Her words lingered. Even Chris didn’t laugh this time.

Anri scribbled quickly, almost furiously, to catch every phrase. Lavinho hummed low, like he was chewing the words. Snuffy looked faintly relieved, though he tried to mask it with his beard. Loki sat rigid, jaw tight, teal eyes unreadable. Noa simply nodded once. “Then he will keep trying.” Ego leaned back, satisfied. “Very well. Then Blue Lock gains not just a striker in progress… but a father in repair. Consider me entertained.” Shane’s silver gaze flicked toward him. “It isn’t entertainment.” But Ego only smiled, thin and cruel. “Everything here is.” The sun shifted higher, washing the table in brighter gold. The notes still glowed on the projector:

Session 5 — I want to try.

And beneath the clinical bullet points, the room felt the truth: For once, Michael Kaiser hadn’t been a king. He’d been a boy. And maybe, finally, a father. Ego clicked the remote again. The footage did not roll this time—only the caption across the screen:

Yesterday Afternoon | Hallway Encounter: Rin Itoshi & Sae Itoshi

“Next case,” Ego intoned, voice flat. “The Itoshi brothers. You don’t need the audio. You’ll hear it in the report.” The masters leaned forward. Even Chris, lounging moments ago, straightened. Shane glanced once at Ego, then at her notes. The room was too bright for this—sunlight scattering across polished wood, casting long shadows over paper. She kept her voice steady, though the weight pressed against her ribs. “This happened yesterday afternoon,” she began. “Rin encountered Sae in the corridor. Tension was immediate. No greeting. No courtesy. Only confrontation.”

Snuffy grunted. “And?” Shane’s gaze lowered to her notebook. “Rin accused Sae of abandoning him as a child. Leaving at eleven. Never writing. Never visiting. He said it made him feel unloved. Unprotected. He described suppressed heats, reckless fights, years of loneliness as an Omega with no shield.” Lavinho exhaled through his nose. “Eleven years old…” He shook his head, sunglasses hiding the flicker in his eyes. “Too young for that weight.” Noa’s voice was low. “And Sae?”

“He admitted he didn’t realize,” Shane said quietly. “But Rin snapped that he never asked. Rin said he waited for years—believing if he was good enough, Sae would come back. That maybe he was unworthy.” The silence that followed was sharp. Chris broke it, frowning. “That’s… not rivalry. That’s abandonment trauma.” Loki’s hands clenched on the table. “He’s right to be furious. Eleven, and left without protection? He’s not just a rival, he’s his little brother.” The word brother cracked out harder than expected, like it cost him something. Shane nodded faintly. “Rin contrasted it directly with Sae staying with Shidou. Staying with their children. He said: You stayed for them. But not for me.”

Snuffy cursed low in Italian, rubbing a hand over his chin. “That would cut deeper than any strike.” Anri’s pen hovered uselessly. For once, she didn’t write. “And Sae?” Lavinho asked, voice softer. Shane looked down at her notes. “Silent. Shaken. He had no answer. Shidou intervened—exhausted—telling them to stop screaming and take their fight elsewhere. Then he left. The confrontation ended unresolved.” Noa’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. “Rin deserved the truth. He got silence instead.” Ego frowned faintly. “Sae isn’t built for confrontation outside the pitch. He runs from it. And Rin—Rin has waited too long to let him run again.”

Loki’s jaw tightened. “He doesn’t get to run. He left him. An Omega boy, alone. That’s not rivalry. That’s negligence.” Shane interjected carefully, “It is both. They are rivals now—but the foundation was laid long before. Rin’s fury isn’t just professional. It’s personal. It’s survival.” Chris tapped the table once, sharp. “So what do we do? Force them into family therapy? Or let them tear each other apart until one bleeds out?” Shane’s silver eyes flicked toward him. “Neither. What you saw was the first cut of an old wound. You don’t stitch it by forcing their hands. You give them space. But not escape.”

Snuffy leaned back, arms crossed. “Sae will resist. He’ll call it unnecessary. He’ll say Rin should grow thicker skin. Classic Alpha arrogance.” Noa’s gaze was hard as stone. “Then he will be required.” Chris snorted. “You’ll drag him too?”

“Yes,” Noa said simply. Ego’s smirk widened. “The master grows busier by the day.” Lavinho finally spoke, voice measured. “The truth is—they mirror each other. Sae speaks only in tactics. Rin only in rage. One hides in silence, the other in fire. Both are waiting for the other to admit fault.”

“And neither will,” Loki muttered bitterly. “Not yet,” Shane agreed. “But they both want something from each other. Sae wants forgiveness without confession. Rin wants protection without asking. Both still ache for a bond they claim they don’t need.” Anri finally whispered, almost to herself, “They’re just boys. Still boys.” The weight of it lingered. Noa’s voice cut through. “Then what’s the plan?” Shane answered carefully. “Separate therapy, first. Confrontation sessions, later. If they collide too soon, they’ll only deepen the wound. But ignoring it would be worse. Rin has already voiced what silence cost him. If Sae repeats that mistake here, we risk breaking Rin entirely.” Loki’s brown eyes burned. “And if Rin breaks, so does Isagi.”

The name landed heavy. Chris whistled low. “Now there’s the domino effect.” Ego’s smile sharpened. “Exactly. Blue Lock is built on fragile threads. One pulls, the whole fabric unravels. Delicious, isn’t it?” Snuffy glared at him. “You’re playing with children’s bones.”

“And building diamonds from them,” Ego countered smoothly. Noa’s silence was heavier than any argument. Shane closed her notebook gently. “This is not entertainment. These are lives. And if you want them to keep playing, you have to let them start healing.” The projector hummed, the caption still glowing:

Hallway Encounter: Unresolved.

Silence draped the table, thick as smoke. For the first time all morning, no one laughed. The projector dimmed, leaving only the hard light of morning across the table. Silence weighed heavy—until Ego exhaled sharply and tapped the edge of his tablet. “Enough observation,” he said. “We move to protocols.” His tone was cool, but the edges had softened, barely, like something else bled through the cracks. The others noticed. “What protocols?” Chris asked, slouching back but brows drawn. “They’re kids. Chaos is their protocol.” Ego’s gaze sliced sideways. “They are children with foreknowledge. With attachments that fracture my players’ focus. That’s no small chaos—it’s a timeline hazard.” Snuffy rumbled low. “So we cage them? Lock them up?”

“No,” Shane said firmly before Ego could answer. “They’re children, not prisoners. Protocol must protect them—but also protect the players from breaking under them.” Ego didn’t argue. Instead, his eyes lingered on her—then flicked to Noa. “Especially the Omegas.” That shifted the air. “Rin. Shidou. Ness. Reo. Niko, Chigiri,” Ego listed slowly. “Every Omega in this facility is now exposed to trauma they weren’t meant to confront. Dead timelines. Dead partners. Children they didn’t plan for. Do you know what that does to an Omega nervous system?” His voice cracked sharp, but it wasn’t anger. It was fear dressed as steel. “It shatters them.” The masters stilled. For once, even Chris didn’t quip. “And you care,” Snuffy muttered, not mocking, just surprised.

Ego’s eyes glimmered with something too human. “Because I know what it feels like. To be unprotected.” Shane’s chest tightened. That was more than data; that was confession. Noa leaned forward, broad frame shadowing the table. “Then we shield them. That’s our job.” His voice was resolute, quiet thunder. Ego’s gaze snapped to him. “And what happens when your shield isn’t enough, Noa? When your training schedules rip them open instead of closing the wound?” A spark lit between them, sharp, familiar. “Then I carry it,” Noa said, unwavering. “You can’t carry trauma like dumbbells,” Ego hissed.

“And you can’t coddle them until they forget who they are,” Noa shot back. The air between them was electric, heat pushing against steel. Anri coughed nervously, eyes darting between them like she’d stumbled into a lovers’ quarrel mid-simmer. Shane, carefully, broke the tension. “Protocols don’t have to be extremes. We can structure both.” Lavinho tilted his shades down. “Structure like what?”

“Step one,” Shane said. “Therapy isn’t optional. Sae, Kaiser, Rin, Shidou, Ness—priority one. They resist, they’re escorted. No more skipped sessions.” Chris raised a brow. “Dragged kicking and screaming? That’ll go over well.”

“They’ll thank us later,” Shane replied, unflinching. Snuffy grunted. “What else?”

“Step two: protective monitoring for the kids. Not surveillance. Guardianship. They need safe zones, set routines, anchors. Right now, they’re untethered, and untethered children break faster than adults.” Loki finally spoke, voice low. “Especially Rin’s. He won’t say it, but… he’s hanging by a thread.” All eyes flicked to him. Loki didn’t fidget, but his jaw clenched. “I know that look. That silence. It’s the same way Rin was before he…” He cut himself off. Looked away. “He won’t survive another disappearance.” The words hung, heavy and true. Chris rubbed the back of his neck. “So, therapy for the parents. Guardrails for the kids. What about the time-travel paradox stuff?”

Ego tapped his tablet. “Step three: No unsupervised contact with critical matches. No leaks to the public. We control the narrative. The less the world knows, the safer they remain.” Noa nodded. “And if the kids resist?”

“They won’t,” Shane said softly. “Because they came here to save their parents. If we frame the protocols as protection, not punishment, they’ll cooperate.” Lavinho chuckled dryly. “Frame it well, then. These kids bite harder than their parents.” Chris finally cracked a grin. “True. Ren almost tackled Theo like it was a Champions League final. I respect it.” Snuffy smirked faintly. “You would.” But the levity didn’t last long. The worry seeped back in. Ego straightened, voice colder again. “New protocols effective immediately. Therapy enforcement. Safe zones. No timeline disruptions. Failures will be punished.” His eyes swept the table. “Because if this collapses, it won’t just break them. It breaks all of us.”

Noa’s gaze caught his, steady, unwavering. “Then we don’t let it collapse.” For a moment—just a breath—their stares locked, tension electric, intimate in its sharpness. A promise, or a threat. Maybe both. The others shifted awkwardly, watching something unspoken simmer in the air. Shane closed her notebook softly. “Then it’s decided.” Loki leaned back, crossing his arms, gaze fixed on the dim projector. “We better pray it’s enough.” The sun had shifted higher, spilling across the table like a spotlight. For all their strength, all their tactics, all their egos—what lay ahead wasn’t just football. It was family. And none of them had a perfect playbook for that. The screen pulsed alive, system text flashing across it:

“Maintenance done.”

Then the words shifted, red and urgent.

“⚠️ ALERT: New Children Detected.”

Anri startled, clutching her tablet. “E-Ego! Surveillance just pinged six unfamiliar signatures inside Blue Lock!” Ego’s eyes narrowed. “Pull cafeteria feed. Now. The most players will be there.” The footage clicked over. The grainy live feed filled the wall, audio faint but enough to carry the buzz of voices. The footage played. More children. A cafeteria in chaos. Kai swaggering in, Itsuki declaring himself Rin and Isagi’s eldest, the younger siblings crying, Rin clutching them all like the world might steal them away. Then silence, the whole room staring, frozen. The screen dimmed.

For a moment, nobody moved. The faint hum of the projector was the only sound in the room. The cafeteria scene had been short—two more arrivals, more proof, more children pulled out of a timeline none of them could see. Kai flamboyant and chaotic, Itsuki sharp and steady, Minato breaking down in front of everyone, Rin clutching his baby close while the cafeteria froze around him. That was the picture. That was enough. Ego leaned back in his chair, his eyes sharp but his expression strangely tight. “So. Six more. That makes eleven.” His voice came out flatter than usual, like he was holding something in. “And each one confirming what the others already told us.”

Chris blew out a low whistle, running a hand through his blond hair. “Not gonna lie—every time one of those kids shows up, it feels less like a game and more like a soap opera. Family drama, time travel, dead parents—what’s next, an evil twin?”

“Chris.” Noa’s voice cut sharp, like a warning. Chris shrugged, unbothered, though his eyes flicked to Shane when he said it. She didn’t react, just folded her hands in her lap and stayed quiet. Snuffy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I don’t give a damn about the theatrics. What I saw was Rin holding his kids like the ground was being ripped out from under him. That’s not a player who’s gonna stay focused on matches. That’s a parent running on instinct.”

Lavinho hummed, tapping a finger against his chin. “And the eldest—Itsuki. He spoke like someone twice his age. Cold, sharp, measured. That doesn’t happen unless he had to grow up too fast. Which means everything those kids are warning about—it’s not just scare tactics. They lived it.” The weight settled heavier. Loki crossed his arms, looking restless, almost too young for the chair he was in but not for the concern in his voice. “They keep talking about Rin dying. Over and over. Do you realize what that does to him, hearing it again and again?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “He’s already brittle. If they keep pushing him, I don’t know how long he can take it.”

Shane finally spoke, calm but firm. “He’s not the only one. Look at the way Minato reacted. The kid went from joy to terror in seconds. And Sato—he tries to be composed, but he was crying too. That’s not normal grieving. That’s trauma resurfacing every time they say Rin’s gone. They need stability. They need to know they’re safe.” Ego’s eyes cut to her, sharp. But when he spoke, his tone wasn’t dismissive. “You think I don’t see that? I’ve spent years studying egos and instincts, and what I see now isn’t ambition breaking. It’s bonds. Broken ones. They’re my players, but they’re also… my kids.” He caught himself on the last word, jaw tightening, but he didn’t take it back. The table went quiet.

Snuffy’s brows rose slightly. “You mean that.” Ego looked down at his clasped hands, the edge of his usual arrogance nowhere in sight. “Of course I mean it. I know what it’s like to be an Omega left to fend for yourself. To be treated like you’re weaker, disposable, something to use and then discard. I won’t let them repeat it.” He lifted his gaze again, hard. “Not Rin. Not Isagi. Not any of them.”

Noa studied him for a long moment. Something passed between them—old familiarity, maybe even something sharper—but Noa was the one to break the silence. “Then we need new rules. New protections. Protocols to keep them from collapsing under this.” Loki scoffed lightly, not at the idea but at the understatement. “New rules? More like a whole new playbook. You can’t just tell a kid who’s seen their parent die to focus on drills.”

“Exactly.” Shane leaned forward, her tone steady, her therapist voice coming through. “If we push them into pretending it’s normal, we’ll just be repeating what broke them in the first place. They need room to process. They need people who’ll listen.” Chris tilted his head, smirk tugging at his mouth. “So what—you want us to hold their hands? Sing lullabies in the dorms?”

“Chris.” Noa’s voice had an edge again, but Shane answered before it could escalate. “They don’t need lullabies. They need to know they’re not alone. That if they speak, someone hears them. That if they break, someone’s there to help them put the pieces back together. It’s not coddling. It’s survival.” Chris went quiet, smirk slipping a little. Snuffy leaned back in his chair with a grunt. “Ego’s right. This isn’t about football anymore. Not right now. If Rin can’t breathe without thinking he’s about to leave his kids behind, what’s the point of putting him on the field?”

Lavinho gave a small shrug, his usual charm tempered. “Football might be the reason they’re all here, but it’s not the reason they’ll stay standing. We forget that, we lose them before the game even starts.” Loki muttered under his breath, almost too soft, “He already thinks he lost Sae. If he loses himself too…” He trailed off, shaking his head. The silence stretched again. This time, it was Ego who broke it. “We need to set up therapy schedules asap. Non-negotiable. Not just for Rin. For Sae, for Shidou, for Kaiser, for every one of them who can’t see past their own damage. Shane can’t carry all of it, but she’s the start.”

Shane blinked, surprised he said it so openly. “You actually want them in therapy?” Ego gave a humorless laugh. “Want? No. But they need it. Sae especially. He’ll fight it, but he needs someone who can make him see past his silence. And Kaiser—Noa, keep dragging him in if you have to.” Noa didn’t hesitate. “Already do.” Chris raised a brow. “That explains why Kaiser looks like he’d rather eat glass every time he walks past you.”

“He’ll live,” Noa said flatly. Shane gave the faintest smile, but it faded quickly. “They’ll all live if we can keep them from burning out. Therapy isn’t about fixing them—it’s about giving them tools so they don’t collapse every time the future slams into the present.” Ego’s fingers tapped once against the table, restless. “And in the meantime, we enforce boundaries. No player left alone after these kids appear. No ignoring Omega distress. No pretending football comes first when family is bleeding in front of us.”

That drew a few looks—Chris arching a brow, Lavinho adjusting his shades, Snuffy stroking his chin. “You’re serious,” Snuffy said. Ego met his eyes without flinching. “Dead serious. They’re my players, but they’re also Omegas, Alphas, Betas who’ve been shoved into roles they didn’t choose. They deserve more than drills and strategy. They deserve to not repeat the mistakes that already broke them.” The words hung heavy, more raw than they’d ever heard from him. Noa finally spoke, voice low. “Then we do it. We put the kids first. The rest will follow.”

Nobody argued. The meeting dragged on with details—schedules, restrictions, adjustments—but the core was clear. This wasn’t about games anymore. It was about keeping their players whole, even if that meant rewriting everything Blue Lock was built on. Ego sat back, expression unreadable, but his fingers had stilled. The hum of the projector filled the room again. And in that silence, something unspoken settled between him and Noa—tension, yes, but also agreement. For once, they wanted the same thing.

The room was already heavy with Itsuki’s revelation when the wall screen pulsed again. “Alert—cafeteria feed updated.” Anri’s voice was shaky. Fingers flew across the console. The footage snapped back online, live.

On Screen:

The cafeteria was suffocatingly quiet after Itsuki’s words. The air hung heavy, no one daring to move. Then the doors slammed open. Isagi stormed in. His face was pale, jaw locked, eyes burning. He crossed the room in seconds and punched Sae clean across the face. Gasps filled the cafeteria. The impact echoed. Isagi hauled Sae up by the collar, shaking with rage. His mouth moved—accusations, sharp and unrelenting. The words weren’t clear through the feed, but the fury was. Sae stayed still, mask unbroken, saying almost nothing. Until—flat words that seemed to push Isagi over the edge.

Shidou shifted instantly, his usual chaos stripped away. He was protective, watchful. Muscles tensed like a wolf in the corner, ready to tear the room apart if Sae or Isagi went too far. But he didn’t step in—not yet. The fight was barely contained. Sae finally muttered something, cold, detached. A concession too thin, too late. Isagi shoved him back hard, Alpha aura blazing, then stormed away. The cafeteria collectively exhaled, but the air stayed tight, uneasy, like a bomb that hadn’t gone off yet.

“Shit,” Chris muttered. His grin was gone. Snuffy’s brow furrowed deep. “That’s not a rivalry anymore. That’s blood.” Loki’s voice was low, brittle with something that sounded too much like fear. “Isagi’s right. Sae… he doesn’t see Rin’s life as his responsibility anymore. That’s the problem.” Shane sat back, jaw tight. “It’s worse than that. Sae’s normalized it. He thinks detachment is survival. And Rin—Rin’s been living in that silence for years.”

Ego’s fingers drummed sharp against the table, then stilled. He didn’t look at anyone, only the dark screen. “…Drag Sae to therapy.” The words were clipped, final. His tone brooked no argument. Noa nodded once. “I’ll handle it.” Shane glanced at him. “He’s going to fight you on it.” Noa’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, but flat. “Then I’ll fight harder.” Ego exhaled, long and unsteady. For a rare second, the edge slipped and his concern bled through. “If Rin dies again—if that bond fractures like the children described—it’s not just Isagi that breaks. It’s everyone orbiting him. And then all of this—Blue Lock, our players, their futures—none of it matters.”

The silence that followed was thick. No one argued. Because they all knew he was right. Anri shifted nervously. “Should we… should we suspend training for today? Give them time—” Ego shook his head. “No. Routine holds them together. But therapy comes first. Everything else comes second.” The line felt final, heavier than any order he’d ever given. Snuffy leaned back, arms crossed. “So we drag Sae. We keep Isagi from exploding again. We keep Rin breathing. That’s the list?”

“That’s the list,” Ego confirmed. Shane rose slowly, collecting her notes, her pen tucked sharp into the pages. “Then I’ll start clearing my office. Whoever comes in first, comes in first.” Chris muttered under his breath, “We’re not football coaches anymore.” Lavinho smirked faintly, though his tone was flat. “We never were. Not in this room.” The screen dimmed. The tension didn’t. Ego stood, movements tight. “Meeting adjourned.” His voice was low, but the final words cracked sharp enough to sting. “Tonight, we reassess. For now—pray nothing else breaks.”

He didn’t wait for agreement. He turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him..The masters lingered, each quiet in their own weight. Loki leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his temple. Snuffy exhaled a slow curse. Chris drummed restless fingers but didn’t speak. And Shane… Shane tucked her notes close, already moving toward her office, her mind heavy with the faces of children crying for parents who didn’t know how to hold them.

DAY 8 — 7:56 a.m.

BLUE LOCK CAFETERIA

Shidou leaned back in his chair, pretending to look bored while the cafeteria buzzed like a hive about to collapse. Every whisper, every wide-eyed glance, every muttered “dead in the future” felt like it was rattling the windows. And right there in the middle of it all was golden boy Isagi, crouched over those kids like some goddamn guardian wolf, shielding them from every eye in the room.

Shidou dug his nails into his palm under the table, hard enough to sting. Anything to keep from snarling out loud. He could feel the tension radiating off the room like static, everyone frozen between horror and fascination. Rin dies in the future. Rin. Dead. And there was Isagi again, center stage without even trying. Holding his kids close, murmuring reassurance, making himself their shield. That was what a mate did. That was what love looked like. It shouldn’t have made his stomach twist, but it did. Because Shidou had wanted that. Hell, he’d thought he had that once.

And Rin—Rin’s kids. The little brats that carried both their faces like stamps on their foreheads. It stung, sharper than he wanted to admit. Because he could see it. The picture that Itsuki kid had painted earlier. Rin and Isagi — a solid pair, no cracks in their bond, five kids and a routine. Even the way the little ones looked at them now, clinging to their legs, trusting them without a second thought. That was what the future looked like.

He glanced at Sae — stone-faced, silent, unreadable. Like always. That was their bond. A glacier. Untouchable. He’d convinced himself that was enough, that he didn’t need declarations or affection because he was strong enough to survive without them. But watching Isagi put his whole chest into defending Rin — even in a story from the damn future — it cut too deep.

And he’d been there, standing next to Sae all this time, thinking they were untouchable too. Only difference was—he wasn’t. His jaw flexed, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek as his eyes cut sideways to Sae. Stone-faced bastard, sipping his coffee like he didn’t just get accused — indirectly, sure, but loud enough — of being the root cause of his own brother’s death. Of tearing a bond so deep it left scars that bled into the future. And the silence. That was what gutted Shidou most. Sae wasn’t saying a word. Not here. Not in the story Itsuki told. Not anywhere.

Isagi had defended Rin, apparently. Called a press conference, shut down the vultures who dared say an Omega should stay home, who whispered that Rin should play small, dim his fire. Isagi had burned for him. Sae? Sae had let the world talk. Shidou’s throat tightened. He knew what that silence felt like. Knew the way it sank into your bones like poison, the way it whispered: you’re on your own, nobody’s coming to save you. Because he’d felt it before. As an Omega, standing shoulder to shoulder with an Alpha like Sae, the whispers had been different but just as cruel.

Why him? Why not a Beta, another Alpha? Why waste Sae’s time with someone like that?

He’d laughed it off, played the wild dog, pretended none of it stuck. But it did. And Sae’s silence — that same goddamn silence — had been the nail in the coffin. His grip tightened on the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened. And watching Isagi now, the way he put his body between Rin and the world, even when Rin didn’t ask for it — hell, especially then — it twisted something ugly in Shidou’s gut. Jealousy burned hot and bitter, climbing his throat like bile.

Because Isagi had done what Sae never did. He’d made it clear, loud and proud, that Rin was worth protecting. Worth fighting for. That being an Omega didn’t mean being weaker. And Shidou? Shidou was sitting here realizing he’d never once heard Sae say anything like that about him to the masses. Never once. The thought made him sick.

Isagi had told the world that Rin was worth everything. That being an Omega didn’t diminish him, that anyone who thought otherwise could choke on their words. He’d thrown himself into the fire just to make sure Rin wasn’t burned. Sae had never done that. Not for Rin. Not for Shidou. Sae’s silence had always been the sharpest blade. Back then, when the press had whispered, when teammates sneered, when strangers muttered that an Omega like Shidou wasn’t worth standing beside Japan’s “perfect Alpha,” he’d laughed it off, barked back, made a scene. Because if he didn’t, the silence would eat him alive. And Sae? He never said a word.

No denial. No defense. Not even a quiet reassurance when the cameras were gone. Just cold cedar-salt silence. Shidou had told himself it was fine, that Sae’s attention was enough, that words didn’t matter. But sitting here now, he realized he’d been starving the whole time. Starving for something as simple as what Isagi had given Rin without hesitation: recognition. A public claim. Proof. Because the truth was brutal: Rin had flourished under it. Thrived. You could see it in those kids, in the way they clung to their parents like the world was unshakable.

And Shidou? He felt small. Smaller than he ever wanted to admit. Like maybe he’d been a placeholder all along. A convenient body. A temporary fire. Never a partner. Jealousy burned so hot it almost felt like sickness. He wanted to rip his hair out, scream at Sae, demand why the hell couldn’t you have done that for me?

Because maybe if Sae had, things wouldn’t have ended the way they did. Maybe Shidou wouldn’t be sitting here now, watching someone else live the kind of bond he’d secretly craved all his life. His hands shook under the table. He curled them into fists, hiding it, his grin straining at the edges like a mask about to crack. Because the cruelest part? Isagi wasn’t even trying. He was just being himself. Loving Rin openly, shamelessly, fiercely. Something Shidou had never gotten from Sae, no matter how much he’d given, no matter how much he’d burned. And Shidou hated that it hurt.

His eyes stayed on Sae, searching for something, anything behind that calm mask — guilt, anger, regret. But there was nothing. Just cedar-salt coldness, locked up tight. Shidou’s lip curled, his chest aching with the ugly cocktail of envy and rage.

If you can’t even fight for the people you claim to love… then what the hell are you worth?

The cafeteria had fallen into that strange, brittle quiet where even the sound of a chopsticks against a bowl seemed too loud. Nobody touched their trays anymore, though most were still half-full. The players weren’t hungry. They were reeling. The words from earlier — Rin dies in the future — still buzzed in their skulls like static.

You could see it in their eyes: Kunigami’s stiff jaw, Chigiri’s fingers drumming restlessly on the table, Reo clinging too tightly to Nagi’s sleeve. Even Bachira, normally the loudest spark in the room, sat subdued, gaze flicking between faces like he was trying to glue them back together with a smile that wouldn’t come. The kids’ presence made it worse. Itsuki had re-entered with the younger ones not long ago, Amane cradled easily against his hip, Aoi and Sato bickering half-heartedly over which bread roll looked better, Minato loudly insisting that “Mama already gived Amane milk! See, she burped, she’s full!” His childish voice rang over the room like a bell that no one dared answer.

The teens couldn’t look away. Their hearts twisted because kids shouldn’t be carrying warnings of death on their small shoulders. It was into that suffocating stillness that the door slammed open. Noa’s entrance was a blade through fog. His presence pulled every gaze in the room like gravity. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The way his shoes hit the floor carried more weight than a gunshot. His eyes scanned the tables, cataloguing the chaos: the bond-children clustered like anchors, Isagi crouched protectively between them minutes earlier, Shidou bristling like a cornered wolf, Sae sitting aloof in PXG’s midst with that same expressionless mask. Noa’s gaze cut through it all until it locked on Sae. “Up.”

One word. The command of a general used to obedience. Chairs creaked as players shifted. Karasu froze mid-laugh at something Charles had muttered under his breath. Ness’s hand slipped from Theo's shoulder. Everyone stilled, eyes darting between the world’s number one striker and Japan’s cold prodigy. Sae didn’t move. He tilted his head just slightly, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Noa’s tone was flat, steely. “You’re coming with me. Now.” The word now dropped like iron. Shidou’s foot tapped restlessly under the table. “Oi, what’s this about?” he barked, teeth bared like he was ready to lunge. Noa didn’t spare him a glance. “Mandatory intervention.” His arms crossed loosely, but the weight of his stare pinned Sae in place. “Shane is waiting. You will sit down. You will talk. And you won’t walk out until I say you’re done.” A ripple of shock coursed through the cafeteria. Intervention wasn’t just therapy. Intervention was a forced stop, the kind reserved for players who were breaking at the seams. Everyone knew it. No one had ever seen it forced on someone like Sae.

“I don’t need therapy.” Sae’s voice was cool enough to make the air feel colder. His chair scraped back, deliberate, slow. He rose to his full height, posture coiled but deceptively calm. “I’m fine.” Noa stepped forward, erasing the space between them, taller by just enough to remind everyone why he was the master of Bastard München, the man they all chased. His shadow stretched long over Sae’s stance. “This isn’t optional.” Sae’s eyes flashed — challenge. “And if I don’t?”

Noa didn’t blink. His answer was a threat in velvet: “Then I’ll drag you there myself.” Gasps rippled, chairs scuffed against the floor as if instinct had them all shifting backward. The very idea — Noel Noa dragging Sae Itoshi like an unruly rookie — was unthinkable. But the look on Noa’s face said he meant every syllable. Shidou tensed, half-risen from his seat now, glare snapping between them. His jaw flexed like he was fighting the urge to wedge himself between Sae and the master, his own bond screaming at him to defend. The triplets — Hikaru, Haruna, Reika — went dead quiet, watching their father with wide eyes.

Aryu’s manicured hand hovered at his mouth, but his eyes were uncharacteristically serious. Barou muttered a curse under his breath. Even Kaiser, smug bastard that he was, leaned forward, expression sharpened — because even he had never seen Sae in this position before. The silence was so thick it pressed on everyone’s lungs. And Sae — for the first time since the words Rin dies detonated in the room — didn’t look untouchable. He looked cornered, jaw tight, hand twitching once at his side like he wanted to ball it into a fist. Noa’s tone left no room for argument: “Move.”

Sae didn’t move. His eyes were flat steel, locked on Noa’s unflinching glare. Two predators, one cage. The air vibrated between them, thin and taut, the players scattered at nearby tables unable to breathe properly under the weight. Then Noa shifted. One hand shot out — not fast, not theatrical, but decisive — and gripped Sae by the collar of his training jacket. The entire cafeteria jolted like a bomb went off. “Oi!” Shidou’s chair toppled backward as he lunged up, muscles bunching, eyes flashing murder. “Hands off, old man—!” But Noa didn’t even acknowledge him. He hauled Sae a half-step forward, their faces a breath apart. “You think I won’t?” Noa’s voice was low, dangerous, carrying to every corner of the room. “Try me, kid.”

For one suspended second, Sae’s body was coiled tight, like a striking snake deciding whether to lash or retreat. His jaw ticked. His fists trembled at his sides. And then—he stilled. Not compliance. Not submission. Something worse. The eerie calm of a man choosing silence over spectacle. His eyes didn’t flicker, didn’t blink, didn’t betray a thing. He let Noa’s grip remain, his only resistance the rigid line of his spine. The triplets reacted first. “Otou-san!” Haruna’s voice cracked, shrill with panic. She shoved back her chair so hard it screeched, rushing a step forward before Shidou’s arm snapped out across her chest. “Stay,” Shidou ground out, though his own posture screamed he was seconds from exploding.

Hikaru’s fists were clenched so hard his knuckles had gone white. Reika bit her lip until blood welled. Shidou’s glare cut through Noa like blades. “You don’t get to manhandle him like that.” Noa finally flicked his gaze sideways — just long enough to make it clear he’d heard — then back to Sae. His grip didn’t loosen. “You’ve ignored this long enough. You’re going. If you want to fight, then fight me. But I don’t lose.” The cafeteria held its collective breath. Sae’s lips parted, slow, like he might actually spit venom back. His eyes flicked — just once — toward his kids. Haruna trembling in Shidou’s hold, Hikaru looking ready to throw himself at Noa, Reika silently crying without a sound. And whatever he was about to say died unsaid.

With a sharp tug, Noa yanked him fully forward and turned, marching him toward the door like he was dragging a rookie caught drinking before a match. Sae’s feet moved stiffly, every line of his body broadcasting resistance — but he went. The door slammed shut behind them, echoing through the stunned silence. Only then did the room exhale. Shidou’s fists smashed against the table with a crack, making Haruna jump. His teeth were bared, a wild dog caged. “This is bullsh*t.”

The triplets were at his side instantly, Haruna clinging to his sleeve, Hikaru’s voice shaking with fury: “Why didn’t he say anything?! Why didn’t he fight back?!” Across the cafeteria, players stared in a mixture of awe and horror. Even Kaiser, usually amused by chaos, sat forward with narrowed eyes. Bachira muttered, half to himself, “I’ve never seen Sae get dragged like that…” No one had.

The room was still vibrating from the slam of the door when Karasu finally moved. He leaned back in his chair, balancing on two legs like nothing earth-shaking had just happened, but his eyes were sharp, trained on Shidou. “Oi, demon.” Shidou’s head snapped up, teeth still bared. “What the f*ck did you just call me?” Karasu tilted his head, unbothered by the death glare. “You’re scaring your kids.” The words hit harder than Noa’s grip had on Sae.

Shidou’s mouth froze open, no sound coming out. He looked down automatically, instinct overriding fury — Haruna’s little fists were still knotted in his sleeve, her teal eyes glassy with fear. Hikaru’s breathing was shallow, shoulders tense like he was coiled to spring at anyone who moved wrong. Reika wasn’t even trying to wipe her tears anymore, cheeks wet, her silence louder than any scream. Shidou’s heart stuttered.

Karasu shrugged, swinging his chair back onto all fours with a dull thud. “They just watched their father get hauled out like a criminal. Then you pound the table and start snarling like you’re about to bite someone’s throat out. What do you think that looks like to them, huh?” Shidou blinked, chest heaving. His fingers twitched before they found Haruna’s hair, smoothing it down with trembling gentleness. “Tch…” His voice cracked low, unsteady in a way nobody in the room had ever heard. “…sh*t.”

Haruna looked up at him then, eyes shimmering. “Okaa-san…” The maternal switch flipped, sharp as a blade. Shidou crouched instantly, pulling all three of them into his arms, holding them against his chest so tight it almost hurt. His scent softened without thought, wrapping them in the warm, protective ozone of him. He buried his face in Haruna’s hair and pressed his palm to Hikaru’s back, tugging Reika close with his other arm. “Sorry. Kaa-san’s not mad at you,” he muttered hoarsely.

“Never at you.” Karasu leaned his chin into his hand, watching without judgment for once. “Then prove it. Let Noa do his thing. Sae needs this. You know it. Your kids know it too — even if they don’t get the words for it yet.” Shidou growled under his breath, but it was weaker now, more defensive than violent. “If they hurt him—”

“They won’t,” Karasu cut in, voice steady. “They’ll make him talk. And if you actually want your kids to stop looking at you like you’re a bomb about to go off… maybe you should let him.” Shidou’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t snap back. He just kept stroking Haruna’s hair, feeling Hikaru’s fists unclench slowly, and the damp patch spreading against his shirt where Reika was finally letting herself cry into him. For the first time since the door slammed, the cafeteria felt like it could breathe again.

Shidou stayed crouched, arms locked around the triplets as if someone might tear them away if he loosened his grip even an inch. Their tiny bodies pressed into him, three different heartbeats hammering fast and shallow against his chest. His own pulse was chaos. Anger still screamed in his blood, that violent instinct to rip through anyone who looked at him wrong — but underneath, the deeper, older pull of his Omega biology was louder. Protect. Soothe. Shelter.

He smoothed Haruna’s hair, whispering into the crown of her head. Her small hands clutched his jersey like she was drowning. Hikaru’s chin was jammed hard against his shoulder, stiff as steel, but when Shidou rubbed slow circles on his back, the kid shuddered and sank into him just a little. Reika’s tears bled into his shirtfront; her tiny hiccups cut through the silence louder than screams. “Shh… it’s alright. Okaa-san’s here.” His voice rasped, nothing like the mocking snarl the whole world knew him for. “I got you. Nobody’s gonna touch you.”

The cafeteria had gone dead quiet. Dozens of players sat frozen, watching him like he was some wild animal who’d just shifted into something unrecognizable. The Shidou they knew was all chaos and teeth — a predator who only laughed when he broke something. But here, on the linoleum floor, rocking three trembling kids against his chest? It didn’t fit. It shook them. Again.

Barou was the first to break the silence, clicking his tongue. “…the hell.” He looked away sharply, like the sight was too raw to watch. Aryu, beside him, had one elegant hand to his mouth, eyes wide — equal parts horror and fascination. At Bastard München’s table, Kunigami’s frown cut deep as a scar. “I’ve never seen him—” He stopped, as if saying it aloud would make it real. Kiyora muttered low, “That’s… not the guy who kicks people in the face.” Theo peeked around Ness, brows knitted tight. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes — eerily similar to his father’s — narrowed as if studying Shidou, trying to understand what this version of a parent was supposed to mean.

Manshine’s corner buzzed in whispers. Nagi, lazy as ever, just hummed. “He looks like he actually cares, huh.” Reo elbowed him, but his own eyes were locked on the triplets with something heavy, like he already knew what that kind of fear in a kid’s body meant. At PXG’s table, Charles raised both brows, glancing between Karasu and Tokimitsu. “He’s… calming them down?” Tokimitsu’s hands shook against his knees. “He—he looked like he was going to kill someone five minutes ago! Now—now he’s—he’s—” He couldn’t even finish.

And in the center of it all, Shidou just held his kids tighter. His anger hadn’t gone. It was sitting just beneath his skin, boiling, aching to snap at anyone who tried to judge him for being on the floor like this. But every time Haruna sniffled against his collarbone, every time Hikaru twitched like he was ready to spring, every time Reika’s sob rattled against his ribs, it all redirected. He couldn’t afford to be the monster right now. Not in front of them.

Karasu’s earlier words echoed sharp in his head. You’re scaring your kids. Shidou's jaw clenched, guilt scraping raw in his chest. They weren’t supposed to see this side of him — the part that lost control. He was supposed to be unshakable, unstoppable. But then Haruna whimpered, “Okaa-san, don’t leave,” muffled into his shirt. His throat closed. “Never,” he whispered back, fierce enough that some of the players around him flinched. “Okaa-san’s not going anywhere. You hear me? You’re mine.”

His Omega instincts wrapped around that vow like barbed wire — a promise and a threat all at once. And the cafeteria? Nobody dared move. They just watched, caught between disbelief and unease, as Shidou Ryusei, Blue Lock’s feral cannonball, sat in the middle of the chaos with three children in his arms — not looking dangerous, but heartbreakingly human.

DAY 8 – 8:08 a.m.

BLUE LOCK — THERAPY ROOM

Sae walked stiffly, shoulders squared, every line of his body screaming refusal even as Noa’s hand pressed heavy between his shoulder blades, steering him down the hall. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle jumped in his cheek. Around them, whispers followed — players pretending not to stare, but their eyes lingered like shadows. The door to the therapy room clicked shut behind them. The quiet inside was worse than the noise outside.

Shane was already there, perched in her chair in a pale blue dress that softened the sterile walls around her. She had her notebook ready, legs crossed, silver eyes bright but unreadable. “Sit,” Noa ordered, his tone brooking no argument. Sae didn’t move. His crimson eyes cut sharp at him, then at Shane. “This is ridiculous. I don’t need—”

“—to waste my time, I know,” Shane finished lightly, her voice soft but unshakable. “Funny. Everyone who says that ends up needing it the most.” Sae’s lips pressed thinner, but Noa’s hand shoved once at his shoulder and forced him into the chair. Shane leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. “You can glare at me all you like, Sae. I’ve been glared at by players twice your age and players who thought they were gods. None of them scared me. You won’t either.” He scoffed, looking away. His leg bounced once, restless.

Shane didn’t press. She let the silence sit, filling the space with her own steady presence instead of words. Eventually, Sae’s jaw shifted again, his throat bobbing as he muttered, “This is a waste of time.” Shane tilted her head. “Is it? You’ve been carrying a bond wound for years, haven’t you?” His eyes snapped to her, cold and sharp, but for the first time, they flickered. A crack.

Shane’s tone softened, but she didn’t let him run. “You think burying it makes you stronger, but all it did was bleed into your brother until he collapsed under the weight. Rin’s symptoms? They’re echoes of your silence. You don’t get to walk away from that truth anymore.” Sae’s fingers curled into fists against his knees. The glare came back, but it trembled faintly. “…You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Shane’s smile gentled, just slightly. “You built walls so tall no one could reach you. But Rin? He kept looking up, waiting for you to open the gate. You never did.” The silence stretched, taut as wire. Sae’s breath came sharper now, shallow. Noa’s voice rumbled low. “This isn’t optional, Sae. You’re staying here. You’ll face this.” Sae didn’t answer. But his fists loosened.

Shane leaned back, giving him the smallest mercy of space. “We’ll go at your pace. But make no mistake—” her eyes caught his, steel beneath the warmth, “—I’m not letting you bury this any longer. Protocols.” Sae exhaled, long and shaky. For the first time in years, he looked like someone cornered not on the field, but in his own chest.

Sae sat like a statue, chin tipped up, eyes narrowed toward the wall instead of at Shane. The tension in his body was palpable; his shoulders were locked, his arms rigid across his chest, and one foot tapped in an impatient rhythm he probably didn’t even notice. Shane didn’t pounce. She simply observed, jotting something down on her pad — not a diagnosis, but a note to herself. When she spoke, her voice was soft, deliberate. “You don’t want to be here.”

Sae snorted. “Congratulations. You’re very perceptive.” Shane smiled faintly at the sarcasm. “Not sarcasm. Just a reflection of what I see. You don’t want to be here, but you are. That’s the part that matters.” His jaw flexed, but he didn’t respond. Shane folded her hands over her notebook. “So we’ll start easy. You don’t have to tell me anything deep. Just tell me one thing: what’s the most irritating part of this room right now?” He blinked, cutting her a sharp glance. “…What?”

“The most irritating part. Could be me, could be the chair, could be the color of the walls. Doesn’t matter. Just name it.” Sae leaned back slightly, clearly suspicious of the trick. “…The hum.”

“The hum?” He gestured vaguely toward the fluorescent light above. “It’s uneven. Cuts in and out.” Shane tilted her head, listening. The faint buzz was indeed there, flickering. “Hm. You’re right. Annoying once you notice it. And now I can’t stop hearing it.” She smiled, a little self-deprecating. “Thanks for ruining my room, Sae.” A short, sharp exhale came from him — not quite a laugh, but not nothing either. “That,” Shane said gently, “is how this works. Small truths. Annoying truths. You don’t have to drop a lifetime of walls at once. Just start with the hum.”

Sae looked away, but the tension in his shoulders had eased by a hair. She leaned forward, lowering her voice into something steadier. “You’ve been holding this… silence for a long time. I don’t need the whole thing right now. Just one piece. Like the hum.” His throat bobbed. “…What if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll sit here with you in silence.” She shrugged, casual. “I’m paid very well to sit. But here’s the thing—silence is still telling me something. It says you’re carrying so much you can’t even look at it. And it says it’s crushing you.” For the first time, his mask flickered — teal eyes flashing with something raw, almost defensive. “…I’m not crushed.” Shane nodded, voice even. “That’s what every strong person says before they break. And I think you’re tired of pretending not to be human, Sae.”

His fists tightened on his knees, knuckles pale. The veneer of control cracked in his breathing — shallow, uneven. She softened the edge in her tone, switching to grounding. “Okay. Don’t think about years. Don’t think about bonds or family or whatever makes your chest hurt right now. Just tell me—when was the last time you slept without waking up in the middle of the night?” His eyes snapped to her again. The silence that followed was different this time — not dismissive, but dangerous, like she’d struck too close.

“…Years,” he muttered finally, voice rougher than before. Shane nodded, jotting again. “Years. That’s not nothing. That’s a place to start.” She looked back at him, silver eyes warm but steady as stone. “You don’t have to give me everything today. But I’m not letting you leave this room pretending you’re fine. You’ve carried silence like armor. I’m here to remind you it’s not armor — it’s poison.”

Sae swallowed hard, gaze dropping to the floor. His hands unclenched just slightly, resting open on his knees now. For the first time since he walked in, he looked less like the untouchable genius and more like someone trapped inside his own body.

The silence stretched long enough that Shane could hear the buzz of the light above them, uneven, grating. Sae hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. Only his eyes — hard, restless — betrayed the storm he was holding down. She leaned back in her chair, unbothered. “You know, silence is fine. But I’ll warn you—if you stay that quiet, I’ll just keep guessing.”

That earned her a sideways glance. “Like,” she continued casually, “I could say you’ve been carrying this weight so long, you don’t even remember what it feels like not to. That you think control is survival, and that if you slip, even for a second, the whole world collapses.” His jaw tightened, lips pressing flat. “Or,” she added, tilting her head, “maybe you just think I’m annoying as hell and you’re wasting your time.” A sharp exhale left him, almost a scoff. “That one.”

“Mm.” Shane smiled, amused. “Guess I’ll put a tally mark under both, then.” She wrote on her notepad with exaggerated care. For a flicker of a moment, Sae’s mouth twitched. Not enough to be a smile, but enough to betray that he noticed. Shane softened, lowering her voice just slightly. “You know what’s funny? Even when you don’t answer, your body does. The tapping foot. The fists. The way you’re glaring holes into the floor like it’ll swallow you if you stare long enough.” He froze, shoulders stiffening.

“I’m not here to shame you,” she said quickly, leaning forward. “I’m here to tell you you’re not invisible. Someone sees it. Someone hears it. That’s different from being weak.” His throat worked, an almost imperceptible swallow. His voice, when it came, was low and harsh. “…You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it,” she said simply. His eyes flicked to her, teal sharp and burning. “If I say it out loud, it’s real.” Shane didn’t flinch. “Sae… it’s already real. You’ve just been bleeding alone.” The words hit like a clean strike. His chest rose in a sharp inhale, too quick, too shallow. For a second, just a second, his mask cracked — his hand came up, fingers pressing hard into his brow like he could physically push it back down.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t let go. But the sheen in his eyes, the tremor in his exhale, betrayed him. Shane didn’t point it out. She didn’t need to. She leaned back again, giving him space, her tone steady. “That’s enough for today. You already gave me more than you think.” Sae’s head tipped back, gaze fixed on the ceiling, refusing to meet hers. But he didn’t move to leave. Not yet. The silence now was different. Not armor. Not dismissal. Just… exhaustion. And that, Shane knew, was the first crack.

DAY 8 – 8:45 a.m.

PxG LOUNGE ROOM

Shidou was sprawled half-sideways on the couch in the PxG lounge, legs stretched over the armrest, pretending to scroll on his phone. In reality, his eyes flicked to the door every few seconds. He’d never admit it, but he’d been waiting. When it finally opened, Sae walked in. Not storming. Not with his usual sharp precision. Just…walked. And Shidou knew something was off. Sae’s shoulders weren’t squared like usual — they sagged, just barely, like someone had leaned on him for too long. His eyes weren’t sharp crimson blades, either. They looked… tired. Not the kind of tired a nap could fix, but the kind that came from bleeding under your own skin.

The room noticed, of course. PXG always noticed Sae. But they didn’t know what they were seeing, so they filed it away as “maybe he’s jet-lagged.” Shidou knew better. He pushed himself upright, swinging his feet down with a thud. “Well, well. You look like someone cracked you open and peeked inside.” Sae’s eyes snapped to him, and for a second — just a second — Shidou swore he saw something flash raw there. Not anger. Not disdain. Something closer to being cornered. Vulnerable. And just as fast, it was gone. “Don’t start,” Sae muttered, brushing past toward his locker.

That was all he said. But Shidou felt his stomach twist. Because Sae never muttered. Sae snapped, dismissed, cut clean. A mutter meant the ground under his feet wasn’t steady. Shidou sat there, jaw tight, fingers tapping restlessly against his knee. His brain screamed ask him, push him, demand to know what the hell they did to you in there. But another voice — quieter, one he hated — whispered don’t scare him off. For once, he listened to the second voice.

So instead, Shidou leaned back, a sharp grin plastered on his face like armor. “Tch. Whatever. Don’t think you’re gettin’ out of training, rattled or not.” Sae didn’t look back. Didn’t answer. Just sat, running a hand once over his face before letting it fall. That tiny, unguarded gesture rattled Shidou more than he’d ever admit.

Shidou didn’t move. He just watched. The silence stretched, long enough that the hairs on his arms prickled. This wasn’t right. Sae wasn’t supposed to sit there like that, elbows on his knees, eyes trained on the floor like he’d lost something. Sae was supposed to be the immovable wall, the bastard who never blinked no matter how many claws Shidou bared.

And yet— From the corner of his vision, Shidou saw movement. Reika had frozen mid-step, her juice box crinkling in her hand. Hikaru had gone still too, the game console in his lap suddenly forgotten. And Haruna, usually loud enough to shake the ceiling, was whisper-quiet, perched on the armrest like she was trying not to scare a bird away. Three pairs of eyes. All glued to Sae. All wide. Shidou felt his chest squeeze in a way he hated. Because the kids were predators in their own right — brash, sharp, loud. But right now they looked… small. Smaller than they’d ever admit. They were seeing the same thing he was.

Otou-san's rattled.

Shidou ground his teeth. His first instinct was to sneer, throw a joke sharp enough to break the tension. Call Sae out. Demand he snap back into the ice-bastard they all knew. But the kids’ silence pinned him down. If he lashed out now, it’d just confirm what they were already afraid of — that their Alpha was cracking. And Shidou, god help him, couldn’t stand that look on their faces.

So instead, he moved. Slowly, deliberately, like he wasn’t about to cross some invisible line. He rose from the couch, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stepped closer. Close enough that the kids’ eyes flicked to him like what are you gonna do? Sae didn’t flinch, but he didn’t look up either.

“Tch.” Shidou forced his voice casual, even as his throat burned. “You’re sittin’ like an old man, y’know. Oughta be illegal.” Reika let out a shaky breath that almost passed for a laugh. Hikaru leaned against her shoulder, eyes darting between their fathers. Haruna’s fists curled in her lap, restless. Still, Sae didn’t bite back. Not a single sharp word. And that was when it hit Shidou in full: they broke him, at least a little.

Whoever dragged him into that therapy room, whoever thought it was a good idea — they’d cracked something open. And Sae hadn’t figured out how to put it back together yet. Shidou’s grin faltered. Just for a second. He felt it, like a mask slipping, but the kids caught it. Of course they did. Haruna’s eyes widened. Hikaru frowned. Reika’s lips pressed tight. Shidou clicked his tongue and sat back down on the armrest beside Haruna, close enough to anchor the kids without making a big show of it.

“Oi,” he said finally, tone sharp but not cruel, eyes flicking to Sae. “Whatever they poked at in there—don’t bring it home lookin’ like a ghost. You got three sets of eyes waitin’ on you. Don’t make ‘em think Otou-san's gone missin’.” That got Sae’s gaze up at last. His eyes cut through him — raw, unsettled, but steady. For a breath, Shidou thought he’d get flayed alive for daring to say it. But Sae just looked away again. And that, somehow, was worse.

The silence didn’t last. It never did with them. Haruna broke first. She huffed through her nose, stomped once like she was trying to summon courage, then clambered straight onto Shidou’s lap without so much as a warning. She curled herself against his chest, glaring over his shoulder at Sae like she could scare him back into shape. Shidou blinked. “…the hell you doin’, brat?”

“Protectin’ you,” she said fiercely, tiny hands fisted in his shirt. “If Otou-san’s broken, then I’ll keep you safe.” His throat bobbed. He wanted to laugh — it was so stupidly her, all bark and no clue what to do with it. But the burn in his chest made it come out rough, almost a growl. “…ain’t me who needs protectin’.” Reika hadn’t moved from her spot, but her eyes were locked on Sae, sharp and unblinking. Too sharp for a kid her age. Shidou knew that look — the one that meant she was cataloguing every twitch, every silence, every faultline. She was her father’s daughter through and through.

Finally, she spoke. Quiet. Careful. “Otou-san… did they hurt you?” Sae didn’t answer. That silence said more than anything. Hikaru, usually the most aloof, muttered from the armrest. His fingers toyed with his console but never turned it on. “Therapy’s supposed to help. Not make you look like you saw a ghost.” His voice was low, almost accusing. “What’d they do to you?” The question hung there, heavier than steel.

Shidou’s arms tightened around Haruna before he realized it. His grin was gone now, no mask left to hold up. He glanced at Sae — rattled, distant, still refusing to speak — and then at the kids, all of them wound tight, waiting for someone to break the tension.

For once, Shidou didn’t have a joke. Didn’t have teeth to bare. He just looked at them — their little pack, restless and scared — and felt something in him snap into place. “…Listen, brats,” he muttered, voice rough. “Otou-san’s not gone. He’s sittin’ right there. Therapy just… pokes at old shit, yeah? Sometimes it leaves you rattled. But he’ll get his feet back under him. He always does.”

Reika’s eyes narrowed, not convinced. Hikaru scowled down at his hands. Haruna pressed her face into his chest like she didn’t believe him but wanted to anyway. Shidou exhaled through his nose, fingers threading absently through Haruna’s hair. His gaze slid back to Sae, daring him — begging him — to say something, anything, to put their kids at ease. But Sae stayed silent. And Shidou, for the first time in years, felt something cold gnaw at the edges of his chest: helplessness.

The air felt brittle. Like if anyone breathed too hard, the whole room would shatter. Haruna squirmed in Shidou’s lap, fists bunching in his shirt. Her glare didn’t waver. “Otou-san,” she said, sharp and small, like testing if the word would cut. Sae flinched. Just barely, but enough that Shidou felt it in his bones. “Otou-san,” Reika echoed, quieter, steadier. She rose from her chair and took a step forward, chin lifted the way Sae always carried himself. “We’re not scared of you. You don’t have to… disappear.”

That word. Disappear. Shidou’s throat tightened. Hikaru finally lifted his eyes, his usual lazy cool stripped bare. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and locked Sae with a stare too direct for a kid his age. “…Otou-san. We’re here because you weren’t. You left. And it broke everything.” Sae’s jaw flexed, but still he said nothing. “Then stop leaving now!” Haruna burst out, shoving against Shidou’s chest until he let her slip down. She stomped across the space, hair swinging, tiny shoulders trembling with a fury too big for her body. “You don’t get to shut us out again. Not when we came back for you!”

Her voice cracked. She bit her lip so hard Shidou thought she’d draw blood. Reika’s hand brushed Haruna’s arm, steadying, before she looked at Sae again. This time her voice carried the weight of all three of them. “We’re not asking. We’re telling you, Otou-san. Look at us.” For the first time, Sae’s eyes flicked upward. Slow. Hesitant. And there it was — the crack in the armor, raw and unguarded, just for a breath. Shidou’s chest burned.

He wanted to drag Sae up, shake him, make him see what was right in front of him. But the triplets… they were already doing it. Like instinct. Like they’d been born for this. “Otou-san,” Hikaru repeated, softer now, almost a plea. “Don’t leave us. Not again.” And in the silence that followed, Shidou swore he felt something shift — thin, fragile, but real.

Sae’s lips parted. His voice came out low, rough, like the words had to claw their way out of his chest. “…I don’t know how to stay.” The triplets froze. Haruna’s face crumpled, Reika’s breath hitched, and Hikaru’s fists curled so tight they shook. For a heartbeat, Shidou wanted to snarl at him, to throw the words back in his face — then learn, damn it. But he didn’t. Because those kids… those kids had come all this way for this exact moment. And Sae, for once, wasn’t running — he was breaking. Shidou’s hands itched. He wanted to hold him and hit him at the same time.

Movement caught the corner of his eye. Karasu was standing in the doorway, one brow raised, like he’d been passing by and caught just enough of the tension to piece it together. His gaze flicked from the kids to Sae to Shidou. Shidou met his eyes and jerked his chin toward the triplets. His voice was taut. “Take them.” Reika whipped around instantly. “No—!”

“Rei,” Shidou cut her off, sharper than he meant to. Her wide eyes froze him for a second, but he held steady. “…Trust me. I got him.” Karasu’s gaze lingered, then he crouched, his voice softer than usual. “C’mon, little bosses. Let’s give your parents some air, yeah?” Hikaru hesitated, looking between Sae and Shidou like he was calculating ten different plays at once. But Haruna tugged his sleeve, Reika brushed her hand over his back, and slowly — reluctantly — they followed Karasu out. The door clicked shut behind them.

Silence. Heavy. Choking. Sae sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor like it might open and swallow him whole. His knuckles were white, trembling faintly. Shidou stared at him. For a long time, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just let the anger simmer and the ache grind in his chest. Then he finally stepped closer, the words tearing out of him. “You don’t know how to stay?” His laugh was sharp, humorless. “Bullshit.”
Sae’s head twitched up — not fully, just enough to glance at him. “You stayed for football. You stayed for glory. You stayed for every damn thing you thought mattered.”

Shidou’s voice rose, chest heaving. “But when it was your own kids—your own family—you ghosted. And don’t even start with the excuses, Sae. I saw it. Everyone saw it. You shut down.” His throat burned. He took another step, close enough now that the space between them was a fuse ready to blow. “You think you’re the only one who’s scared? You think being an Omega makes me immune to that feeling of being left behind? Of being nothing but—” His voice cracked, and he bit it off, jaw clenching. “…But I never ran. I never fucking ran from you. Even when it hurt.” Sae flinched at that, the tiniest twitch of his shoulders, but Shidou caught it.

“Those kids,” Shidou forced out, voice low and shaking now, “they came back because they believed you’re worth saving. Because they want you. And here you are, sitting there like you’ve already decided you’re poison.” He leaned in, eyes blazing into Sae’s.

“So what is it, huh? You afraid of being loved? Afraid you’ll screw it up? Or is it easier to play the cold bastard than admit you actually give a damn?” The silence was electric. Shidou’s chest rose and fell like he’d just run sprints for hours, fists trembling at his sides. Sae’s breath hitched once, but his face stayed taut — cracks showing at the edges, like glass under pressure.

Sae’s silence stretched so long that Shidou almost thought he’d shut down again — retreating into that dead-eyed quiet he hated more than anything. But then, the tremor in his hands gave him away. His voice, when it finally scraped out, was hoarse, unsteady. “You think I don’t know?” Sae’s head jerked up, eyes bloodshot, words snapping sharp even as they shook. “You think I don’t know what I did to him? To Rin?” The confession punched the air out of the room.

“I walked away, yeah,” Sae spat, chest rising hard. “Because I thought—no, I knew—if I stayed, I’d drag him down. He wanted the dream I didn’t believe in anymore. And I—” His teeth ground, shoulders quaking like the words were shards tearing out of him. “I couldn’t… couldn’t give him what he wanted. Couldn’t be the Alpha he thought I was. So I left. And I told myself it was better that way. That he’d be stronger without me.” His voice cracked then, breaking jagged on the edge of his breath.

“But I was wrong.” The words fell like a stone dropped into a still pond — rippling everywhere, too loud in the silence. Sae’s hands fisted in his hair, dragging down his face as if he could scrub the weakness off. “And when the media went for him—when they called him weak, soft, useless—” His throat worked, eyes screwed shut. “I didn’t say a damn thing. Because if I opened my mouth, I’d have to admit I still cared. That I never stopped.” Shidou froze. The world tilted. Because for the first time, Sae wasn’t stone. He wasn’t a glacier. He was a man gutted, bleeding from every place he swore no one would ever touch.

“I stayed quiet,” Sae whispered, almost choking. “And now I can’t take it back. Not then. Not ever. And if Rin died in that future because of me, if—” He broke off, shaking his head hard. “Then I deserve every bit of it.” His hands fell to his knees, trembling. His gaze flicked up at Shidou — glassy, hollow, wrecked. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Shidou’s nails bit into his palms. He wanted to shake him, to drag him out of the black hole he kept sinking into. The sight of Sae crumbling should’ve softened him — but all it did was snap something inside. “You selfish bastard.” Shidou’s voice cracked, hot and shaking. “You sit there drowning in guilt about Rin, about the past, about shit you can’t change — but what about me?” His chest heaved, the ache in his throat burning until it broke into tears. “What about our kids, Sae? Do you even see them? Do you even see me?”

Sae’s head jerked up, startled, but Shidou didn’t let him get a word in. “I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you. Of adjusting to your moods, your silence, your goddamn preferences!” His fist slammed the arm of the couch, sharp enough to sting. “I bend myself in half just to reach you — to make you comfortable, to give you space, to prove I’m not going anywhere. And what do I get? You building more walls.” His tears blurred Sae’s outline, but Shidou blinked them furiously away, chest splitting open with the force of every word.

“Think about our children. The triplets who look at you and call you otou-san. They don’t care about your pride. They don’t care about your past mistakes. They just want you. But you keep holding yourself back like you’re poison.” His voice broke into a ragged whisper. “And I’m so goddamn tired of being the only one reaching across the gap.” Shidou’s hands trembled, gripping his knees until they hurt. His lips twisted, shaking.

“So tell me, Sae. What do you feel about me? Because if all I am is some… some replacement, some distraction from the ghost of your brother—” His throat closed, tears spilling harder. “Then I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep being the only one fighting for us.” The silence after was brutal. Shidou’s breathing was harsh in the stillness, his tears dripping down his chin, but he didn’t look away. His pink eyes were locked on Sae, daring him, begging him, to finally answer with something real.

For a long moment Sae didn’t move. He sat there, hands slack against his thighs, eyes half-lidded like he was trying to escape into that unreachable place again. Shidou almost snapped — almost screamed that he was done. But then… Sae finally looked at him. Not the usual blank, not the polished mask. Just tired, haunted teal eyes, raw at the edges. “You think I don’t care,” Sae said quietly, voice flat but trembling underneath. “But if I didn’t… I wouldn’t be here. With you. With them.” Shidou froze, chest rattling, the words slicing through him.

Sae’s gaze drifted toward the door, where the muffled echoes of their children’s laughter could almost be heard from down the hall. His throat worked once before he muttered, “I don’t know how to be… what you need. I don’t know how to be a father the way they deserve. I don’t even know if I can.” The admission was barely above a whisper, but it wasn’t nothing. For Sae, it was a crack in the glacier. Shidou’s breath caught, tears still streaking hot down his face. His chest squeezed — part relief, part fury, part aching love.

"Then learn. With me. With us. Stop shutting me out like I’m some stranger. Stop acting like you’re alone in this.” Sae’s eyes flicked back to him, and Shidou saw it there — the tiniest flicker, a glint of fear and something else he didn’t dare name. Sae didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no. But for the first time, he didn’t look away. And Shidou, broken and trembling, clung to that like it was proof the fire wasn’t completely gone.

The room felt too still, the kind of silence that pressed heavy against the ribs. Shidou sat there, trembling, his cheeks wet, staring at Sae like he was trying to memorize every flicker of emotion before it vanished. He half-expected Sae to shut down again — to pull the mask back on and walk out without a word. Instead, Sae moved. It wasn’t dramatic, not the way Shidou always pictured things — no desperate grab, no kiss to shut him up. Just a shift forward, slow and deliberate. Sae’s hand lifted, fingers hesitating in the air like he was afraid to touch. Then they settled, almost awkwardly, against Shidou’s cheek.

The warmth of that touch stunned him more than any kiss could’ve. Shidou’s breath hitched, his whole body going rigid. Sae’s thumb brushed once against his skin, not tender, not practiced — just raw. A clumsy gesture, but real. “I don’t…” Sae started, then stopped, jaw tightening. His eyes narrowed, like the words hurt to push out. “I don’t want to lose you.” Shidou’s throat burned.

For a second, he couldn’t even breathe, staring at the Alpha in front of him — this man who could level stadiums with a look, now trembling in the smallest, quietest way. The tears came harder, hot and ugly, but Shidou laughed anyway, a broken sound. “That’s all you had to fuckin’ say, Sae.” He leaned into the touch, eyes closing, letting the silence fill again. Not perfect. Not fixed. But for once, Sae wasn’t pulling away.

The door clicked shut behind Shidou, his footsteps receding down the hall as he went to fetch their children from Karasu. Silence swallowed the PxG lounge again. Sae remained where he sat, back bent forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees, hand still hovering in the air where it had touched Shidou’s cheek moments ago. The ghost of the warmth lingered on his palm, and it unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t feel like stepping off a cliff just to touch someone who already belonged to him. And yet — his chest ached with it.

Shidou was right. He was tired. Tired of living with the mask strapped so tightly to his face he forgot what his own expression looked like underneath. Tired of adjusting, twisting, hiding, waiting for silence to pass as “strength.” He had learned early that silence was survival. Their parents praised him more the quieter he became, the less weakness he showed. Silence was power. And when Rin clung to him as a child, looking at him with those wide Omega eyes that said you’re my whole world, Sae believed silence could protect him too. But silence didn’t protect Rin.

He left for Spain, chasing perfection, and thought it would be fine — Rin would follow, Rin would fight, Rin would survive. That was the lie he told himself. That the bond between them was unbreakable. And then Rin’s voice cracked years later, screaming at him on a pitch, eyes bloodshot with betrayal: “You left me. You abandoned me.” Sae had never known until then how deep the wound went. How deep he’d carved it.

He told himself he was above regret. He told himself his brother’s hatred didn’t matter. He told himself Rin was just too soft to stand in this world. But the truth was there — in the way his hands shook after every match against him. In the way his chest clenched when he saw Rin glow with that bond-child at his side, with Isagi, with teammates. In the way his children today had called him Otou-san. The triplets.

Otou-san.

He had replayed that moment a thousand times in his head already. Three little voices, chiming together, not with hesitation but with certainty. Sae never thought he would hear it. Never thought he deserved to. He wasn’t built for family. He wasn’t the type to hold babies, or to stay awake through nights of crying, or to smile at kindergarten plays.

He was built for football, for knives in his chest, for silence. And yet those three called him father without flinching. As if it was obvious. As if it had always been true. It rattled him worse than any goal Rin had ever scored against him. He had children. Children he hadn’t raised. Children from a future that hadn’t happened yet. And they looked at him like he mattered. Like he was someone worth loving.

Sae pressed his palm harder against his thigh, grounding himself. But Shidou’s voice echoed too vividly in his ears. “Think about our children. Me. What do you feel about me? I’m tired of adjusting to your preferences.” He had never seen Shidou cry like that. Not on the field, not in the shadows of their apartment, not even in fights that should have split them apart. Shidou never cried. He laughed through blood, spat through rage, kissed through heartbreak. But today Shidou cried. Again. Because of him.

Sae had always thought Shidou could withstand anything — the world’s judgment, his coldness, the chaos of raising three children neither of them planned for. Shidou had armor built of madness and defiance. But today Sae saw how thin that armor really was. And it gutted him. Because he realized Shidou had been carrying both of them this whole time. Adjusting. Yielding. Making room for Sae’s silences while still keeping the family from collapsing. Sae had thought strength was silence. But maybe strength had been Shidou’s noise all along.

And then there was Isagi. Sae hated the thought of him. Not for football — rivalry was one thing. But the way Isagi defended Rin, even in the future where Rin died, even when the world whispered that an Omega like Rin was too fragile for the pitch. Sae should’ve been the one to defend him. He was Rin’s brother. His Head Alpha. That was his role, primal and instinctive. But instead he’d turned away, and some stranger — no, not a stranger, Rin’s mate — had filled the void.

He had hated Shidou for a long time in the same way. Because Shidou wasn’t afraid to hold him in public, to shout about their bond, to call him out in front of others. Shidou wasn’t afraid to be loud. And Sae was. Even now, the idea of showing that much terrified him. The way people would look. The way his silence, his armor, his carefully cultivated persona would crack.

But watching Shidou’s face crumple under the weight of exhaustion and compromise — Sae couldn’t deny it anymore. The cost of his silence wasn’t just his own loneliness. It was their bond breaking. It was Shidou crying. It was his children growing up half afraid of him.

Sae leaned back into the couch, dragging both hands over his face. He wanted to curse, to find the sharpest word and bury it in his own chest just to get the ache out. Love. He hated the word. Too messy, too raw, too easily broken. But the truth stuck in his throat anyway. He loved them.

Shidou, the triplets. Even Rin — especially Rin, the brother he swore he didn’t need but could never let go of. But love had never saved anyone in his world. Love had only been leverage. And he had trained himself not to need it. Now here he was, realizing he needed it more than anything. And it terrified him.

He had been told he was strong his whole life. Strong enough to leave home at thirteen. Strong enough to survive Spain alone. Strong enough to play against grown men and not flinch. But if strength was what he had, then why did it feel so much like emptiness? He remembered those years abroad like a blur of cold nights and sharper mornings. No family. No brother. No one to remind him who he was supposed to be. He lost it all, piece by piece — the dream he once whispered to Rin, the light in his chest, the belief that football was joy instead of obligation.

And he carried it alone. Always alone. No comfort. No one asking if he was okay. No one saying you’re just a kid, you shouldn’t have to bear this much. He told himself that was fine. That he didn’t need anyone. That he could bear the weight better than anyone else. And it did refine him, in a way — chiseled him into something sharp and cold and unshakable. But what good was strength if it left him hollow?

He came back and disappointed Rin anyway. He saw the hate in his brother’s eyes and told himself he deserved it. Because he did. He abandoned Rin, abandoned their dream, abandoned the one bond that had ever meant anything. And what did he have now? A reputation. A mask. A family he didn’t even know how to love properly. A bond with Shidou that cracked and bled every time Sae chose silence instead of honesty.

They all thought he was unshakable. But inside? He loathed himself. For being too weak to hold onto Rin. For being too cowardly to defend him when the world sneered about Omegas. For being too selfish to tell Shidou how he really felt until he was cornered. He had spent his life becoming the perfect player, the untouchable Alpha, the genius. But at the end of the day, he was just a boy who had failed at every bond he had ever been given. Maybe this wasn’t strength at all. Maybe it was just survival. And survival wasn’t living.

Maybe it would’ve been better if Rin had never looked up to him. Better if he hadn’t been born first, hadn’t been made to play the role of protector, Alpha, brother, hero. Because all he’d ever done was fail at it. He thought about the triplets — Hikaru, Haruna, Reika. Their small hands clutching at him, calling him Otou-san with voices that carried no hesitation. Pure trust. Pure need. And it twisted in his chest.

Because how could he be their father when he had never even managed to be a brother? He didn’t know how to teach them softness. He didn’t know how to be patient, or warm, or safe. He only knew how to discipline, how to command, how to hold himself so tightly that nothing could break through. What if that was all they got from him? Another childhood where love felt like absence. What if he ruined them?

And Shidou… god, Shidou. Shidou who never stopped pushing, never stopped demanding more, demanding truth. An Omega who looked him in the eye and told him he was tired of adjusting, tired of being the only one reaching across the gap. Shidou had every right to leave. What did Sae even feel for him? He knew. He did. But when had he ever said it? When had he shown it in a way that didn’t make Shidou doubt? Shidou tore his heart open daily and Sae answered with silence.

Because silence was safer. Because silence didn’t risk giving everything away and being abandoned again. But wasn’t that already happening? Hadn’t he been the one doing the abandoning all along? And then Rin — Rin who had died in that other future. Rin whose children had come back here because Sae’s rejection had planted a wound so deep it never healed. Rin who had been proud, stubborn, fiery… and who still carried that old scar of Sae turning his back.

Sae pressed a hand to his face, nails digging into his temple. What had he done? What had he ever done right? Football? Sure. He was a genius there. A machine. A brand. But outside of that? He was nothing. Not a brother. Not a father. Not a partner. And maybe he didn’t deserve any of them. Not Rin’s forgiveness. Not Isagi’s fury on Rin’s behalf. Not Shidou’s patience. Not the triplets’ affection. Certainly not love.

Because love required giving. Love required vulnerability. And all Sae had ever done was take, wall off, and pretend he didn’t need what he secretly craved. He hated himself for it. He hated that a part of him still wanted to crawl into Shidou’s arms, still wanted to hear Rin say nii-chan without venom, still wanted to believe he wasn’t too far gone to be loved.

But wasn’t that pathetic? Wasn’t that the most pathetic thing of all? Sae Itoshi — prodigy, Alpha, genius. Reduced to a boy who wanted to be held. His throat tightened, and for the first time in years, he didn’t know if he was going to choke down the feeling or let it tear him open.

Sae sat in the hush of the lounge, palms pressed to his face as if he could hide from the truth clawing through his chest. The quiet wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that roared in his ears, made every breath sound jagged, too loud. For once, the silence didn’t shield him. It stripped him bare. The sound of the door opening startled him more than it should have. Shidou’s voice carried in first, muttering low like he was trying not to jostle the little pack he ushered back inside.

The triplets tumbled through, slower this time, their steps cautious instead of charging like they usually did. Karasu gave a little two-finger salute on his way out, shutting the door behind them. And suddenly, the air shifted again. Three pairs of eyes fixed on him. Three pairs that hadn’t been there minutes ago when Sae’s chest was splitting open. Hikaru’s sharp, assessing like he could cut Sae apart with nothing but his gaze. Reika’s steady, chin lifted as if she’d already decided she wouldn’t flinch from whatever came next. Haruna’s soft, trembling, but no less unyielding — anger and love braided so tightly they looked the same on her face.

Sae had faced stadiums. He had faced crowds chanting his name, crowds waiting for him to fail. None of it ever made him flinch. But this? Three children standing like a jury with blood ties deeper than any stranger could claim? This made him want to fold in on himself. Shidou broke the stand-off first. He crouched low, ruffling Hikaru’s hair even though the boy scowled and ducked his head. “Told ya, brats. Didn’t lose him. He’s still here.” His voice was lighter now, almost too light, but his swollen eyes gave him away. He wasn’t covering anymore. Just softening the edges so they wouldn’t cut too deep.

Haruna didn’t look at Shidou. She marched forward, small fists balled tight. “You said you don’t know how to stay,” she whispered, but her voice wavered sharp. “Then learn. You always told us to practice when we couldn’t do something.” Her words fell like little blades, tiny but unrelenting. “So practice. With us.” Sae’s chest lurched. He hadn’t realized his hands were shaking until Reika moved too — her hand wrapping around his wrist before he could pull it back. Her grip was firm, almost fierce. “We’re not scared of mistakes,” she said. “We’re scared
of you leaving. That’s all.”

Hikaru lingered by Shidou’s side, half turned like he wanted to run, half like he wanted to step in. Finally, he shoved his console into his pocket, crossing the room with a kind of shaky resolve. He stopped in front of Sae, close enough that Sae could see the thin tremor in his jaw. “…I don’t need perfect. I just need you not to vanish.” Sae’s throat locked. His instinct was to look away, to retreat into the same cold stillness that had kept him untouchable for years.

But Shidou’s earlier words crashed through him again — I’m tired of being the only one reaching. And the triplets, standing there like living proof that bonds didn’t break so easily, even when he tried to. His hand rose — hesitating, awkward. He rested it on Hikaru’s shoulder, the weight clumsy. Hikaru stiffened, then let out a breath and leaned the tiniest fraction into it. Haruna pressed into his other side, Reika holding fast to his wrist. And for a moment, Sae felt surrounded — not by pressure, not by expectation, but by presence.

Something inside him cracked wider. “I…” The word scraped out of him, raw and unpolished. His voice shook enough that Shidou’s head snapped up from where he crouched. “I don’t know how to be what you want. Any of you.” His eyes flicked between them — Shidou, the triplets, all of them burning holes in him with too much trust. “But I’ll… try.” His jaw clenched. “If you’ll let me.”

The kids didn’t hesitate. Haruna buried her face against his side, Reika’s grip tightened, Hikaru gave the smallest nod like he was making a deal. Shidou laughed — wet, broken, but real. He shoved to his feet, pink eyes bright even through the redness. “See, brats?” he drawled, voice cracking anyway. “Told ya. Your otou-san’s just a shitty communicator.” Haruna smacked his arm, muffled against Sae’s shirt. “He’s not shitty.”

“Eh,” Shidou grinned crookedly, stepping close enough that their shoulders brushed. “We’ll work on it.” The triplets stayed pressed against him, warm, solid, breathing proof that he hadn’t shattered everything beyond repair. And for the first time, Sae didn’t pull away. His silence didn’t feel like armor. It felt like surrender — not to defeat, but to the terrifying, fragile chance that maybe he didn’t have to carry it alone anymore.

DAY 8 – 8:12 a.m.

UBERS LOUNGE AREA

The Uber’s lounge had never been this loud before breakfast. Usually, mornings in their corner of Blue Lock were a calculated sort of calm: Barou’s grunts as he polished off another protein-heavy meal, Aryu humming while adjusting his hair in the reflective glass of the vending machine, Sendou gossiping too loudly about whatever team caught his eye, Lorenzo lounging like a cat in the sun, Aiku lurking with his measured silence, and Niko quietly trying not to draw attention.

But today— Today there was a teen sitting like royalty on the coffee table. Long black hair swept behind their shoulders like a deliberate curtain, garnet eyes sparkling as if they thrived on the stares, legs crossed in a perfectly calculated display. Their outfit—immaculate, down to the way one teal sneaker was intentionally mismatched. And their smirk? That smirk screamed: I own the room.

Kai.

The same kid who had just waltzed into the cafeteria, called Aryu “Madam” and Barou “Boss,” and dropped the kind of revelation that shook the entire building: their bond child. Barou sat slouched back on the lounge couch like a king on his throne, thick arms folded, shoulders tense. He looked like he was still trying to decide whether this whole situation was a joke or a threat. Aryu, as always, managed to look unbothered—sprawled beside Barou with legs crossed elegantly, posture impossibly poised even in chaos. He watched Kai like an art critic surveying a controversial new piece.

The rest of the Ubers lingered around them in varying degrees of amusement: Lorenzo stretched across an armchair like he owned the air itself, Sendou buzzing with gossipy energy and crunching loudly on pretzels, Aiku leaning against the wall with the sharp-eyed detachment of a detective, and Niko curled up on a side cushion, trying to look invisible but staring anyway. The tension hung thick until Barou finally growled, breaking it. “Alright. Enough games. You—” his chin jerked toward Kai, voice rough as gravel, “you’re ours? Prove it.”

Gasps of mock offense spilled instantly from Kai. They pressed one manicured hand to their chest as if stabbed through the heart, the other hand extended dramatically to the ceiling light as though summoning divine witness. “Boss!” they exclaimed, scandal dripping from every syllable. “You wound me! Am I not already proof incarnate? The cheekbones! The aura! The mismatched footwear—do you not see the fusion of your dominance and Madam’s perfection standing right before you?” Aryu chuckled low in his throat. “Madam, hm? Interesting choice.”

Kai swiveled toward him, eyes glittering. “Why, of course, Madam. What else could I call you? The title fits as naturally as silk draped across porcelain. You are elegance personified, my dearest parent.” The lounge erupted instantly. Sendou nearly spit pretzel dust everywhere. “Wait—WAIT. Madam?! Oh my god. Barou’s Boss and Aryu’s Madam? This is gold.” Lorenzo howled, throwing his head back so far his sunglasses nearly slid off. “Boss and Madam! A mafia couple! Holy shit, I’m never letting this go.” Barou snarled, baritone deep enough to rattle the vending machine. “You do, and I’ll kill you.”

Aryu tilted his head, amused, clearly unaffected. He addressed Kai in that smooth, patient tone that could cut through Barou’s worst tempers. “And why exactly do we get these titles, darling?” Kai leaned back, steepling their fingers as if preparing to deliver a soliloquy. “Because, Madam, you are grace. You are the ruler who commands attention not through fear, but refinement. Your cheekbones alone could conquer nations.” They pivoted theatrically toward Barou, eyes gleaming. “And you, Boss—you are power incarnate. The roar in the stadium, the force no one dares to challenge. Together—” Kai clapped once, sharp, “you are empire.” The room howled again. Sendou toppled sideways on the couch. “Empire! Empire! Holy shit, this kid’s a poet!” Niko ducked his head, hiding his grin. Lorenzo wiped fake tears of laughter. “Barou! Empire! Oh my god, you’re blushing!”

Barou growled again, jaw tight, but his ears betrayed him—they were faintly red. “Tch. You’re full of shit.” Kai only smiled wider. “And yet, Boss, here I stand, living, breathing testimony of your… collaboration.” The laughter lingered until Barou’s frown deepened. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice rougher now—stripped of humor. “Cut the crap. Do we break?” The room stilled. Even Sendou shut up mid-chew.

Kai blinked, theatrics faltering for the first time. “…Break?” Barou’s eyes flicked to Aryu, then back. His jaw worked. “Do I fail him? Does it rot? I need to know the truth. Is there silence? Is there suffering?” Aryu froze, taken aback—not at the words, but the nakedness of them. His Alpha never asked like this. Never voiced the fear. But here it was, laid raw in front of teammates, in front of a child from the future. His way of saying: I need to know I don’t lose you.

Kai’s smirk softened, sincerity seeping in. They leaned forward, voice gentler. “No, Boss. You don’t fail. You don’t break. You build. You roar. And Madam refines. Our home is a castle, not a cage. That’s why I call you what I do.” Aryu’s lips curved—less performance, more warmth. He reached out, brushing his fingers along Barou’s forearm, grounding him. “See? Even in the future, you can’t break what we’ve built.” Barou huffed, scowling away, but he didn’t pull back. “Good. That’s how it better be.” Kai clasped their hands together like a delighted audience member. “Oh, how romantic! The feral King checking to make sure his Consort isn’t secretly withering. You’ll make me cry, Boss.” Sendou groaned, slapping his forehead. “You are crying.”

“Only on the inside,” Kai sniffed, dabbing invisible tears. Lorenzo wheezed. “Barou the romantic! Who knew! Madam, keep him on a leash.” Barou snarled, fangs bared. “Shut your damn mouth.” Aryu only smiled serenely, brushing his shoulder against Barou’s in an elegant lean. His voice was soft but pointed. “You care more than you admit, Shouei. That’s what makes you mine.” The lounge went still. Even Kai, master of theatrics, didn’t try to top that line. Until, of course, they did. “And that, my dear Ubers, is how legends are made. With love.”

Sendou exploded in laughter. Lorenzo collapsed across the chair like he’d died of joy. Niko hid his face in his hoodie. Even Aiku cracked a sharp, brief grin. And Barou—though he scowled, though he growled, though he glared—didn’t deny a single word.

The laughter from Kai’s “Boss and Madam empire” line was still echoing when Aryu leaned back, smoothing a strand of hair with unhurried grace. He tilted his chin, as if granting the floor. “Well then, Kai,” he purred, lips curved in indulgent amusement, “since you seem so desperate for the spotlight, why don’t you regale us with this… supposed love story?” Kai gasped—loud, theatrical, hand flying to their chest like they’d been crowned with a standing ovation. “At last! Permission to perform! My dear Madam, Boss, esteemed Ubers gentlemen—what you are about to hear is no mere tale. It is a saga of passion, pride, and perfectly balanced domesticity!” Barou groaned. “Don’t you dare.”

“Too late.” Kai leapt up onto the coffee table, striking a pose like an opera singer. Their garnet eyes gleamed. “Picture it—Blue Lock, Year One. Two stars on a collision course. One, a feral Alpha King, wild as a lion, arrogant as the sun itself—”

“That better not be me,” Barou cut in. Kai pointed dramatically at him. “—BOSS. Naturally.” Sendou nearly choked on his pretzels. “Holy shit, they nailed it.” Lorenzo was already wheezing. “Wild lion Barou! I’m framing this.” Barou scowled. “I’ll kill all of you.” Kai ignored him, pivoting with flair. “And the other? A vision. Grace incarnate. Cheekbones forged by gods themselves. A Beta who walked like silk and spoke like velvet—” Aryu, lounging like an actual model, flicked his hair and murmured, “Ah. Finally, someone gets it.”

“—MADAM.” Kai bowed deeply toward him. The Ubers lounge erupted again, Sendou clapping like a seal, Lorenzo cackling so hard he rolled onto the floor. Even Aiku’s lips twitched. Kai threw an arm up, commanding silence. “Their first meeting, dramatic as destiny itself! Boss, a lone lion prowling the locker room, glaring at anyone who dared breathe too loud. Madam, checking his reflection in a mirror, sighing at the fluorescent lighting. They locked eyes.” They leaned forward, whisper-dramatic. “And in that moment, the world trembled.” Barou rubbed his temples. “I swear to god.”

Aryu smirked. “Go on, darling. This is getting interesting.” Kai threw themselves across the table like a tragic actor. “At first, they denied it! Boss snarled, ‘Stay out of my way.’ Madam replied, ‘Your way is so… inelegant.’ Sparks flew, insults sharpened. But beneath it—desire! Admiration! The primal recognition of two halves of a greater whole.” Niko peeked up, whispering, “…So when did it actually happen?” Kai whipped around. “Patience, aunt. I’m building the tension!” Sendou leaned forward, grinning. “Yeah, yeah, when did the King finally fold?” Barou bared his teeth. “Never folded.”

“Folded like a fitted sheet,” Kai shot back instantly. The lounge exploded. Lorenzo was crying with laughter now. “Folded like a fitted sheet! Oh my god!” Aryu touched his cheek delicately, eyes shining with amusement. “I do love fitted sheets. So neat. So… controlled.” Barou growled, but his ears were red again. Kai leapt back into the story. “But then! The turning point! It wasn’t the battlefield—it was the kitchen.” The room froze. “The kitchen?” Sendou repeated. Kai nodded gravely. “Boss, the King of Clean Freaks. Madam, the Sovereign of Style. One day, Madam left a dish in the sink—”

“Lies,” Aryu cut in smoothly. “I would never.” Kai waved him off. “For the sake of drama. Boss sees it. His Alpha instincts ignite. He storms in, roaring, ‘Why the hell would you leave this here?’ And Madam—cool as a cucumber—says, ‘Because I knew you’d clean it better than I ever could.’” The lounge went silent. Then—Sendou lost it first, slapping the couch arm. “THAT’S SO THEM.” Lorenzo wheezed. “Barou… doing dishes… angry… falling in love… oh my god, kill me now.” Barou’s face was scarlet. “I like things clean! That doesn’t mea—” Aryu leaned into his side, utterly unbothered. “Shouei, don’t pretend. You adore order. And I do let you.”

Barou froze. Aryu’s smile was soft, disarming. For a moment, the growl caught in Barou’s throat like he didn’t know how to answer. Kai clasped their hands, sighing. “And thus, love bloomed. Through dishes. Through laundry folded with militant precision. Through hair routines performed side by side. A kingdom not built on war, but… domestic bliss.” Niko whispered again, hesitant. “…So they don’t fight?” Kai shook their head. “Not in the way that breaks bonds. Boss roars. Madam smooths. They clash in public, strategize in private. Their castle stands tall. Always.”

Barou’s jaw tightened, but his voice dropped low, serious. “So Jyubei doesn’t suffer.” Aryu turned, meeting his gaze. No theatrics. No audience. Just the quiet honesty between them. “No, Shouei. I don’t suffer. Not with you.” Barou let out a slow exhale, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “…Good.” Kai grinned, triumphant. “See? Even the King worries. And Madam reassures. And I—” they spread their arms wide, “am the proof of their empire.” The lounge dissolved into chaos again—Sendou chanting “Empire! Empire!” Lorenzo screaming with laughter, Niko hiding a smile, Aiku muttering something about “balance” under his breath. And Barou—though he glared, though he grumbled—didn’t move when Aryu’s hand slipped into his.

Kai paced atop the coffee table like a conductor at an orchestra. The room had already been turned into their personal theater, but they weren’t finished yet. Not by half. “Ah, yes. You’ve heard how love was sparked. You’ve swooned at tales of kitchens, cheekbones, and folded laundry. But every empire has a coronation. And mine—” Kai pointed dramatically to themself, “was forged from a proposal.” Barou sat up straighter. “Oi. I never—”

“Shhh, Boss,” Kai hushed, finger to their lips. “Don’t ruin my climax.” Aryu smirked behind his hand. “I am rather curious how you’ll spin this.” Kai spun, cloak of imaginary velvet trailing behind. “Picture it. A quiet night. The moon spilling silver through the blinds. Boss, pacing the living room like a caged lion, muttering about territory and futures. Madam, reclining in satin, hair perfect, sipping tea as if he were already royalty. The tension! The anticipation! The—” Sendou interrupted, grinning wide. “Wait, so Barou actually got nervous?”

Kai clutched their chest. “Nervous? He was positively feral. He scrubbed the counters three times before he could even look Madam in the eyes!” The lounge howled. Lorenzo rolled onto his back, tears leaking from his eyes. “Cleaning before confessing! That’s peak Barou!” Barou’s ears burned crimson. “Shut the hell up!” Kai raised a hand for silence, then lowered their voice to a conspiratorial hush. “And then, finally, he stopped. He turned. He looked Madam dead in the eye. And he said—” They deepened their voice into a gruff growl. “‘Marry me.’”

Silence. Aryu arched a brow, lips twitching. “…That sounds about right.” The room erupted. Sendou fell sideways, clutching his stomach. Niko slapped a hand over his mouth but couldn’t hide his grin. Even Aiku’s stone mask cracked, his shoulders shaking with muffled laughter. Barou’s glare could’ve incinerated the table. “What else was I supposed to say?!”

“Anything more romantic?” Sendou wheezed. “Like, I dunno—‘You complete me,’ or some shit—” Barou bared his teeth. “I’m not a damn poet. I said what mattered.” Kai jumped in, eyes sparkling. “Exactly! That was the beauty of it. No grand speeches. No false flourishes. Just raw, uncut devotion. Boss doesn’t ask. Boss commands. And Madam, oh Madam—” They clasped their hands, sighing. “He smiled. He nodded. He said—”
Aryu spoke smoothly, finishing the line himself. “Of course, Shouei. Who else would I tolerate?” The lounge lost it again. Lorenzo slammed his fist against the floor, Sendou wheezed like a dying kettle, Niko half-hid behind his knees, giggling.

But Barou… Barou froze. His mouth parted, then snapped shut. He looked at Aryu, really looked, and for a second the red on his ears wasn’t embarrassment—it was something quieter. Something raw. Aryu’s smile softened, eyes glinting. “And I meant it then. I mean it now. Who else could match me, Shouei?” The noise dimmed as the words hung there. Even Sendou, even Lorenzo, stilled. It wasn’t just comedy anymore. It was truth. Barou huffed, trying for a scowl, but his voice came out lower. “…Good. Don’t ever take it back.”

Aryu leaned closer, brushing his hand against Barou’s. “Never.” Kai clasped their hands together, triumphant. “And that, my dear Ubers, was the proposal that birthed your very own Kai Barou. A love sealed not with poetry, but with inevitability.” The lounge broke again—this time softer. Laughter mixed with sighs, smirks with side-eyes. But nobody missed the way Barou didn’t pull his hand away.

The laughter from Kai’s theatrical “proposal saga” had only just faded when Barou’s gaze sharpened. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes narrowing at his child like a predator scenting something off. “Tch. Enough clowning. Answer me this—why the hell are you friends with that guy’s kid?” The lounge stilled. Everyone knew who “that guy” was. Barou didn’t have to say the name. Aryu tilted his head, strands of pale hair glinting under the lights. “Shouei…” His voice was caution wrapped in silk.

But Barou wasn’t done. His tone was low, teeth just barely bared. “You say Itsuki Isagi’s your best friend. You know who his father is, don’t you? That’s my rival. My enemy. You expect me to just swallow that?” Kai, of course, didn’t flinch. They smirked, leaning back like they’d been waiting for this exact question. “Boss, boss, boss… always so dramatic. Relax. It’s not betrayal. It’s destiny.”

“Don’t spin it.” Barou’s growl echoed off the walls. “Answer.” Aryu reached out, placing a calm hand against Barou’s arm. “Shouei, don’t forget—times change. Rivalries burn hot, but bonds can cool them. Let Kai explain before you tear into him.” Kai jumped off the table with a theatrical twirl, landing perfectly in front of Barou, garnet eyes gleaming. “Itsuki and I met because our fates aligned. He’s not just my best friend—he’s the anchor to my chaos. I dramatize, he steadies. I dazzle, he calculates. Where I am fire, he is gravity.” Sendou leaned back, whistling. “Sounds like a real bromance.”

“Sounds like bullshit,” Barou snapped. Kai’s smirk widened. “Of course you’d say that. Because you and his father—” They jabbed a finger toward Barou’s chest. “—are the same. Two Alphas who should’ve destroyed each other, but didn’t. Instead, you sharpened one another until sparks lit up the damn sky. Guess what? Itsuki and I—we’re the continuation of that fire.” The lounge went quiet. Niko blinked, tilting his head. “…So, like, rivals… but friends?” Kai grinned. “Exactly, Aunt Niko. History repeats itself. Only this time? We chose not to kill each other.”

Barou’s jaw worked, torn between rage and reluctant recognition. He knew what Kai meant. He’d lived it with Isagi. The bastard had stripped him bare on the field, forced him to evolve or collapse. He hated him for it. Respected him for it. Needed him for it. Aryu’s voice slipped in, soft but steady. “Shouei, doesn’t that sound familiar? A bond forged in friction. Only instead of tearing down, they build each other up.” Barou glared at Aryu, then back at Kai. “So what—you’re saying I’m supposed to be fine with my kid calling that bastard’s brat his best friend?”

Kai crossed their arms, standing tall despite the weight of Barou’s Alpha presence. “Not fine, Boss. Proud. Because it means I’m strong enough to stand beside an Isagi and not disappear. Just like you were.” The words hit harder than any dramatics before. The room stilled. Even Sendou didn’t laugh this time. Aryu’s smile curved, soft as silk. “Shouei, hear him. He’s not diminishing you. He’s honoring you. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

Barou looked between them—the calm certainty in Aryu’s gaze, the fire in Kai’s. He exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out. “…Tch. Don’t disappoint me. Either of you.” Kai grinned, bowing dramatically. “As if I could, Boss.” Aryu squeezed Barou’s hand, quiet and certain. And for once, Barou didn’t pull away.

Barou hadn’t stopped staring at Kai. Not with awe. Not with pride. With the sharp, dissecting suspicion of a predator circling meat. “One more thing,” he muttered, voice low enough to cut the air. “Earlier, in the cafeteria—you said somethin’ about Rin. About him being dead. Explain. Now.” The room froze. Aryu’s lashes fluttered. “…Shouei.” His voice was soft warning. But Barou didn’t glance at him. His gaze never left Kai. “Don’t dodge me, brat. You drop something like that, you answer for it.” Kai’s smirk faltered—just a flicker—but they straightened, brushing invisible dust from their sleeve. “Ah. Yes. The tragedy of Duchess Rin.”

“…The hell did you just call him?” Barou growled. Kai clasped their hands together, eyes sparkling. “Duchess Rin. Sovereign of Silent Fury. The prettiest Omega to ever scorch a football field.” Sendou nearly choked on air. “Duchess—oh my god.” Aryu’s lips curled in amusement. “I rather like it. It suits him. Refined. Untouchable. Painfully pretty.”

“Tch. He’s a pain in the ass, that’s what he is,” Barou snapped. “And Isagi?” Kai pivoted smoothly. “Lord Isagi, of course. The Strategist Supreme. The Alpha who topples kings without lifting a finger.” They fanned themselves with dramatic flair. “Together, Duchess Rin and Lord Isagi were a dynasty. A household of five heirs. Picture-perfect.” Barou’s frown deepened. “…Until?” Kai’s voice dropped, theatrics bleeding into something heavier. “Until Duchess Rin fell.” The room stilled.

Niko peeked over his knees, wide-eyed. “…Fell how?” Kai’s gaze softened, and for once they weren’t performing. “A complication. Preventable. In another world, someone should’ve seen it, should’ve stopped it. But they didn’t. And so Duchess Rin left the stage too soon. Lord Isagi crumbled. The heirs scattered.” Aryu’s smile faded, replaced with a still, sharp sadness. “…A bond severed.” Barou’s jaw clenched. “So that’s why the brats are here. To fix it.”

Kai nodded once. “Yes. Itsuki most of all. He carries the weight like a crown, heavy and invisible. He doesn’t talk about it, but you can see it every time he looks at Duchess Rin now. The hope. The fear.” Sendou exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Damn. That’s… heavier than I thought.” Lorenzo, for once, didn’t laugh. “Dead moms break kingdoms. That’s universal.” Barou leaned back, muscles tight. “Hn. And you—you’re fine? No broken bond? No missing parent?”

Kai grinned, teeth sharp, but their voice gentled. “Boss. Madam. My bond stands tall. Yours was never broken. That’s why I’m here—to be Itsuki’s shield. To remind him not all families collapse.” Aryu’s hand slipped over Barou’s wrist, anchoring him. “See, Shouei? Even fate respects us. Our bond endured. And our child carries that strength.” Barou exhaled through his nose, a slow, heavy sound. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t smile. But the way his shoulders eased spoke enough.

Kai, of course, ruined the silence with another flourish. “Besides, who wouldn’t want Duchess Rin and Lord Isagi as their extended family? Titles! Prestige! A household worthy of operas!” Barou groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re gonna drive me insane.” Aryu’s laughter chimed like crystal. “And yet you’ll survive it. We both will. Because look at him, Shouei—he’s ours.” Barou grunted, low and grudging, but he didn’t argue.

It started small. Too small. Niko had been curled in the corner chair, hoodie half-swallowed around his face, quietly sketching formations on scrap paper while the rest of Ubers bantered. Nobody noticed the shift until the silence in his corner grew… too silent. Sendou looked up first. “…Yo. Where’s the kid?” Aryu blinked. “Niko? He was right there.”

Empty chair. Crumpled paper. Jacket tossed across the armrest like a discarded shell. Barou shot up immediately, eyes blazing. “OI. Who the hell let him walk off?!”Aiku, already halfway to the door, cursed under his breath. “Damn it. I told you—eyes on him. He’s fifteen, an Omega, and half the world smells blood when they see that.” Sendou’s grin wavered. “…Think maybe he just went to the bathroom?”

“Bathroom my ass,” Barou snapped. “Someone took him.” That was when Kai — lounging like a cat — decided to be unhelpful. “Oh, didn’t you notice? Uncle Charles was here a moment ago.” The room froze.Aryu’s eyes narrowed like glass cutting light. “…Charles.” Barou’s growl rumbled low, dangerous. “That Alpha brat? The one who keeps sniffin’ around Niko?” Kai smiled sweetly. “The very same. He asked Aunt Niko if he wanted to see his ‘private training notes.’ And Aunt Niko said yes.” Silence. Deadly silence. Aiku’s fists curled at his sides. “…That little punk just kidnapped him.”

Sendou half-laughed, half-cringed. “Kidnapped, or—uh—you know. Courting.” Barou slammed his fist into the wall, the sound like thunder. “Courting MY teammate without permission is kidnapping.” Aryu adjusted his collar with surgical precision. “And without taste, frankly. Charles has no aesthetic restraint. Terrible cheekbones.” Kai fanned themselves, utterly delighted. “Oh, this is delicious. The knights realize their baby princess has been spirited away by the brat prince. Scandal!” Lorenzo finally laughed, loud and wild. “So, we storming the castle or what?”

Barou was already moving, Alpha presence filling the hall. “Damn right we are. Nobody touches Niko without going through me first.” Aiku matched his pace, voice cold as steel. “Charles wants to play grown Alpha? Fine. I’ll remind him what it feels like to get benched.” Sendou groaned, trailing after. “Oh man, poor Charles. He doesn’t even know he just poked the wolf pack.” Aryu swept to his feet with a sigh, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers. “Boys, boys, boys. At least look fabulous when you drag him back. This is a rescue mission, not a street brawl.”

Kai, walking behind them, smirked like a devil. “Rescue mission? Please. Aunt Niko probably went willingly. He’s already blushing when Uncle Charles breathes near him.” Barou shot them a glare sharp enough to kill. “Doesn’t matter. He’s ours. And no brat gets to take him unless we say so.”

The Ubers stormed out like a pack of armored knights — Aiku with cold precision, Barou radiating Alpha rage, Aryu the exasperated consort trying to maintain grace, Sendou the reluctant comic relief, Lorenzo howling with laughter, and Kai narrating the chaos like a bard at court. Meanwhile, somewhere down the hall, Niko was sitting perfectly calm, listening to Charles talk about his latest passing drills… and not once thinking he was in danger.

DAY 8 – 9:16 a.m.

BLUE LOCK GARDEN WING

The garden wing wasn’t really a garden. It was glass and angles, steel beams carved into skylights, little patches of greenery arranged like art installations. Too controlled to be wild, too alive to be sterile. It made Niko relax in ways the training rooms never did. Less eyes. Less noise. He could hear his own breath. Charles knew that. Or at least, he pretended he did. “See? Better than the lounge, yeah?” Charles leaned against the glass railing like he owned it, like he was some prince showing off his private estate. His smirk curved sharp, daring, every bit the Alpha posturing. “Peaceful. No Barou breathing down your neck. No Aiku glaring like he’s already planning my funeral.”

Niko adjusted his hoodie strings and stared at the floor tiles. “…They’re probably already planning it.” Charles laughed — bright, careless, too loud for the space. “Let ’em. I’m not scared of a bunch of overprotective fossils.” (He was. He was very scared. But he wasn’t about to admit that, not with Niko watching.) Niko hummed. Quiet. Thinking. His eyes caught the stretch of green in the planters, the way the skylight fractured the morning sun. “…You shouldn’t call them fossils. They’ll hear.”

“Pfft. Let ’em.” Charles puffed his chest, leaning closer. “I asked you, not them. That’s what matters.” There it was. The line. Bold, unpolished. His version of “courting.” Niko tilted his head, finally looking at him. His gaze was sharp even when soft, like he was seeing the space between Charles’ words. “…You always talk this much when you’re nervous?” That hit. Charles froze mid-smirk, ears tinging red. “…I’m not nervous.”

“You are,” Niko said, flat but not unkind. “Your shoulders keep twitching.” Charles blinked. Looked down. Damn it. He was twitching. He ran a hand through his hair, tried to laugh it off. “Okay, maybe a little. But that’s because I’ve never done this before.” Niko blinked slowly. “…Courting an Omega?” Silence stretched. Charles’ smirk faltered into something more raw. “…Yeah.” The honesty surprised even him. For a second, Niko just stared. Then, to Charles’ utter confusion, he didn’t laugh, or tease, or walk away. He just nodded, adjusting his hoodie again. “…Then you’re doing fine.”

The words landed like a punch and a gift all at once. Charles’ throat tightened. He’d expected pushback, a glare, maybe even rejection. Not… this. Not calm acceptance. “…You don’t mind? That I’m—trying?” he asked, quieter now. Niko’s lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. “…If I minded, I wouldn’t be here.” And that was it. The simplest, sharpest confession Charles had ever heard. He laughed again, but softer this time, running a hand down his face. “You’re gonna kill me, Niko.” Niko just shrugged. “…Maybe. Or not.”

They sat together in the filtered sun, silence filling the spaces Charles usually crushed with noise. Niko didn’t need grand gestures. He didn’t even need words. Just… presence. And for once, Charles realized he didn’t need to posture either. The air in the garden wing smelled faintly of damp earth and glass cleaner. Too artificial to feel like outside, but enough for Niko to feel like he wasn’t trapped. He let the silence sit. Silence never scared him. Charles though—Charles couldn’t stand it.

He shifted, kicked the edge of the planter with his shoe, then blurted it before he could stop himself: “…You know why I like you, right?” Niko’s head tilted again. He didn’t answer. Just looked. Charles swallowed, then forced the smirk back on his face. “It’s not ‘cause you’re quiet. People always think quiet means weak. It doesn’t. With you—” he snapped his fingers, searching, “—it’s like you’re seeing everything at once. Like you already know where the ball’s gonna go before anyone moves. It pisses me off, honestly. But it also—” he huffed, dragged a hand through his hair, “—it makes me wanna keep up with you.” Niko blinked. His hoodie strings twisted between his fingers. “…That’s football talk.”

Charles grinned crooked. “Yeah, and? It’s all I know. Midfielders read the game. Omegas read the room. You… you read me.” The words slipped too raw, too fast. His cheeks burned, but he didn’t pull them back. Not this time. Niko’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close. “…You’re loud.”

“And you don’t care,” Charles shot back, a little defiant. “…No,” Niko admitted. His gaze softened, steady. “…I don’t.” That broke something open in Charles’ chest. Like he’d been holding his breath since the cafeteria and only now remembered how to let it go. He leaned against the railing beside Niko, close but not crowding. His voice dropped, no smirk, no armor: “Look, I know they think I’m a brat. Maybe I am. But I’m not—” his jaw clenched, words dragging, “—I’m not like other stereotype alphas. I’m not gonna push you around just ‘cause I can. I just… I wanna be near you. That’s all.”

Niko’s lashes flickered, his gaze darting sideways to study him. For a long beat, he didn’t speak. Then: “…You’re better when you stop performing.” It was blunt. Honest. The kind of observation that cut through every mask Charles had. He laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Guess I don’t need to perform for you, huh?” Niko shrugged. “…I already know what’s under it.”

That floored him. Not the words — the certainty. Like Niko had already seen straight through and decided he wasn’t turning away. Charles’ heart thudded harder than it had during half his matches. He wanted to say more, something stupid, something bold. But before he could—The sound of footsteps thundered down the hall. Heavy. Coordinated. Like an entire unit marching. Niko exhaled softly. “…They found us.” Charles’ blood ran cold.

The thunder of boots was unmistakable now. Louder. Closer. Too many to count. Niko just adjusted his hood, calm as if this were another training drill. “…They’re coming.” Charles’ pulse jumped. His instincts went wild — protective, stupid, louder than reason. He shifted in front of Niko, shoulders squared, chin up like a knight before battle. “Stay behind me.”

Niko blinked. Slow. Unimpressed. “…Why?” Charles’ jaw tightened. “Because they’re gonna come in here breathing fire, and if anyone’s catching heat first, it’s me.” For a moment, the filtered sunlight caught on the glass above them. Charles stood there, fists clenched, posture ridiculous and noble and fifteen. And Niko — steady, unreadable — just watched him. His lips curved the faintest fraction. “…You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Charles muttered, not moving. “But I’m your idiot.” The doors to the garden wing slammed open. Barou’s Alpha presence hit first — heavy, territorial, enough to make the air itself bristle. Aiku’s glare followed, sharp enough to cut steel. Aryu swept in behind them, elegance like a blade, Sendou muttering, Lorenzo cackling. And Kai, of course, trailing like a court jester, eyes alight with scandalous glee. The pack of Ubers froze at the sight: Charles, standing guard. Niko, perfectly calm at his back. Barou’s growl cracked the silence. “WHAT the hell is this?” Barou’s voice was a bark, sharp enough to make the glass shudder. His Alpha aura hit like a wall, territorial and furious.

Charles didn’t flinch — couldn’t. He planted his feet, jaw locked. “None of your damn business!” Wrong answer. Aiku stepped in next, arms folded, voice low with venom. “You think you can drag an Omega off alone? Without permission? Are you out of your mind?” Aryu tilted his head, eyes sharp with glittering accusation. “Darling, this looks terribly like a kidnapping. And kidnapping is so tacky.”

“Oi, oi,” Sendou chimed in from the back, tone half-joking but eyes serious. “Are we beating him up or just scaring him? I need to know how much to roll up my sleeves.” Lorenzo just cackled, leaning against the frame like a hyena. “Kid’s got guts, I’ll give him that. But guts don’t mean you keep your limbs.” Kai gasped dramatically, hands clasped like they were at a theater premiere. “Boss! Madam! He dared lay claim to your precious baby brother without the council’s blessing! A scandal! A betrayal!”

Barou’s fists clenched, teeth bared. “You got three seconds to explain yourself, brat, before I drag you back to the field and make you regret breathing.” The garden wing buzzed with Alpha pressure, Beta scorn, and Omega silence. And through it all, Niko didn’t so much as twitch. He adjusted his hood again. Calm. Flat. His voice cut through the noise like glass: “…I wasn’t kidnapped.” Everything froze for half a beat. Aiku blinked. “…What?” Niko’s eyes slid to Charles, then back to the squad. “He asked me. I said yes. That’s all.”

The silence that followed was absurd. Half the Ubers looked like someone had unplugged their brains. Charles, however, puffed his chest like he’d just won a war. “See?! Voluntary! Not a crime!” Barou snarled. “Shut up. You don’t get points for asking.” Aryu’s lips pursed. “…Still tacky.” Aiku pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling like he was already ten years older. “You understand how this looks, don’t you? Dragging an Omega off alone? In this hellhole?”

Charles faltered — just a fraction — then clenched his jaw. “…I wasn’t dragging. I was…” he swallowed, cheeks heating, “…courting.” Kai nearly fell over, shrieking. “COURTING?! In the garden wing?! With plants as your witness?! Oh, the audacity! The romance!” Sendou burst out laughing. Lorenzo doubled over wheezing. Even Aryu had to hide a chuckle behind his hand.

Barou, however, did not laugh. He stepped forward, looming like a stormcloud. “Listen, brat. You think you’re worthy to ‘court’ one of ours? You’ll prove it. You screw up once, I’ll bury you myself.” Charles’ throat tightened, but he didn’t back down. “…Fine. Deal.” The tension coiled tighter. For a moment, no one moved. Then—Niko, unbothered, tugged on Charles’ sleeve. “…You’re too loud.”The entire room cracked — half from laughter, half from exasperation.

The silence after Niko’s flat “You’re too loud” lasted only three beats before Kai pounced. They twirled dramatically into the middle of the room, long hair catching the light like silk. “Behold!” They pointed at Charles like a lawyer delivering the killing blow. “The tragic Alpha suitor, undone not by rivals but by his own volume.” Charles flushed scarlet. “Shut it—”

“Don’t interrupt the narrative,” Kai snapped, then softened, eyes darting fondly toward Niko. “Ubers' darling baby sibling clearly chose this chaos magnet. And though I pity his ears, I must respect his will.” Aryu sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Madam disapproves of the presentation.” Barou grunted. “Boss disapproves of the Alpha.” Kai clasped their hands like they were delivering a royal decree. “And yet, the council cannot deny fate when it knocks so boldly at our door. Besides—” they flicked a strand of hair back, lips curving into a wicked smile, “—it will be endlessly entertaining to watch him squirm under your glares.”

“ENDLESSLY entertaining,” Lorenzo echoed, wheezing. Aiku glared daggers at Kai. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Of course I am,” Kai said sweetly. “It’s my inheritance. Drama runs in the bloodline, doesn’t it, Boss? Madam?” Aryu hid a laugh behind his hand. Barou muttered a curse, but neither outright denied it. Meanwhile, Charles was fuming, face hot enough to cook an egg. “Why do you even get a vote? You’re not—” He froze mid-sentence, realizing exactly who Kai was. Kai grinned like a cat with cream. “Correction: I am family. Future bond child of Boss and Madam. Your in-law, technically, should you survive long enough.” Charles’ brain short-circuited.v. “…WHAT?!” Niko, calm as ever, tugged his sleeve again. “…You’re still too loud.”

The Ubers howled — Sendou cackling, Aryu chuckling behind elegant fingers, even Barou letting slip a sharp bark of laughter before catching himself. But when the noise settled, the weight returned. Aiku leaned in close to Barou, voice pitched low: “We can’t just laugh this off. If the brat’s serious, he needs watching. Niko’s too young for this kind of pull, and Charles—” his eyes narrowed, “—Charles is still an Alpha who doesn’t know what control means.”

Barou’s jaw clenched. He looked at Niko — hood up, calm, perfectly fine in his own skin — then at Charles, puffed up and defensive, still bristling under the collective glare. “…I’ll handle it,” Barou muttered. Kai tilted their head knowingly, tone lighter but sharp under the velvet: “Boss always does.”

DAY 8 – 9:48 a.m.

UBERS LOUNGE — PRIVATE

The lounge was quieter than usual. The laughter and drama of the garden had burned off, leaving only the faint hum of the AC and the smell of strong coffee. Barou dropped onto the couch like a thundercloud, arms crossed, still bristling. Aiku leaned against the wall, calm in appearance, but his eyes carried the same edge as Barou’s aura. For a moment, neither spoke.

Finally, Aiku broke the silence. “…You’re still growling.” Barou’s lip curled. “Kid thinks he can just waltz off with Niko like it’s nothing.” His fist clenched against his thigh. “Doesn’t matter if Niko says it was his choice — brats like Charles don’t get choices handed to them that easily.” Aiku’s smirk was faint but bitter. “Funny. You sound like someone’s pissed-off dad.” Barou shot him a glare sharp enough to kill. Aiku didn’t flinch. “I’m serious,” Aiku continued, his tone sharper now. “Niko’s fifteen. Still figuring himself out. And Charles is—” his jaw tightened, “—Charles is an Alpha. Hotheaded, desperate to prove himself. That kind of mix? Dangerous.” Barou exhaled hard through his nose, gaze burning into the carpet. “…If he screws up, I’ll break him.”

“Yeah,” Aiku said dryly. “And if you break him, Niko’ll be the one cleaning up the pieces. You really wanna do that to the kid?” Barou’s silence stretched. His shoulders stayed stiff, Alpha instincts vibrating under his skin. But Aiku’s words landed, whether he liked them or not. Aiku folded his arms, eyes narrowing. “Listen. Niko’s not weak. He doesn’t need us hovering every second. But he does need us to pay attention when someone tries to get too close. And Charles? He’s already too close.” Barou finally looked up. His voice was low, steady, more dangerous than his usual bark. “…So what do we do?”

Aiku smirked, but there was no humor in it. “We watch. We wait. And if Charles steps out of line — even once — we shut him down so hard he never thinks about Niko again.” Barou nodded once, sharp and decisive. “…Good.” There was a beat of silence. The two of them, different in posture and tone, but perfectly aligned in intent. Then, from the hallway, a muffled voice floated in: “Oh my god, this is better than any mafia drama, Boss and Uncle plotting their next move—”

“Kai,” Barou snarled. There was the sound of hurried footsteps retreating. Aiku sighed. “…Future child or not, that one’s gonna give me grey hair.” Barou grunted, settling back into the couch. But his eyes stayed sharp, fixed on the door like he could still see Charles’ shadow there. “…He’s not laying a finger on Niko without surviving me first.”

The lounge felt colder now. Barou sat heavy in the central chair, king on his throne. Aiku flanked the side, arms crossed, eyes sharp as blades. The atmosphere pressed tight, tense. Charles stood in the doorway, spine stiff, fists clenched at his sides. He looked like he wanted to bolt, but Barou’s glare pinned him still. “Sit.” Barou’s voice cracked like a whip. Charles obeyed, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he could muscle his way through the weight pressing down on him.

Aiku’s tone was deceptively calm. “You think you can call it ‘courting’ and that makes it okay?” Charles lifted his chin. “…I asked. He said yes. That’s it.” Barou’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not it.” Silence. The tension was a third person in the room. Aiku leaned forward slightly. “Do you even understand what it means, being near an Omega here? Let alone this Omega?” He gestured sharply toward the hall. “You mess up, you don’t just deal with him. You deal with us. All of us.” Charles swallowed, throat bobbing. “…I’m not planning to hurt him.”

Barou’s aura flared like a growl made flesh. “Doesn’t matter what you’re planning. Plans change. Instincts don’t.” Charles grit his teeth, eyes flashing. “…I’m not my instincts.” That gave both men pause. For just a second. But before Barou could answer, the door swung open. Aryu glided in, perfect as ever. Kai followed immediately after, practically bouncing. Behind them, Sendou and Lorenzo lurked like hyenas on the scent of chaos. “Darling, what is this atmosphere?” Aryu asked, sliding into the room like silk. “It feels as though someone died.”

“Not yet,” Barou muttered. Kai gasped, clutching their chest. “A trial! An execution! Boss and Uncle Aiku, grim judges of fate!” Charles groaned. “…Why are you like this?”

“Inherited,” Kai said sweetly. “Ask Boss and Madam.” Aryu preened, accepting the title without argument. “At least one child knows how to address their parents with dignity.” Barou snorted but didn’t correct them. Sendou plopped onto the couch. “So, are we actually killing him, or just scaring him? ‘Cause if it’s the second, I wanna grab popcorn.” Lorenzo cackled, showing off a handful of coins. “Ten bucks says Charles passes out before Niko even walks in.”

“Shut up Lore.” Charles’ ears burned red. Right on cue, Niko wandered in. Hood up, expression flat, he surveyed the entire room in one glance. “…You’re all loud again.” The whole lounge stilled. Barou cleared his throat, straightened. “Niko.” Niko tilted his head slightly. “…What?” Aiku cut in, gentler than Barou. “We just wanted to make sure you’re okay. With him.” He flicked his eyes at Charles. Niko blinked once. Twice. Then, in his usual deadpan: “…I said yes. That means I’m okay.”The words hit the room like a gavel.

Charles’ chest swelled, triumphant — until Barou snarled: “Don’t think that clears you.” Niko turned his gaze on Barou, unflinching. “…If you scare him off, I’ll be mad.” That shut Barou up. Aryu, of course, swooped in with perfect timing. “Oh, the drama! The rebellion! Our baby brother defending his suitor against the terrifying council!” He draped an arm around Kai. “Mark this moment, darling — history is being made.” Kai fanned themselves dramatically. “I’m weeping already, Madam. Such a scandal will echo through the halls of Ubers.”

Sendou burst out laughing, Lorenzo howled. Aiku sighed, rubbing his forehead. Barou, though? He sat there, jaw locked, silently glaring at Charles. Finally, in a voice low and firm, he said: “…You screw this up, brat, and I’ll break you. No warnings. No second chances.” Charles met his eyes. Trembling, yes — but he didn’t look away. “…I won’t.” For once, Kai didn’t dramatize. They just smiled, soft and sharp at once, like someone who already knew how the story would unfold.

Chapter Text

DAY 9 — 7:30 a.m.

MANSHINE CITY DORMS

The dorm light slanted in gold, filtered through blinds that hadn’t been adjusted in days. The room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and Reo’s pheromone, mixed with the ever-present undertone of coffee from the common hall downstairs. Ren was still asleep. Flat on his stomach, messy white hair sticking in every direction like a half-crushed dandelion, mouth open just enough to drool on the pillow. His socks had come off sometime in the night; one was balled near his foot, the other flung halfway across the room. The oversized shirt he’d insisted on wearing as pajamas — Reo’s old academy jersey — slipped off his shoulder, tiny collarbones showing, ribs rising and falling in the steady rhythm of childhood sleep.

He looked small. Fragile in a way that made Nagi’s chest ache if he stared too long. Nagi sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hair falling forward. For once, he wasn’t sleepy — not in the usual lazy way, at least. His body wanted to lie back down, bury himself under the covers beside Ren, pretend the world could wait. But something in him pushed against that instinct, sharp and insistent: wake him. get him ready. don’t make Reo do it. So he reached out, awkwardly brushing Ren’s cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Ren,” he murmured. His voice was rough with morning. “Ren-Ren. Time to get up.” A muffled groan answered. The boy flopped onto his side, burying his face deeper into the pillow. Nagi’s lips quirked faintly. That was him. That was exactly how he’d acted at Ren’s age. The refusal, the stubborn half-sleep. A perfect little mirror, except messier and louder. He tried again, tugging gently at the blanket. “Come on. Morning. We gotta get dressed.”

Another groan. A swat of tiny fingers, half-heartedly trying to bat him away. Nagi sighed, leaning closer. “If you don’t get up, I’m eating your snack from yesterday.” That worked. Ren’s head snapped up, violet eyes bleary but wide. “Nooo—!” His voice cracked as he clutched the pillow like a shield. “Mine!” Nagi chuckled under his breath. “Then wake up.” Ren blinked at him, pouting, but his little body finally rolled upright, hair sticking in every direction. His oversized shirt slipped further, and Nagi reached to tug it back over his shoulder. He didn’t even think about it — his hands just moved. “Brush teeth first or clothes first?” Nagi asked, already standing to grab the pile Reo had laid out the night before. Ren rubbed his eyes with his fists. "clothes.”

“Clothes it is.” Nagi crouched by the drawer, pulling out the tiny shirt — bright blue, Ren’s favorite — and shorts with mismatched socks. He wasn’t great at folding or matching, but he knew the routine now. Reo had walked him through it enough times..He glanced over his shoulder, and that’s when he noticed him. Reo. Already dressed in training gear, hair perfectly tied back, water bottle in hand. Leaning in the doorway, silent. Watching.
Nagi blinked. “…You didn’t leave yet?”.Reo’s lips curved faintly. “Not yet. Chris has us on early drills, but I wanted to see this.”

“This?” Reo nodded toward the bed. “You. Him. Morning.”
Nagi felt heat creep up his neck. He turned back to the drawer quickly, pretending to rummage for another shirt he didn’t need. “…It’s not a big deal. Just getting him ready.” But Reo didn’t look away. He just stayed there, eyes soft, soaking in every detail like he was memorizing it.

It was more than a big deal. For Reo, mornings had always been routine. Wake early, train, prepare. No matter where he was — mansion, dorm, hotel room — the rhythm didn’t change. Structure kept him grounded. Kept him moving forward. But now? Now he stood in the doorway, watching his boy(?)friend — the boy who once dragged his feet at everything, who once couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger unless it was fun — sit on the floor of a dorm room, patiently untangling socks for a child that shared his hair and his eyes. It stopped Reo cold.

Not because it was strange. But because it wasn’t. It fit. It was like looking at a puzzle piece you never realized was missing until it clicked into place. Ren, with his stubborn pout and wild hair, was their chaos. Their proof. And Nagi — his lazy, impossible, Nagi — was kneeling on the floor, volunteering to do the hard part. Tired but present. Awkward but careful. Choosing to stand in the space Reo had always assumed he’d fill alone. His chest ached. Sweet, heavy, full. He wanted to freeze the moment. Frame it. Keep it forever. Nagi tugged Ren’s arms into the shirt, patient when the boy squirmed. “Arms up. Higher. There.” Ren giggled when the shirt got stuck halfway, little hands flapping. “I’m a ghost!”

“You’re gonna be late if you keep haunting the shirt.” Nagi tugged it down, smoothing the fabric clumsily. Reo bit back a laugh. He couldn’t help himself. “You’re surprisingly good at this.” Nagi glanced up, silver eyes half-lidded but clear. “I said I’d do it. You’ve got drills. Focus on that.” Reo’s throat tightened. Because he could hear it — under the flat tone, under the laziness. It wasn’t just Nagi covering. It was Nagi choosing. A quiet way of saying: I’ll take care of him too. You don’t have to do everything. And that… that was everything Reo had ever wanted.

Ren hopped clumsily off the bed, tugging at his shorts. “Papa, socks!” Nagi blinked. “…Oh. Right.” He crouched again, helping Ren tug them on — one mismatched, one backwards, but he didn’t correct it. Not yet. Ren liked it this way. “There. Done.” Ren beamed. Wide, unguarded. He looked up at Nagi like he hung the stars. And Reo’s heart almost gave out.

He remembered once — months ago, back when it was just football and obsession and loneliness — he’d begged Nagi to take life seriously. To care about something. And now, here he was. Caring. Not just about the game. Not just about him. About a small, chaotic boy with too-big socks and sleepy violet eyes. Reo realized, standing there, that he wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t worried Nagi’s love would be split, diluted, weakened. No — it multiplied. It stretched. It grew. And Reo?

He was still part of it. Always had been. Always would be. Nagi scooped Ren up, standing with a grunt. “Alright. Teeth now.” Ren wrapped tiny arms around his neck, giggling. “Okay, Papa.” Nagi turned to the doorway, deadpan. “You’re staring again.” Reo blinked, caught. “Can you blame me?” Nagi shrugged, shifting Ren on his hip. “A little. You’re making it weird.” Ren giggled louder. Reo laughed. And for the first time in a long time, the morning didn’t feel like structure or duty. It felt like home.

The toothbrush foamed clumsily in Ren’s mouth. The boy hummed some nonsense tune while Nagi crouched beside him, making sure the bubbles didn’t splatter across the mirror. He wasn’t sure when the habit started — crouching at Ren’s level. Maybe because Reo did it. Maybe because it just felt easier to see things from the boy’s eye line, instead of towering like some giant shadow. Ren spat into the sink, water running, giggling as he swished. Nagi leaned on the counter, watching. And the thought came again. Uninvited. Heavy but warm.

“…I care.”

The word tasted strange, even in his own head. He’d gone most of his life without feeling it. About anything. Games, grades, family — all background noise he’d tuned out. Then Reo had walked in with his loud voice and endless fire, and suddenly Nagi cared enough to move, to run, to fight. And now this. This small, chaotic boy who drooled on pillows and screamed about snacks. It baffled him. The weight of it. He’d thought caring would feel like a chain. Like being forced. Like Reo dragging him again, saying move, Nagi, don’t be boring.

But this wasn’t that. This was Ren yawning wide enough to show all his baby teeth, leaning against his leg without asking. This was Reo standing in the doorway, looking at them like he’d found the entire world in one room. It didn’t feel forced. It felt like air. Ren clutched his towel dramatically, declaring victory over toothpaste stains. Nagi chuckled, ruffling his hair. And then his eyes drifted — past the boy, past the sink, to the faint reflection in the mirror. Reo. Still leaning in the doorway, arms crossed now. Watching. Always watching.

Nagi swallowed, throat tight. He’d never been good at saying it. At showing it. Reo was the one with words, with fire, with dreams too big for their age. Nagi had always been the shadow to that flame. The lazy echo, dragged along. But he loved him. He loved him in ways that felt too big for his chest. In ways that startled him in quiet moments like this. Watching Ren brush his teeth. Watching Reo smile like he’d already forgiven every failure. He wanted to prove it this time. Not just with football. Not just with victories.

With this. With mornings and toothbrushes and socks put on backwards. With showing up before Reo asked, before Reo had to beg. With being here, really here, in a way he hadn’t known he could be. Because the truth — the baffling, terrifying, liberating truth — was that he wanted to be. He wanted Reo to look at him like this forever. Ren tugged his sleeve. “Papa, done!” Nagi blinked, pulled out of his head. “…Yeah. Good job.” Ren beamed, bouncing off toward the room to grab his shoes.

And Reo… Reo didn’t say anything. Just stayed there. Smiling. Nagi shifted awkwardly, scratching his neck. “…What?” Reo’s voice was soft. “Nothing. Just… I like watching you.” Nagi’s ears burned. He muttered, “…Weird.” But Reo’s smile only grew.

Maybe it was weird. Him. Caring this much. Wanting this much. But as he watched Ren tug on sneakers and Reo tie the laces with practiced hands, something inside Nagi steadied. He didn’t feel trapped. Didn’t feel dragged. He felt… chosen. And for once in his life, he wanted to choose back. He wanted to choose them — Reo with his endless fire, Ren with his messy socks — every single time. Because baffling or not, lazy or not… This was love. And he was finally ready to carry it.

Ren wriggled on the edge of the bed as Reo adjusted the laces on his sneakers. His little legs kicked like restless springs, socks mismatched, hair still sticking in every direction despite Nagi’s half-hearted attempt to smooth it down. “Mama—” Ren’s voice cracked into a whine, pulling at Reo’s sleeve. “I wanna play. With the other kids. Now.” Reo looked up, violet eyes meeting wide, impatient ones that mirrored them almost perfectly. His smile softened even as he shook his head. “After breakfast, Ren-Ren. You can’t run on an empty stomach.”

Ren pouted hard enough to scrunch his whole face, nose wrinkled, lips trembling in theatrical misery. “But they’ll start without me.” Reo tied the knot firm, tugged gently on the sneaker to test it, then sat back. His hand smoothed over Ren’s messy hair, voice patient, gentle. “They won’t. They’ll wait. And even if they don’t, you’ll catch up. You’re fast. Just like Papa.” Ren blinked, his pout wobbling, gaze flicking to Nagi.

Nagi, still leaning on the wall, shrugged. “…He’s right. You can’t play if you pass out first. Breakfast. Then kids.” Ren groaned, flopping backward like a fainting prince. “Ughhh… fine.” Reo laughed, scooping him up with practiced ease, settling the boy on his hip like he weighed nothing. Ren muttered into his shoulder, still sulking, but already curling into the comfort of it. Nagi watched them.

The way Ren’s little hands clutched Reo’s shirt. The way Reo’s hold was steady, protective, proud. And his chest ached again. Full. Fierce. Like he’d do anything to keep this picture whole. Reo glanced at him, smiling over Ren’s messy hair. “Come on. Let’s get him fed before he stages a mutiny.” Nagi sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets, but his lips curved just slightly. “…Yeah.” Together, they stepped into the hall. One small family. One ordinary morning. And somehow, it felt like everything.

DAY 9 — 9:45 a.m.

MANSHINE CITY — LOCKER WING

The locker room was quieter than usual. The thrum of drills had faded to muffled echoes in the hall; most players had already showered and scattered to the cafeteria. Chigiri sat on the bench, towel draped around his neck, hair damp and loose down his shoulders. His breath was steady, though his muscles still hummed from Chris’s brutal sprints. Reo dropped beside him, water bottle in hand, violet eyes sharp but distracted.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Just the sound of water swishing in plastic and the faint hum of the AC. Then Reo muttered it — low, flat, but heavy. “…Rin.” Chigiri’s head tilted. “Mm?”

“That thing yesterday.” Reo’s jaw tightened. “About him dying in the future.” The words sat between them like a knife. Chigiri exhaled, slow. His gaze flicked to the floor, to the line of his sneakers. “Yeah. I can’t get it out of my head either.” It was still too vivid. The cafeteria, Itsuki standing there with that impossible composure, telling the room his mother was dead. Rin — Rin, stubborn, cutting, impossible Rin — gone because of something that should’ve been prevented. Reo had seen a lot since the kids appeared, but nothing had gutted him quite like that.

Because he’d looked at Itsuki’s face and seen himself in it. The way a child carried grief like armor. And he’d thought of Ren. Of Ren waking up in the dorm this morning, messy hair and mismatched socks, whining about breakfast. What if one day he had to stand in front of strangers and say my parent died because no one listened? The thought made Reo’s stomach twist. He couldn’t let that happen. Not to Ren. Not to any of them.

“It’s messed up,” Reo said finally, voice sharp. “An Omega dying from something preventable. In this place. With all of us around. It shouldn’t happen. Ever.” Chigiri glanced sideways at him, expression unreadable. His voice, though, was soft. “That’s the reality of being an Omega. People only protect you until you stop being convenient.” The words hit like stone. Reo turned, staring. “…You sound like you’ve thought about that a lot.” Chigiri shrugged, strands of damp pink hair sliding forward. “It’s the truth. Even here. They cheer for us when we’re fast, when we’re brilliant, when we win. But when the game’s over? When something breaks?” His smile was faint, bitter. “They look the other way.” Reo’s jaw clenched. “…I hate that.”

“So do I.” For a moment, silence stretched again. Heavy.
Then Reo leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “We need to do something.” Chigiri raised a brow. “Do what?”

“Protect each other. Omegas.” Reo’s voice sharpened with conviction. “Because no one else will do it right. If Rin can die in one timeline, that means it can happen to any of us. And I refuse to let Ren grow up in a world where that’s normal.” Chigiri studied him. The intensity. The fire in his tone. And for the first time that morning, he smiled — small, but genuine. “You sound like Shane.” Reo blinked. “…What?”

“The therapist,” Chigiri said, shrugging. “She’s been talking about Omega solidarity since she got here. That we’re stronger when we lean on each other instead of pretending we don’t need anyone.” Reo sat back, processing. He remembered Shane — her bright laugh, her sharp eyes, the way she’d never hesitated to cut through Ego’s nonsense when things got too clinical. Yeah. That fit.

“…Then let’s make it real,” Reo said slowly. “A group. For Omegas. Not just to vent — but to learn. To make sure we don’t miss warning signs. To make sure nobody slips through cracks again.” Chigiri tilted his head, considering. “…Like an emotional support group?” Reo nodded. “Exactly. We don’t need it to be official — but if Ego approves it, it’ll carry weight. And if Shane runs it, people will trust it.”

It was strange, hearing it from Reo. The boy had always been fire, ambition, money, dreams. But now he was speaking with something heavier. A mother’s urgency. Chigiri could see it plain as day: Reo wasn’t just doing this for himself. He was doing it for Ren. For his family. And maybe that was exactly what Blue Lock needed — not more rivalry, not more games, but anchors. Chigiri thought of Rin again. Of how fragile even the strongest could be, when the wrong kind of silence closed around them.

He thought of his own body, how close he’d come to losing it all once. How the world had been ready to discard him the moment his knee snapped. And he realized he wanted this too. Needed it. “…Ego will approve it,” Chigiri said finally. His voice carried quiet certainty. “He’s an Omega. He knows. Even if he acts like he doesn’t care, he cares.” Reo exhaled, tension easing slightly from his shoulders. “And Shane can run it. She’s already halfway doing the job anyway.”

Chigiri smiled faintly. “Yeah. She’s good at pulling the truth out of people. Even the ones who think they’re fine.” Reo thought of Shidou, of Ness, of himself. And he nodded. “…Then we’ll set it up. For Rin. For everyone.” The words felt heavy, but right. Like a promise.

The locker wing was quiet again. Players passed in the hall outside, voices echoing faintly, but here it felt still. Reo leaned back, staring at the ceiling. His chest ached with something he didn’t want to name — fear, hope, maybe both. Chigiri tied his towel tighter, eyes soft. “ You’ll make a good leader for it, you know.” Reo scoffed. “Not me. Shane.”

“Shane, yeah,” Chigiri agreed. Then, after a pause: “…But it starts with you.” Reo didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, violet eyes distant. Thinking of Ren. Thinking of Rin. Thinking of how much he’d already decided he’d never let go. Finally, his voice came quiet but certain. “…Then I’ll do it.”

The silence stretched again after their promise. Reo leaned back, twisting the cap on his water bottle, while Chigiri adjusted the towel at his neck. Finally, Reo asked it. “How’s Kunigami?” Chigiri blinked. “…Hm?”

“You’ve been spending more time with him than the rest of us. Just wondering if you’re making progress.” Chigiri’s mouth pressed thin. His gaze drifted to the floor. “…Depends what you mean by progress.” Reo tilted his head, frowning. “He’s been… what? Quiet? Broody?”

“More than that.” Chigiri’s voice dropped. “It’s like he’s hollow. He trains. He eats. He sleeps. But nothing lights up in him. Not even anger. It’s like he shut every door inside himself and locked them from the other side.” Reo exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “…Damn.”

He thought of Kunigami the way he used to be — loud, bright, righteous. The boy who would throw himself into anything if it meant saving someone else. That fire was gone. What stood in its place was something cold. Something controlled. Chigiri had tried small things — casual conversation, pushing him in sprints, joking at his expense — but Kunigami would just nod or shrug, never snapping, never softening. It was like talking to a wall that used to be human. And Chigiri hated it.

Because he knew what it was to lose yourself to silence. “I’ve tried, you know,” Chigiri admitted, voice low. “Little things. Jokes. Challenges. Even dragging him into extra drills with me. But he doesn’t react. Not really. He just… does it. Then walks away.” Reo listened, quiet. He wasn’t used to Chigiri sounding frustrated, but the edge was there now. “It’s like he’s decided nothing matters,” Chigiri went on. His hands clenched in his towel. “And I don’t know how to crack that without breaking him more.”

Reo leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. "Maybe that’s the point. You don’t crack him. You wait until he decides to open.” Chigiri shot him a look. “You think time will fix it?” Reo shook his head. “No. But consistency might. He probably doesn’t trust anyone enough to hand over the key yet. Not after whatever the hell happened to him in that other program.” Chigiri frowned, but the words made sense.

He remembered the look in Kunigami’s eyes — empty, flat, like a man who’d been forced to stand in fire until he stopped flinching. Reo had seen shades of it before, in people chewed up by pressure and discarded. But not like this. Not this deep. If anyone could get through, maybe it was Chigiri. The boy had a way of breaking silences without force. A way of reminding people they weren’t alone just by standing beside them. And maybe Kunigami needed that more than anything. “You’re already doing it, though,” Reo said finally. Chigiri blinked. “What?”

“Showing up. Training with him. Talking, even when he doesn’t answer. That’s progress. Not dramatic progress, maybe. But he’ll notice. People always notice who keeps standing there when everyone else gives up.” The words softened something in Chigiri’s face. Because deep down, he knew Reo was right.

He thought about it — how Kunigami would sometimes pause, just a second, before answering him. How his eyes would flicker, like there was something behind the glass, even if it never broke through. Maybe that was progress. Small. Invisible. But real.
“…I don’t want him to think he’s alone,” Chigiri admitted. His voice cracked faintly, though he held it steady. “I know what that feels like. I don’t want him carrying it forever.” Reo gave him a look, steady and sure. “Then don’t stop. That’s how you prove it.” Chigiri let out a breath. Yeah. Maybe that was enough. For now.

The air in the locker wing shifted. Less heavy. Not light, but steady. Chigiri tugged his towel tighter around his shoulders.
“…You’re annoyingly good at pep talks, you know that?” Reo smirked faintly. “Practice. Comes with being Reo Mikage.” Chigiri rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted. And for the first time that day, the silence between them didn’t feel so heavy.

DAY 9 — 9:45 a.m.

CHILD WING LOUNGE

Karasu had survived a lot of things in his life. Egos. Matches. Injuries. Even Loki’s terrifying smile when he told him to rest. But this— This was worse. Eight kids. Eight very loud, very opinionated, very feral bond children. In one room. With him. And he had cramps. The universe hated him. Ren was the first to launch chaos, naturally. He had crawled halfway under the couch, his messy white hair sticking up like static, chanting, “Stealth mission, stealth mission, stealth mission,” as though repetition turned it into law. Theo sat on the armrest, spine straight, posture perfect, already glaring at Ren like the child had personally insulted his bloodline. “That is not stealth. Everyone can see your legs.”

“Nu-uh!” Ren popped his head out, cheeks smudged with juice from who-knows-what snack earlier. “I’m invisible. You’re just jealous.” Theo pinched the bridge of his nose, nine years old going on forty. “I am not jealous of a gremlin rolling in dust.” Across the room, Hikaru had found a sock puppet. No one knew where it came from. No one wanted to know. He had already made it sing. “Ladies and gentle-babies!” he declared, sock mouth flapping wildly. “Welcome to the Chaos Hour, starring me, myself, and definitely not my boring sister—”

“Say that again,” Haruna snapped, fists clenched. Her teal eyes narrowed like knives. Hikaru grinned, fang flashing. “Boooring.” The punch he narrowly dodged shook the floor. Reika, soft and dreamy in her twin buns, had retreated to a corner with a coloring book. She hummed to herself, eyes far away, while crayons scattered around her like offerings. Every now and then she mumbled things like, “Egos starve louder than bellies,” which made Karasu want to both pat her head and exorcise the room.

Meanwhile, Aoi had stolen one of the chairs, turned it upside down, and was climbing it like a jungle gym. She blew a whistle she’d smuggled in from somewhere, shrieking, “New rule! Everyone has to race to the door and back! Last one is a snail forever!” Sato, sitting rigidly with arms crossed, immediately snapped, “That’s stupid nee-chan.”

“You’re stupid!” Aoi shot back, already sprinting. Sato stood, slow, deliberate, eyes sharp like Rin’s. “You want a race?” Minato, tiny and wide-eyed, immediately squeaked, “Race!” and toddled after them, his short legs moving like wind-up toy gears. Karasu pressed a hand to his temple. He was going to die here. “Uncle Crow looks tired,” Reika observed suddenly, not looking up from her crayons. Karasu groaned. “Uncle Crow is dying.”

Theo turned his ice-blue glare on him. “You’re supposed to be responsible.” Karasu barked a laugh. “Kid, I’m not even responsible for myself.” Hikaru’s sock puppet chimed in, high-pitched and squeaky: “Responsible shm-esponsible!” Haruna lunged again. Hikaru screamed with laughter. They ended up on the carpet, all eight children forming a loose circle around Karasu, who had surrendered and laid flat on his back. His heat cramps pulsed like knives, but at least if he died, they’d find the body surrounded by gremlins. Ren poked his chest. “You’re a dragon now. We’re the knights. You have to roar.” Karasu cracked an eye open. “I don’t roar.”

“You do now!” Aoi blew her whistle directly in his ear. He flinched. “That’s assault.” Minato climbed onto his stomach like a mountain. “Rawr,” the three-year-old declared, very serious. “You’re dragon.” Karasu sighed, closed his eyes again. “…Fine. Rawr.” Ren gasped. “Oh my god, so scary.” Theo muttered, “That was pathetic.” Hikaru’s sock screamed, “The dragon has fallen! Attack!” And suddenly eight small bodies were on him at once, shrieking, laughing, fists and elbows everywhere. Somehow—he wasn’t sure how—they ended up role-playing kingdoms.

Theo declared himself king, obviously, because “someone has to lead with dignity.” He sat on a chair like a throne, chin high, every inch his father’s child. Haruna became the general, barking orders, challenging everyone to duels. Aoi immediately claimed the title of “Goal Goblin” and started scoring points by throwing crayons into Reika’s hair. Reika, quiet and wise, dubbed herself the Oracle, which fit too well. She announced doom every five minutes, but in a soft, dreamy voice. Hikaru? Court jester. Naturally. He flourished the sock puppet like it was a royal decree.

Ren crawled through the vents again, reappearing in random spots yelling “assassin!” before giggling and tripping over his own sleeves. Sato positioned himself as “the strategist,” keeping meticulous score of who won each duel, glaring daggers at Haruna when she ignored his rules. And Minato—sweet little Minato—climbed onto Theo’s lap and declared himself the Prince. No one argued. It was chaos. Theo tried to keep order, but Aoi tackled him mid-speech, Haruna shoved Hikaru into a pillow pile, Sato yelled about unfair points, and Ren tried to eat a crayon “for stealth.”1

Karasu leaned back against the couch, watching it all through a haze of cramps and exhaustion. He should’ve hated this. He should’ve walked out. But— Their laughter filled the room, sharp and alive. The triplets bickered, yes, but their bond was unshakable. Theo scowled but let Minato curl against him, protective even through his coldness. Aoi, wild and relentless, still pulled Sato into the game despite his resistance. Reika, in her quiet way, tied them all together, her soft hum the background music of their kingdom.

They were loud. They were exhausting. They were chaos incarnate. But they were also proof of something unbreakable. Karasu let his head fall back against the cushions. Maybe Loki knew what he was doing, forcing him into this. Because watching them—this disaster, this mess, this laughter—felt like medicine in disguise.

The storm of shrieking had burned itself out. Eventually, even chaos had limits. Now the room was littered with crayons, socks, overturned chairs, and the remains of a kingdom no one would remember in the morning. The only sound was the low, steady rhythm of eight children’s breathing. Karasu sat slouched against the couch, knees drawn up, hair falling into his eyes. His head still throbbed from Aoi’s whistle. His abdomen still cramped with heat pressure. But—for the first time since they’d dumped him here—it was quiet. And in his lap, dead asleep, was Minato.

The kid had climbed up earlier mid-game, too small to keep pace with the older ones. Somewhere between “stealth missions” and “dragon slayer,” he’d curled into Karasu’s chest and conked out. Now he was a warm, stubborn weight, cheek pressed to Karasu’s jersey, tiny fists still clenched like he’d been ready to fight even in dreams. Karasu stared down at him. He should’ve shoved him off. He should’ve stood, stretched, dumped him on a pillow pile. That’s what Karasu the sly bastard would’ve done, right?

But his arms moved on instinct, folding around the little body like he’d done it a thousand times. His Omega scent softened without his permission, wrapping the boy in warmth and safety. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. “You win.” Minato murmured, half-asleep, a mumbled “Mama,” before burrowing closer. Karasu’s chest clenched in a way he hadn’t prepared for. He tilted his head back against the couch, eyes shutting. “Not your mama, kid,” he whispered. But he didn’t let go.

Across the room, Aoi and Sato had collapsed side by side on the carpet. She’d gone down fighting—literally. One last whistle blast before her Alpha energy finally sputtered out. Now she was curled on her side, mouth open, one arm flopped over Sato like she owned the world. And Sato, despite his sharp-tongued insistence earlier, hadn’t moved. He lay rigid at first, then slowly eased, breaths syncing to hers. The same green hair, the same sharp jaw. Carbon copy of his mother. But sleeping next to his loud elder sister, he looked almost soft.

Karasu smirked faintly. Mini-Rin babysat by chaos incarnate. Bet he hates how natural it feels. The triplets had solved their war with the only truce possible: a cuddle pile. Hikaru was in the middle, still smirking in his sleep, one arm thrown over Haruna like a dare. She was tucked against him, chin pressed to his shoulder, fists finally uncurled. And Reika, soft as a cloud, had folded into the other side, long rose-gold hair spread across both of them like a ribbon. They looked breakable. Untouchable. Ancient, somehow, for kids their age. Like they carried more than they should, and sleep was the only place it let go.

Karasu’s throat tightened. He hated that he noticed. Theo, of course, had claimed the armchair as his throne. Even asleep, the boy sat upright, back straight, arms folded. Only the faintest slack in his features betrayed exhaustion. His resemblance to Kaiser was uncanny, but the sharp protectiveness when Minato had cried earlier—that was Ness. Karasu huffed. “Little king in training. No wonder you glare like that.” Ren was sprawled under the table, one sock half-off, face smudged. A gremlin to the last. Karasu shook his head, quietly amused despite himself.

He shifted, adjusting Minato in his arms. The boy stirred, soft little whimper escaping, before settling again when Karasu’s hand rubbed slow circles across his back. Maternal instinct. Omega instinct. Call it what you want. Karasu had spent years fighting his biology, refusing to be boxed into it. But now? Holding this tiny furnace of trust against his chest, surrounded by a room of sleeping bond children? It didn’t feel like a weakness. It felt terrifying. And kind of… good.

“You’ve got too much weight on your shoulders, don’t you?” he whispered, voice low, meant only for Minato. “Your dad’s a mess. Your mom’s carrying scars. And you—you’re just trying to keep up.” His fingers brushed the boy’s auburn hair. So much like Sae’s it made Karasu curse quietly. “You’re not supposed to carry that. You’re supposed to be a kid. Just a kid.” He sighed. The ache in his stomach pulsed again, but he ignored it. “Guess it’s on us grown-ups to stop screwing it up for you.”

Minato breathed evenly, oblivious. Karasu let the silence stretch. He looked around once more at the little kingdom of chaos now reduced to dreamers. The strategist curled against his rival. The goblin queen tangled in snores. The triplets stitched together like a braid. The tiny prince in his arms. He was supposed to resent this. Babysitting, cramps, responsibility that wasn’t his.

Instead, for the first time all morning, Karasu felt calm. Maybe this was the part of being an Omega he never let himself admit: not weakness, but the instinct to shield. To gather close. To cradle. He tightened his hold on Minato just a fraction, whispering, “Sleep, little bean. I’ve got you.” And for once, Karasu didn’t mind that no one would ever hear it.

The nap bubble popped with footsteps. Light ones, careful, but still enough to stir Karasu from his half-doze. He blinked awake, stiff against the couch. His arms ached. Minato was still curled in his lap, a heavy warmth pressed against his chest. Around the room, the rest of the gremlins lay sprawled in varying states of chaos: triplets tangled in a knot of limbs, Aoi’s arm thrown across Sato like she owned him, Theo a miniature statue in the armchair. The door eased open.

Reo slipped in first. Even in training sweats, he carried an air of polish—bright, effortless. His violet eyes softened the second they found the small mess of white hair peeking from under the table. “Ren-Ren,” he breathed, relief soaking his tone. Behind him came Isagi, hair still damp from drills, sharp blue eyes scanning the wreckage. His gaze locked instantly on Aoi and Sato, both dead to the world. His shoulders sagged in an exhale. Then Rin, silent shadow at his side, dark green hair catching light. His eyes went straight to Karasu—no, to the little auburn-haired boy tucked against hiThem.

Finally, Ness. Quiet, delicate steps, as if the room itself was made of glass. His eyes, blue and weary, went directly to Theo’s rigid form in the chair. Karasu smirked faintly, voice a low rasp. “You’re late.” Reo crouched, brushing Ren’s hair back from his face. The boy stirred, mumbled, then crawled out into his arms like instinct. Reo caught him with practiced ease, kissing his messy head. “Thank you,” he said, genuine. His smile was tired but luminous. “Really.”

Karasu shrugged one shoulder, though the word lodged warm in his chest. “He terrorized the vents, again. You owe me.” Reo chuckled, soft and full, the kind of sound that made rooms lighter. “He does that.” Isagi moved next. He bent, scooping Aoi up first. She whined in her sleep, muttering something about “goal goblins,” but stilled once his arm anchored her. Sato stirred beside her, already glaring through half-shut eyes. “I can walk,” he muttered. “You’re eight,” Isagi shot back, already lifting him into his other arm. “Deal with it.”

Sato huffed, crossing his arms tight, but didn’t resist as his head fell against Isagi’s shoulder. Isagi grinned faintly, meeting Karasu’s gaze. “Appreciate it, man. Really.” Karasu raised an eyebrow. “I thought rivals don’t say thanks.” Isagi’s grin sharpened. “Don’t get used to it.” Rin stepped forward quietly, every motion controlled. He reached for Minato with steady hands. The boy clung tighter to Karasu’s shirt, murmuring, “Mama,” in his sleep. Karasu swallowed. His arms tightened unconsciously before he forced them to relax.

Rin crouched, eyes softer than Karasu had ever seen. “Minato,” he whispered, voice barely audible. The child stirred, blinked, then reached instinctively for him. Rin caught him with fluid care, pressing Minato to his chest. The boy tucked his face into Rin’s neck, safe. Rin’s hand stroked his back once, twice, before he looked up at Karasu. “Thank you.” Two words. Simple. But in Rin’s voice, they carried weight. Karasu scoffed, turning his head away. “Don’t mention it.” But his Omega instincts hummed, warm, at being acknowledged. Ness approached Theo last. The boy hadn’t shifted once, posture still stiff, even in sleep. Ness crouched at his side, hand brushing blond hair back from his forehead. “Theo,” he murmured.

Theo’s eyes cracked open, sharp even in exhaustion. He blinked once, saw Ness, and the tightness in his body eased. He leaned forward just enough for Ness to coax him into his arms. It was elegant, almost ceremonial, the way Ness held him: careful, reverent, as if cradling something sacred. Theo mumbled, “I wasn’t asleep.”

“Of course not,” Ness whispered back, smiling faintly. They gathered there in the wreckage: Reo with his gremlin, Isagi juggling chaos and strategy, Rin holding his quiet storm, Ness carrying his little king. Karasu sat back, finally free of Minato’s weight, his arms oddly cold. He looked at them—these boys, these fathers and mothers, these broken bonds trying to mend—and smirked to cover the ache in his chest. “You’re all insane,” he muttered. “Bringing kids into this hellhole. Letting them run wild. No wonder they’re gremlins.”

Reo laughed softly, adjusting Ren’s floppy head against his shoulder. “Maybe. But they’re ours.” Isagi grinned, sharp and sure. “Chaos suits us.” Rin said nothing, but the way he held Minato answered enough. Ness pressed his cheek briefly to Theo’s hair, whispering something in German, too soft to catch.

They filed out one by one, kids carried close, the door swinging shut behind them. Karasu exhaled, sinking deeper into the couch. The silence roared. His arms still felt the ghost-weight of Minato, small and trusting. “Never again,” he muttered to himself. But his hand betrayed him, brushing the fabric of his shirt where tiny fists had clung. And for the first time all morning, the cramps didn’t hurt so much.

Karasu thought he was free. The first batch of parents had already come and gone — Ren tucked under Reo’s arm, Isagi hauling both his little menaces, Rin carrying his shadow, Ness walking out with his heir. The room had finally emptied, quiet at last. Only the triplets remained. Three small bodies tangled together on the carpet, limbs twisted in a way that would’ve been uncomfortable for anyone else. Hikaru sprawled across the middle, fang peeking through a crooked grin even in sleep. Haruna curled protectively against his shoulder, fist still half-clenched like she’d been ready to punch in her dreams. And Reika, soft and serene, lay on the other side, hair spilling like rose-gold ribbons across both their chests.

Karasu leaned his head back against the couch, eyes half-shut. “Better you than me, Shidou,” he muttered to no one. The door opened. Speak of the devil. Shidou sauntered in first, hair wild, grin already tugging at his mouth. His eyes lit up instantly at the sight of the pile. “Awwww, look at ‘em. My little disasters.” Sae followed, slower. Controlled. His hands tucked in his pockets, shoulders stiff. But his gaze betrayed him — fixed straight on the three children in the corner, unreadable but unshakable.

Karasu smirked faintly. “Your brats were the loudest. Congrats.” Shidou barked a laugh. “Hell yeah, that’s my gene pool.” He crouched, scooping Hikaru up without hesitation. The boy stirred, mumbled something about sock puppets, then melted instantly into his mother’s chest. Shidou’s grin softened, hands gentle in a way few ever got to see. “Missed me, huh, little hellspawn?” Hikaru drooled on his shoulder in answer. Sae crouched too, slower. His hands hovered just a second before lifting Haruna. She stirred, eyes slitting open, teal glare ready for a fight — then softened the second she registered him. “…Otou-san,” she mumbled, voice rough with sleep. Her small fists clutched at his shirt instinctively. Sae’s breath caught, almost imperceptibly. He held her tighter. “…Yeah. I’m here.”

Reika shifted last, hair spilling across the carpet. She blinked awake, dreamy eyes unfocused until she spotted Shidou’s pink hair. Her lips curved in a small, knowing smile..“Okaa-san.” Shidou’s grin cracked wider, a flash of teeth before he softened again. He bent, free arm sliding under her, lifting her up against his other shoulder. Two kids balanced effortlessly, clinging to him like magnets. Reika hummed, resting her head on him, gaze still half in dreams. Karasu raised an eyebrow at the picture. “Damn. You’re efficient.”

Shidou smirked back. “Mommy practice, Crow. You wouldn’t last a day.” Karasu scoffed. “I just did.” Sae stood, Haruna curled against him, her head tucked under his chin. His eyes met Karasu’s briefly, unreadable. Then, in a voice quieter than expected, he said, “…Thank you.” Karasu blinked. He’d expected silence. Maybe a glare. But not that. He shrugged, masking the odd warmth in his chest. “Don’t mention it. They ran the place like a mafia.”

Shidou laughed. “That’s my babies! Raising ‘em right.” The triplets clung close, their different energies muted in sleep but still there: Hikaru twitching like he was mid-scheme, Haruna gripping tight like she’d never let go, Reika humming like she dreamed secrets into the air. Shidou pressed a kiss into Reika’s hair, then Hikaru’s. Sae didn’t move like that, but his hold on Haruna said enough.

Karasu watched them all, one hand rubbing his stomach absentmindedly against the heat cramps. He wondered if the kids had any idea how much power they had over these men. Over all of them. Probably. As they moved toward the door, Shidou glanced back, grin crooked. “You’re not half bad at babysitting, Crow. Wanna be our nanny?” Karasu barked a laugh. “Hell no.” Shidou winked. “Think about it.” The door shut behind them, leaving Karasu alone again in the wreckage. Silence pressed in. His arms still felt the ghost of Minato’s weight, the warmth of the triplets’ chaos buzzing in the air. He exhaled, low and rough.

The room was finally empty. The crayons had been kicked under the couch, the pillows abandoned in heaps, the faint scent of juice boxes still lingering. Karasu sat slouched with his head tilted back, eyes shut, every nerve in his body begging for silence. He’d survived the gremlin horde. He deserved peace. The door creaked. “No,” Karasu muttered without opening his eyes. Two voices answered at once.

“Karasuuu-senpaiiii!”

“Karasu-san!”

He groaned. “…Why me?” Charles burst in first, as always, a storm of messy hair and too-bright eyes, still vibrating like he’d downed three energy drinks. Nanase trailed behind, apologetic smile already tugging at his lips, shoulders hunched like he knew this was a bad idea but had no choice. Karasu cracked one eye open. “Didn’t I just babysit eight of you?” Charles flopped dramatically onto the couch, legs sprawled, head landing square on Karasu’s thigh. “We’re different. We’re special.” Nanase hovered awkwardly before perching on the other side of the couch, more like a guilty cat than a boy. “Sorry, Karasu-san. He insisted…”

Karasu looked between them — one Alpha puppy vibrating with dramatics, one Beta boy with the guilt of a saint. His headache pulsed. “…You two are worse than the triplets.” Charles rolled onto his back, staring up at him with wide eyes. “Senpai. How do you court someone?” Karasu blinked. “…What?”

“Niko!” Charles slapped a hand over his heart, as if declaring war. “I’m serious. He’s beautiful. He’s brilliant. He’s my everything. But he’s—”

“Fifteen, like you are"l Karasu cut in. Charles ignored him, already working himself into a frenzy. “—so mysterious! He hides his feelings. He slips away like smoke! But I’m an Alpha, right? It’s my duty—no, my deostiny—to pursue!” Nanase buried his face in his hands. “I told you not to ask like that…” Karasu pinched the bridge of his nose. “…You came here. To me. For love advice.”

“Yes!” Charles nodded furiously. “You’re wise! You’re cool! You’ve got… that Omega aura!” Nanase winced. “He means maternal energy.” Karasu’s jaw dropped. “Maternal—?!” He glared down at Charles, who blinked innocently. “You little brat.” Charles beamed. “See? That tone! That’s motherly discipline.” Karasu groaned. “I’m going to throw you out the window.” But he didn’t. Instead, his hand betrayed him — brushing through Charles’ hair like he was soothing a child. Instinct, Omega wiring he couldn’t kill. Charles melted instantly, eyes fluttering shut, smug smile curling his lips. Nanase chuckled nervously. “…You really do have a gift with people, Karasu-san.” Karasu shot him a look. “Don’t you start.” Nanase raised his hands. “I’m just saying. He calms down around you. Everyone does.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I threaten to kill them,” Karasu muttered. But Charles’ content hum, head heavy in his lap, said otherwise. “So?” Charles pushed, eyes snapping open again. “How do I win Niko’s heart?” Karasu stared at him for a long moment. “You don’t.” Charles gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been stabbed. “Cruel! Senpai, you can’t kill love!” Karasu sighed, heat cramps making him sharper. “…Listen, kid. You don’t ‘win’ people. You don’t storm in like a striker and expect a goal on the first kick. You show up. You listen. You pay attention. You let them breathe.” Charles blinked. “…That sounds boring.” Karasu smacked the back of his head lightly. “It’s called respect.” Nanase smiled faintly. “That’s actually good advice.”

Karasu scowled. “Don’t sound so shocked.” Charles huffed, but the dramatics had dimmed. He looked thoughtful now, lips pursed. “…So… no big gestures?” Karasu tilted his head. “You can bring him flowers if you want. Just don’t shove them in his face while yelling about destiny.” Charles pouted. “That’s so specific.”

“Because you’ve done it already, haven’t you?” Charles looked away. “…Maybe.” Nanase groaned. “He ambushed Niko with roses during training. He almost tripped over them.” Karasu barked a laugh despite himself. “You’re hopeless.” But softer, he added: “Try being his friend first. Niko’s got enough pressure. Don’t add to it by making him your conquest.” Charles went quiet. Really quiet. Which, for him, was revolutionary. He finally muttered, “…Friends first. Okay.” Karasu almost smiled. “Good boy.” Charles’ cheeks flushed crimson. “Senpai, don’t say it like that!”

Nanase laughed into his sleeve. “You really do sound like a parent.” Karasu groaned. “I hate you both.” But his hand was still carding gently through Charles’ hair. The room eased into quiet. Charles slumped, less manic, eyes drifting shut. Nanase leaned back against the couch, sighing in relief, as if Karasu’s presence steadied him too. Karasu stared at the ceiling. Heat cramps still tugged at him. His patience was frayed. And yet—Two kids had come to him. Loud, ridiculous, but trusting. Seeking comfort. Seeking advice. Seeking him. And damn it all, he’d given it.

The lounge was quiet now, the kind of quiet that felt heavy instead of calm. Morning light slanted across the low tables and scattered crayons, dust floating in the air like tiny ghosts. Karasu had claimed a chair by the corner, one arm draped over the back, his long legs sprawled like he owned the space. He still looked tired, dark purple hair falling into his eyes, but sharper now—heat cramps dulled, sarcasm refueled. Nagi dropped onto the couch like a bag of laundry, white hair sticking in every direction, Ren’s absence leaving his arms strangely empty. His grey eyes were wider than usual, though. Awake, rattled. Not his normal “whatever” mode.

Yukimiya came in next, pristine as always even in downtime gear, his steps clipped, his posture stiff. He sat with careful poise, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. And Otoya, last, sauntered in with his usual grin — but the edges were thin. His eyes scanned the room, reading the air, and for once he didn’t flirt, didn’t joke. He just dropped onto the arm of the couch, leaning forward. Nobody spoke at first. Then Otoya broke it.
“…So. Rin.” The name alone seemed to thicken the silence. Nagi shifted, tugging at a loose string on his sleeve. “…Dead.” He said it flat, like testing the word, like it might sound different out loud. It didn’t.

Karasu exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yeah. That’s the rumor.” Yukimiya’s hands tightened where they rested on his knees. “Not a rumor. The kids were clear. Future. Dead.” He swallowed, voice low. “And it wasn’t some accident. They said it was preventable.” The weight landed again. Rin — sharp, scathing Rin. The one who’d cut them down with a look, who’d carried himself like no one could touch him. The one who, at sixteen, was already a weapon forged too early. And yet, in the future, he was gone. Nagi’s voice broke the silence, quiet but steady. “…I can’t picture it.”

They all looked at him. He rubbed at his eyes, sighing. “Rin, dead? He’s always been… like, solid. Cold. Like nothing could reach him. Even when he lost, he just kept moving. How’s someone like that… gone?” Karasu tilted his head, watching him. “…That’s the point, isn’t it? People like him think they’re unbreakable. Everyone else starts to believe it, too. Then one day…” He gestured vaguely, mouth curling bitter. “Turns out, they bleed like anyone.” Yukimiya’s jaw tightened. “…He’s younger than us.” The words hung sharp. Sixteen. Just sixteen.

Otoya let out a humorless chuckle. “Kid’s been carrying himself like he’s twenty-five since the day I met him.” He shook his head. “Guess I forgot he was still… just a kid.” Karasu leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His usual smirk was muted, eyes dark. “You know what gets me? We trained with him. Lived with him. Watched him tear the U-20 apart with nothing but teeth and claws. And now we’re supposed to believe he doesn’t even make it to twenty?” Nagi stared down at his hands. “It’s weird. I always thought Rin was untouchable. Like, if anyone was gonna survive, it’d be him.”

Yukimiya’s voice cracked, frustration seeping in. “That’s what makes it worse. He should survive. He’s stronger than us. Sharper. And yet—” He cut himself off, raking a hand through his perfect hair. “God, it doesn’t make sense.” Otoya looked between them, expression serious now. “Maybe that’s why it hit so hard. Because Rin’s not supposed to be the one we lose. Not him.” Karasu snorted, but it lacked heat. “No one’s supposed to be the one we lose.” Silence again. They all sat with it, shifting in their own ways. Nagi slumped deeper into the couch, chewing his lip. Yukimiya’s leg bounced with restrained energy. Otoya leaned back, tilting his head toward the ceiling. Karasu rubbed his temple, eyes unfocused. Finally, Nagi spoke again. “…He feels like a little brother.”

Three sets of eyes turned to him. He shrugged, eyes half-lidded but earnest. “Back then. Training before U-20. I'm seventeen, but he's sixteen. And even though he acted older, sharper, he still… felt younger. Like he was always fighting to prove he didn’t need anyone.” Karasu’s lips twitched. “…Didn’t stop you from letting him carry half the weight.”

“Yeah,” Nagi admitted. “Guess that’s why it hurts.” Otoya leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Same. I mean, I joke a lot, right? But with Rin, I couldn’t. He was like… untouchable ice. And that made me want to poke, sure. But also…” He sighed, rare honesty cutting through. “…It made me wanna shield him. Like a little brother trying too hard to act like an adult.” Yukimiya nodded slowly. “Exactly. I’ve got a little cousin back home. And Rin reminded me of her sometimes. Not in looks, but in… in the way he pushed everyone away but still wanted someone to stay.” His voice softened, cracked around the edges. “Thinking of him dying young—it feels like losing family.” Karasu didn’t speak for a long moment. He stared at the floor, jaw tight.

When he did, his voice was low. “…I gave him shit, constantly. Called him out. Mocked him. Because he was strong enough to take it. I thought he was strong enough to take anything.” His hands curled into fists. “Turns out, maybe I was just blind. And now we’re sitting here, talking about him like he’s already gone.” The others fell quiet. Because Karasu, sly and smooth, rarely dropped the mask. And when he did, it was heavier than anyone else’s words. Nagi shifted again, violet eyes unfocused. “…What do we even do with this?”

Otoya let out a breath. “What can we do? The kids said they came back to stop it. That means… maybe it’s not written yet. Maybe Rin doesn’t have to die.” Yukimiya’s eyes narrowed. “Then it’s on us to make sure he doesn’t. If he’s our little brother, we protect him. Even if he hates it.” Karasu smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good luck telling Rin he needs protecting.” Otoya chuckled, but it was thin. “Yeah. He’d probably punch us in the face for trying.”

“…So what,” Nagi murmured. “We just… stay close? Make sure he’s not alone?” Yukimiya nodded. “Exactly. Stay close. Notice things. Don’t let him carry it all.” Karasu leaned back in his chair, exhaling. “…Guess that’s the least we can do.” The room fell into a different silence then. Not the stunned one from earlier, but a pact. A fragile, unspoken one. They weren’t Rin’s fathers, weren’t his therapists, weren’t his lovers. They were just teammates. Brothers-in-arms who’d fought beside him, cut by the same ego blades. But maybe that was enough.

Nagi finally spoke, voice soft. “…Don’t wanna see him gone.” Karasu’s smirk faded. “…Neither do I.” Yukimiya looked down at his hands. “Then we won’t.” Otoya grinned faintly, though his eyes were damp. “Damn right. Not on our watch.” The words weren’t promises. But they felt like them. And in that small lounge, four boys sat with the weight of something bigger than all of them: the idea that Rin Itoshi — untouchable, unshakable — could die. And the vow, quiet but sharp, that they wouldn’t let it happen.

The pact had settled into silence. Not awkward — heavy, but steady. Four boys, still just teenagers, shouldering the weight of a future that didn’t belong to them yet. Then, like always, movement broke it first. Yukimiya stood, straightening his jacket, posture as polished as if cameras were always on him. “I need training reps,” he said quietly, though his eyes still looked clouded. Nagi pushed up from the couch with a groan, stretching like a cat. “M’gonna train too. Can’t sit still.” Karasu raised an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Since I feel like crap,” Nagi muttered, already shuffling for the door. The two left together, different energies but matching pace: Yukimiya sharp and deliberate, Nagi dragging but committed. Which left two. Otoya and Karasu. For a moment, neither spoke. Otoya sprawled back onto the couch, arms behind his head, legs crossed. His usual grin tugged at his mouth, but it was thinner than normal. He glanced sideways at Karasu, who was still slouched in the corner chair, hair falling into his eyes, absently rolling a crayon between his fingers. The silence stretched. Otoya broke first.

“So, Karasu…” His grin sharpened. “How about you and me ditch the gloom and have a little fun, hm?” Karasu didn’t even look up. “Try that line again when I don’t feel like killing someone.” Otoya laughed. “C’mon. I’m offering free charm. Don’t tell me you’re immune.” Karasu finally glanced at him, one brow raised. “Immune, allergic, take your pick.” Otoya smirked wider, leaning in. “You sure? Bet I could crack that cool Omega front of yours.” Karasu rolled the crayon across the table, unimpressed. “Toya, you couldn’t crack an egg without crying about it.” Otoya chuckled, unfazed. “Cold. I like it.”

Silence again, but lighter now. Otoya stretched, head tilted back against the couch. “You know, most people would kill for five minutes alone with me.” Karasu snorted. “Most people have bad taste.”

“Harsh.” Otoya grinned, but his eyes flickered — a flash of something underneath the act. Maybe the weight of Rin’s name still lingered, maybe the flirting was armor. Karasu noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed. But he didn’t call him out. Not yet. Instead, Karasu leaned back, crossing his arms. “So this is your plan, huh? Tragedy hits, so you try to flirt your way out of feeling it?” Otoya blinked, caught. Then shrugged, grin softer.
“…Maybe.”

“Pathetic,” Karasu muttered. But his voice lacked bite. Otoya shifted, studying him. “You ever let anyone in, Karasu?” Karasu’s lips twitched. “Why would I?”

“Because…” Otoya leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, grin crooked. “Bet you’d be devastating if you did.” Karasu barked a laugh, sharp and sudden. “Devastating? What am I, a natural disaster?”

“Exactly.” Otoya winked. “Hottest one I’ve ever seen.” Karasu groaned, pressing a hand to his temple. “You’re insufferable.” But his Omega instincts betrayed him. He shifted, curling slightly inward, scent softening just a fraction. Comfort and irritation tangled. Otoya noticed. His grin flickered. “…See? Not so untouchable.” Karasu shot him a look, sharp but not lethal. “Don’t push it.” Otoya smirked. “Pushing’s my specialty.”

“Yeah,” Karasu said dryly, “and you wonder why people punch you.” The banter looped, easy despite the tension. It was strange — just two boys, 18, caught between grief and youth. Otoya finally leaned back again, grin gentler. “You’re better at this than you think, you know. People come to you.” Karasu scoffed. “Yeah, because I’m stuck in the lounge when everyone else bails.”

“No.” Otoya’s voice steadied. “Because you make ‘em feel safe. Even me. And I don’t do safe.” Karasu blinked. The words landed heavier than expected. “…You’re full of shit,” he muttered, but his voice cracked faintly. Otoya smirked. “Maybe. But not this time.” Silence again. But not heavy. Not sharp. Just two boys in a quiet lounge, flirting and deflecting and saying more than they meant. Karasu leaned back, closing his eyes. “You talk too much.” Otoya grinned, softer now. “…And you like it.” Karasu didn’t answer. But he didn’t leave either.

DAY 9 — 11:15 a.m.

THERAPHY ROOM

The summons came from Noa himself. That fact alone rattled Kaiser more than he’d ever admit aloud. Bastard München’s master didn’t summon players outside the field unless there was blood, scandal, or paperwork with teeth. He wasn’t a man who wasted time on personal matters. Yet the call had come down with the weight of iron: “Office. Bring Ness and Theo.” Kaiser had laughed at first, sharp and brittle, trying to deflect. But the silence on the other end hadn’t broken. There’d been no “optional” in Noa’s tone.

And so here they stood. Three figures in a sterile hallway, tension coiling like barbed wire. Kaiser walked half a step ahead, his posture stiff, shoulders squared like he could fend off the situation by sheer force. His steps were measured, rehearsed arrogance masking the discomfort boiling beneath. Behind him, Ness hovered—close enough to touch but careful not to crowd. His hand rested on Theo’s shoulder, firm and steady. But his eyes flicked between Kaiser and the floor, his own nerves bleeding through the calm mask.

Theo, for once, didn’t fight. He dragged his heels, lips pressed thin, his small hand curling tight around the silver pendant at his neck. The one with faint initials etched in the back — his mother’s name carved into metal, the anchor he refused to let go of. When Noa’s office door swung open, the air shifted. The man himself filled the frame. Crisp suit, unreadable eyes, stillness like a blade sheathed but ready. He didn’t waste time with greetings. His gaze went to Kaiser first—direct, unflinching. “You’ve been avoiding therapy.” No preamble. No room to lie.

Kaiser’s jaw clenched, breath shallow. He hated it — hated the way his chest felt too tight, the way being seen by Noa rattled him more than any defender on the pitch ever had. “I—” he began, tone already sliding into deflection. Noa cut through it like glass. “Not today.” The silence that followed was suffocating. Theo tilted his head, eyes sharp with childlike cruelty that mirrored his father’s own glare. “He had to drag you last time.” Kaiser’s head snapped toward him. “Tch—”

Noa’s brow ticked up. Just enough. A warning without words. Kaiser shut his eyes for a beat, pulling air through his teeth. He hated this. Hated the heat in his ears, hated that his son’s small voice cut sharper than any insult. “Follow me,” Noa said, already turning. His voice was low, clipped, and brooked no argument. And they followed. The corridor seemed narrower with him at the front. Every step was a march. Noa’s presence wasn’t loud—he didn’t posture, didn’t need to. He simply was, and the gravity of it bent everything else around him.

Ness walked close, his hand tightening protectively on Theo’s shoulder, whispering soft encouragements under his breath. Theo didn’t answer. He kept his eyes trained on the tiles of the floor, each step deliberate, as if he were measuring the ground before him. Kaiser hated how it felt like judgment. From all sides. From his master, from his Omega, from his son. When they reached the therapy wing, Noa opened the door without ceremony. Shane was already waiting inside—silver eyes soft but steady, posture relaxed yet deliberate. She glanced up from her notes, assessing the trio in one sweep.

Noa didn’t step inside. He stood in the doorway, a sentinel. His gaze cut back to Kaiser, one final order left hanging in the air: “Sit. Stay. Listen.” And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Kaiser let out a shaky exhale he hadn’t realized he was holding. His crown, his armor, his practiced arrogance—it all felt thinner than paper in that room.

The click of the door echoed too loud for a simple latch.
Kaiser’s shoulders stiffened. For a man who strutted through stadiums with cameras in his face, who laughed off insults like they were praise, silence in a small room was unbearable. Too close. Too sharp. Shane’s office was warm, deliberately so. Soft rugs underfoot, shelves lined with plants that drooped lazily in the filtered sunlight, and walls painted in shades of pale blue. Not sterile like the rest of Blue Lock. Human. That alone made Kaiser want to sneer—because comfort made him itch. But Ness’ hand on Theo’s back, gentle, grounding, kept him quiet.

“Come in,” Shane said softly, gesturing toward the couch.
Kaiser hesitated a beat too long. Ness moved first, guiding Theo toward the couch’s center, then sitting beside him, close but not smothering. Kaiser remained standing, half-turned toward the door like a man ready to bolt. Shane noticed. She always did. Her silver eyes didn’t push; they observed. “Michael,” she said, deliberately using his name. “Sit.” It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. Something in her tone—not command, not suggestion, but certainty—stripped away his usual reflex to snap back. He dropped into the farthest end of the couch, posture taut, arms crossed, like a cornered animal pretending it still had claws.

Theo sat straight-backed, hands folded, pendant clutched between his fingers. His ice-blue eyes cut toward Kaiser once, cold, then back to the floor. The silence stretched. Shane let it. Kaiser hated that. Finally, she folded her hands in her lap. “This is your first session together. Family therapy isn’t about fixing everything in an hour. It’s about showing up. That’s the first step.” Kaiser scoffed under his breath. “Showing up. Like that fixes anything.” Theo’s head snapped up. “At least you’re here.” His voice was too sharp, too steady for a child. “Mother says it’s a start. So maybe don’t ruin it.”

The words landed like a slap. Kaiser’s jaw clenched. He wanted to snap back, to tell the brat not to use that tone—but the sting wasn’t in Theo’s defiance. It was in the truth. Ness laid a gentle hand on Theo’s knee. “Theo.” His voice was soft, but firm. “You can be honest. But we’re here to talk, not fight.” Theo’s mouth pressed into a line, but he didn’t argue. Shane leaned slightly forward, her gaze moving between all three of them. “Before we begin, I want each of you to tell me one word. Just one. To describe how you feel about sitting here together.” Ness smiled faintly, nervous but willing. “Hopeful.” Theo muttered, “Tense.” Kaiser stayed silent. Shane’s eyes settled on him. “Michael?”

His throat worked. He wanted to spit something glib. Wanted to sneer. But his son’s eyes—those sharp, unforgiving mirrors of his own—pinned him in place. “…Ashamed.” The word scraped out of him like glass. Ness blinked, startled. Theo’s eyes flickered, just briefly, with something softer before he masked it again. Shane nodded once. “Good. We’ll start there.”

“Michael,” Shane said gently, her tone even but piercing. “You’ve avoided therapy before. Noa had to make it an order. Why?” Kaiser’s lips curled, his usual defense snapping up like muscle memory. He barked out a laugh — sharp, hollow, humorless. “Because I don’t need some stranger telling me I’m broken.” He expected silence after that, maybe Shane’s sigh, maybe Ness’ soft attempt to smooth things over. He did not expect Theo’s voice to slice through the air like a knife. “Then why are you?”

The room stilled. Kaiser’s head jerked toward him, ice-blue eyes narrowing. His son sat there, so small, but so unflinching. Hands clenched tight in his lap, back straight like he was carved from steel. A tremor wavered at his jaw, but his voice didn’t break. “Why are you broken?” Theo repeated, slower this time, eyes locked on his father’s. It shouldn’t have hit him like it did. He had been cursed at, threatened, spit on in alleys when he was younger. He’d taken stadium boos and turned them into fuel. But this—this wasn’t insult, wasn’t mockery. It was a question. A demand. And it landed where nothing else had.

Deep. Because Kaiser had never asked himself that. He had only accepted it.I am broken. I am trash. Malice is my crown. Ness shifted beside Theo, his hand twitching halfway into the space between them. He wanted to touch Kaiser, to comfort him—but froze, unsure if comfort would burn or soothe.

Shane’s voice came low, steady, guiding. “Michael, can you answer him?” Kaiser’s chest rose too fast. Once. Twice. His lungs couldn’t find rhythm. He felt his body remember before his mind caught up. He was seven again. Hungry, bones aching from cold. His father’s belt striking bare skin. The spit-flecked rage of a man screaming trash, trash, trash. The way he’d choke back tears because crying meant another strike, another punishment. The way the house smelled like beer and rot and hopelessness.

He was ten, knuckles bleeding from stealing bread, fists raw from being caught. A priest had told him to pray. He’d spat blood at the man’s shoes and swore instead. Prayer hadn’t fed him. Fists had. He was twelve, realizing football was the only place where he wasn’t worthless. Where people watched, cheered, shouted his name—not out of hate, but awe. And he’d decided then: if malice kept him alive, he’d wear it. He’d turn cruelty into armor, greed into ambition. He’d become Emperor. Because if he didn’t dominate, he’d be crushed.

His voice scraped out now, raw, stripped of arrogance. “Because that’s what I was taught to be.” Theo blinked, but didn’t look away. “I wasn’t allowed to cry. Or want. Or be soft.” Kaiser’s throat bobbed, memories clawing at him. “Every mistake was a beating. Every weakness was proof I was worthless. So I learned to fight. To take. To make malice my armor. To prove I wasn’t trash.” His jaw tightened. “And I did. On the streets. On the field. Malice gave me humanity.”

Theo’s lip trembled, just a fraction. But his words landed like stones: “And then you put it on us.” The room rang with the accusation. Kaiser flinched. He wanted to argue, to deny. But no excuse came. Because Theo was right. He had done it. He had raised his voice, raised his hand, wielded silence as weapon. Not the belt, not the booze—but cruelty recycled all the same.

For the first time in years, Michael Kaiser had nothing to say. Ness finally broke the silence. His voice was quiet, but steady. “He’s right, Michael.” Kaiser looked at him. His Omega. His anchor. The one who had been there through all of it—the arrogance, the malice, the empire of cruelty. Ness’ eyes were soft, but firm, wet with tears he didn’t hide. And for the first time, Kaiser didn’t argue. Because there was no point. Because it was true. Because he is broken.

The silence sat heavy. Shane didn’t move, Ness didn’t speak again, Theo just watched — eyes sharp, unrelenting. And Michael Kaiser broke. He dragged a hand over his face, nails digging into his scalp, like he could claw the memories out of his skull. His chest heaved, breath jagged. “You want to know why I’m broken?” His laugh was hollow, trembling. “Because that’s all I’ve ever been.” He slumped forward, elbows on his knees. Words spilled, not controlled, not emperor-slick, but jagged, ugly.

“My father…” He swallowed hard, throat raw. “He wasn’t a father. He was a drunk. A dirty, bitter drunk who started drinking before noon and never stopped. The house reeked of it. Beer bottles on the floor, ash in the sink. He’d sit there, slack-jawed, stinking, until he saw me. Then the rage came alive.” Theo flinched, but didn’t look away. Kaiser’s voice cracked. “He beat me. With his fists, with his belt, with whatever he could grab. Because I existed. Because I looked like her.”

“Her?” Shane asked softly. “My mother.” The word burned his tongue. “She left the day I was born. He never forgave me for it. Said I stole her from him just by breathing. Said my face was hers, my eyes were hers. And every time he looked at me, he saw the woman who walked away.” His breath stuttered, breaking apart. “So he made me pay for it.”

Ness’ hands shook in his lap, tears streaking freely now.
Kaiser pressed his palms into his eyes, but the images wouldn’t stop. “He’d choke me. Pin me to the wall, on the dirty floor until I saw stars. Beat me until my ribs screamed. Spit in my face and call me trash. Useless. A curse. And if I cried—God help me if I cried—he’d just hit harder. Said boys don’t cry. Said only trash cries.”

Theo’s little fists were trembling now, clutched around his pendant so tightly the chain dug into his palm. “And he made me steal,” Kaiser rasped. “Every week. Sent me into shops with empty pockets, told me to bring back bread, meat, cigarettes. Said if I came back with the wrong thing, I’d regret it.” His lips curled bitterly. “And I did. The beatings were worse when I failed. Sometimes he’d throw the food on the floor and make me eat it off the tiles like a dog.”

Ness gasped softly, his hand half-rising to cover his mouth. Kaiser’s laugh was strangled, broken. “So I learned. I learned how to take. How to fight. How to bleed without noise. I learned that malice was survival. That if I wanted to live, I had to be harder, meaner, crueler than anyone else.” He lifted his head, eyes blazing, wet. “And I carried it. Onto the streets. Onto the field. Into this family.”

Theo’s voice cracked then, sharp with grief. “And you put it on us.” Kaiser’s face crumpled. “I know.” He dropped to his knees before them. Not emperor. Not emperor at all. Just a man, ruined and ashamed. “I saw his face every time I looked at myself,” Kaiser whispered, voice shredding. “And when I looked at you, Theo, I saw mine. His. A curse carried forward. So I kept my distance. I used cruelty because it was all I knew. I told myself it was strength. But it wasn’t. It was him. I became him.”

The words ripped out of him like flesh torn raw. “And I’m sorry.” His forehead pressed to the floor. “I’m sorry I made you carry it. I’m sorry I made you afraid. I’m sorry I made you hate me.” Ness was crying openly now, his body shaking, torn between reaching for him and recoiling from the pain. Theo stood frozen, his breath ragged, his little chest rising and falling too fast.
Shane’s voice was quiet, steady, but firm. “Michael. Look at them.” He lifted his head. His face was wrecked. Red, wet stripped bare.

“I am not him,” Kaiser whispered, voice cracking. “God help me, I want to be better. I don’t want to be him.” He turned his eyes to Ness. “You loved me when I was unlovable. You gave me everything. And I gave you nothing but fear. Forgive me.” Then to Theo. “You deserved a father. Not a curse. Forgive me.” His hands trembled, reaching — but not touching. Not unless they allowed. The silence was heavy, trembling. And then Theo spoke. Low. Clear. Shaking, but unrelenting. “If you want to be my father, then prove you’re not him.”

The room was still heavy with Kaiser’s words. His body remained on the floor, wrecked, his eyes searching Ness, then Theo, then the carpet. He hadn’t begged in years — not in alleys, not on fields, not in contracts. But here, he had nothing left to hide behind. Theo stood above him, chin high, small frame trembling with a rage too old for his years. His little fists stayed curled around his pendant. It glinted in the soft light — his anchor, his reminder that Ness had always been there, even when Kaiser hadn’t.

Shane’s voice broke the silence, steady and warm. “Theo. This is your space. You get to say what you need here.” Theo’s lip trembled, but his eyes stayed sharp. He stepped closer, until he was right in front of Kaiser. “You don’t get to fix this in one day.” Kaiser nodded instantly, desperate. “I know.”

“You don’t get to act like crying fixes everything.” Another nod, harder this time. “I know.” Theo’s chest heaved once. Then his voice cracked. “…But you’re trying.” Kaiser’s breath broke. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, not when those words — you’re trying — were offered like the first scrap of light in a dark cellar. Theo’s voice hardened again. “If you stop trying, if you go back to being him… you’re Michael. Forever. Not Father. Just Michael.”

The words struck like judgment, but Kaiser didn’t fight them. He bowed his head. “…Then I’ll never stop trying.” Theo’s small hand reached forward, hesitated — then rested on Kaiser’s bowed head. The contact was light, trembling, but real. Ness’ breath hitched. He finally moved, sliding down from the couch to kneel beside them. His hand covered Theo’s, then Kaiser’s, binding them all together. Tears streaked his face, but his voice was steady: “We’ll try together.”

Shane gave them a moment before she spoke again. “Theo, this space belongs to you. I want you to tell me something you wish you had from your father — something small, something you can ask for right now.” Theo hesitated. His eyes flicked between Shane, Ness, and Kaiser. Then, carefully: “I want him to listen. Not talk. Just… listen to me. Without getting angry.” Shane nodded. “That’s a good start.” She turned to Kaiser. “You heard him. No fixing. No defending. Just listening. Can you do that?”

Kaiser swallowed hard. “Yes.” Theo shifted, straightened his shoulders, and finally sat back down on the couch. He looked at Kaiser — still on his knees — with a mix of suspicion and fragile hope. “I was scared of you,” Theo said, voice soft but piercing. “Every time you came into a room, I felt like I had to protect Mother. I thought if I was strong enough, I could keep him safe from you.” His lip quivered. “I’m nine years old. I shouldn’t feel like that.”

Kaiser’s chest collapsed. He forced himself to stay silent, to let the words cut, because Theo deserved that release. Theo’s eyes watered, but he didn’t stop. “And when you ignored me… it was worse. Because then it felt like I wasn’t even there.” His fists clenched. “Like I was already gone to you.” The silence afterward was brutal. Shane finally said, “Michael. Repeat what you heard him say. Word for word, if you can.”

Kaiser’s voice shook, but he obeyed. “You were scared of me. You felt like you had to protect Mother from me. You thought if you were strong enough, you could keep him safe. And when I ignored you, it was worse — because it made you feel like you didn’t exist.” Theo’s eyes widened. For the first time, his father had mirrored his pain instead of brushing it aside. Shane nodded. “Good. Now, Theo — how did it feel to be heard like that?” Theo’s voice was small. “…Weird. But… good weird.”

Shane smiled gently. “Let’s take it one step further. Theo, pick something simple to do. A small game, a drawing, anything. You’ll lead. Your father will follow your direction.” Theo hesitated, chewing his lip. Then he grabbed a box of crayons from the low shelf — Shane kept supplies for this exact reason. He pulled out paper, set it on the table, and sat. “Draw with me,” he said bluntly. Kaiser blinked, then nodded quickly. He moved closer, lowering himself onto the floor at the little table.

His knees ached against the rug, but he didn’t complain.
Theo picked a blue crayon and began to sketch a rough, jagged circle. “Don’t talk. Just copy me.”.Kaiser obeyed. He picked up a red crayon, awkward in his big hand, and mirrored Theo’s movements. A jagged circle, shaky lines. Theo drew a star inside his circle. Kaiser copied. Then Theo drew a smaller circle, and another. Kaiser followed.

Minutes passed like that. No words. Just movement. Ness watched from the couch, hands clasped tight, tears drying on his face. For once, there was no tension — only the quiet rhythm of crayons scratching paper. Finally, Theo put his crayon down. He looked at Kaiser’s paper, then at his own. “…Not bad,” he muttered. Kaiser’s throat tightened. “Thank you.” Theo glanced at him, sharp. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the circle.” Kaiser laughed — small, broken, but real. “Fair.” Theo’s lip twitched. Almost a smile.

The scratch of crayons had faded. The papers lay scattered: jagged circles, uneven stars, messy colors. They looked like nothing and everything at once. Theo had leaned back in his chair, hands folded tight, staring at the papers like he was waiting for them to mean something more. Kaiser sat stiff beside him, the red crayon still in his grip. And Ness sat a step away, his whole body humming with a need to finally step into the conversation—not as mediator, not as shield, but as himself.

Shane gave him the opening. “Alexis. You’ve heard Michael. You’ve heard Theo. Now it’s your turn.” Ness blinked, throat working. He rarely spoke for himself; his role had always been to amplify Kaiser, to soothe Theo. To disappear when he wasn’t needed. But Shane’s eyes were steady on him, silver and soft, and for once he felt… safe. He inhaled. “I loved you, Michael. From the very beginning. Even when it was cruel. Even when it hurt. Because you noticed me when no one else did. And I thought… if I stayed, if I supported you enough, you’d notice me that way again.” His voice broke. “But love isn’t supposed to hurt like that. And I let it.”

Kaiser’s chest twisted. He wanted to interrupt, to beg—but Shane raised a hand, quieting him. Ness went on, his voice trembling but firm. “I’m not going to disappear anymore. Not for you, not for anyone. If we’re going to rebuild, then it has to be as equals. Not Emperor and shadow. Not master and follower. Equals. Partners.” Kaiser’s breath stuttered. He nodded, too quickly, too desperately. “Yes. God, yes.” Theo leaned forward, sharp as ever. “And if you don’t treat him like that, I’ll know.” Ness smiled faintly, watery. “I think we’ll both know.”

Shane leaned in, her tone guiding. “Boundaries are essential. Without them, you repeat old cycles. So let’s define them together.” Her gaze landed on Ness. “Alexis, what boundary do you need from Michael?” Ness exhaled, steadying. “I need you to stop deciding for me. If I’m upset, if I’m tired, if I need space—I need you to respect that. No more dismissing. No more controlling.” His eyes softened, but his jaw stayed firm. “I’m not invisible anymore.” Kaiser swallowed hard. He bowed his head. “…Understood.”

Shane turned to Theo. “Theo, what about you?” Theo’s chin lifted. “If you yell, I leave. No matter what. If you slam doors, I leave. If you act like him—” his lip curled, “—then you don’t get to be around me.” The air stilled. Kaiser’s throat locked. The urge to defend himself rose—and died. He pressed a fist to the floor, nodding once. “You’re right.” His voice cracked. “You deserve that safety.”

Theo blinked, surprised by the lack of fight. He leaned back slowly, still cautious, but less guarded. Finally, Shane looked at Kaiser. “And you? What boundary do you need?” He hesitated. Boundaries had always been weapons to him, walls to shut people out. But here… “I need patience,” he admitted, voice low. “I don’t know how to do this right away. I’ll make mistakes. I need you both to tell me when I do without giving up on me.” Ness’ hand slid over his. Theo’s lips pressed thin, but he gave a small, reluctant nod. “…Fine. But one mistake too many, and I’ll remind you.” Kaiser almost smiled through the tears. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Shane shifted forward. “We’re going to try something different. Michael, I want you to speak to yourself. Not as you are now, but as the boy you were. The one your father hurt.” Kaiser froze. “I… I can’t.” His voice shook. “You can,” Shane said firmly. “And Theo and Alexis will listen. They need to hear what you never heard.” Silence. Then Kaiser’s chest caved. He closed his eyes. Saw himself — small, bruised, hungry. Seven, eight, ten. Kneeling on cracked tiles, trying not to cry while his father’s boots loomed. His voice cracked open. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Theo’s eyes widened. “You weren’t trash,” Kaiser whispered, shaking. “You weren’t cursed. The world was broken, not you. You didn’t deserve the belt, the fists, the spit. You didn’t deserve to be hated because she left. You were just a kid. And one day…” His voice shattered. “…one day, someone will love you. For real. Not because you fight. Not because you win. Just because you’re you.” Ness broke then, sobbing quietly. He reached for Kaiser’s hand, clutched it tight.

Theo stared, lips trembling. He looked down at his own hands, small and shaking, as if imagining that little boy his father was speaking to. Kaiser pressed his palms over his face, sobbing silently. Shane let it linger, then asked gently, “How did it feel to say that?” Kaiser dragged in a ragged breath. “…Like something I needed thirty years ago.” Shane nodded. “And now Theo and Alexis know you can say it. Which means one day, you can say it to them too—when they need it.”

“Before we end,” Shane said softly, “let’s practice one more thing. Regulation. Michael, when anger rises, what happens first in your body?” Kaiser hesitated, then muttered, “My fists. They clench before I even know I’m angry.”

“Good. Awareness is the first step. Next time, instead of acting—open them. Show Theo your hands. Let him see you choose not to close them.” Theo frowned. “…That’s stupid.” Shane smiled. “Maybe. But if you saw your father choose open hands instead of fists, would it matter?” Theo froze. His lip trembled. “…Yeah.” Kaiser’s hands opened slowly, deliberately, trembling in the space between them. Theo stared, then—hesitantly—laid his own smaller hand over one. “You better keep them open,” Theo muttered. Kaiser’s breath broke, but his hands stayed wide. “I will.”

The silence sat heavy but alive, different from the suffocating kind that used to choke rooms Kaiser entered. This silence had weight because it was waiting. Theo was still staring at his father’s open hands. His own lay against one palm—small, fragile, but steady. Kaiser hadn’t moved, hadn’t dared to breathe too loudly in case it shattered this fragile thing they’d built in the last hour. Theo’s throat bobbed once, then again. His lips parted. “…Michael.”

Kaiser flinched. His son’s voice was sharp, deliberate, heavy with judgment. It hit him harder than any blow his father had ever landed. He forced himself not to look away. “Yes?” His voice was hoarse, cracked raw. Theo’s gaze didn’t waver. “Say it.” Kaiser’s chest locked. He didn’t know what “it” was, but he knew it mattered. He searched his son’s icy-blue eyes—the mirror of his own—and found only fire. He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.” The words landed like stones dropped into a well. They rippled through the room.

“I’m sorry,” Kaiser said again, firmer this time, like he needed to hear it too. “For every time I yelled. For every time I made you feel unsafe. For every time I treated your mother like he was just an extension of me instead of the man I should’ve cherished. For every moment I made you feel like my shadow instead of my son.” His voice cracked, trembling. “I was wrong. I was cruel. And you deserved better.” Theo’s breath hitched. His jaw trembled despite the royal stillness of his posture.

Kaiser pressed on, voice breaking into pleading now. “And thank you—both of you. For staying. For giving me a chance I never earned. For still being here when I kept pushing you away. Thank you, Alexis, for loving me even when I made it impossible. Thank you, Theo, for not giving up on me even when you should’ve.” Ness covered his mouth with one hand, tears slipping free. It wasn’t the pathetic clutching sob of the old Ness who thought being seen was too much—it was quiet, free, something lighter.

Theo’s small fists trembled. He pulled his hand away from Kaiser’s palm—Kaiser’s heart dropped—until Theo lifted his chin, voice steady as a blade. “…Then prove it, Father.” The word burned through Kaiser’s chest. Not Michael. Not an insult. Father. His vision blurred instantly. Theo’s eyes narrowed, hard as steel. “But if you ever go back to the old you—if you break Mother again, if you make me feel like trash again—I’ll stop calling you that. I’ll go back to Michael. Forever. That’s my promise.”

The ultimatum rang through the room like a vow. Kaiser broke. The tears he’d been choking back fell hot and relentless. He dropped to his knees, lowering himself until he was eye level with his son, until he was smaller than him in every way that mattered. His hands shook as he reached forward—not to grab, not to demand—but to ask. “Then let me earn it,” he whispered. “Let me be your father.”

Theo’s lip trembled once, and then he moved. The boy’s arms flung forward, small but fierce, wrapping around Kaiser’s neck with surprising strength. His little body shook with quiet sobs. Kaiser froze for half a heartbeat, then crushed him close—gently, desperately, as if he was afraid Theo might vanish if he let go. His chin pressed to his son’s hair, his arms encircling him like they were made for it. “I’m here,” Kaiser choked out. “I’m here, and I won’t leave again.”

Ness broke then, fully. He slid down beside them, arms circling both—his son trembling, his partner collapsing—and for the first time in years, the three of them pressed together in a knot of warmth and tears and something like hope. Theo’s muffled voice came between sobs. “…Don’t make me regret this, Father.” Kaiser’s chest ached with the weight of it, but his grip only tightened, reverent. “Never again.” And for the first time, they weren’t three broken pieces clashing in the dark. They were a family—shattered, scarred, but holding each other in the light of something new.

Shane had been still the entire time. Not intrusive, not rushing. Just holding the space. Her eyes softened as she watched the knot of three on the floor—Kaiser cradling Theo like something precious, Ness pressed close as if to make sure neither slipped away. She let it breathe. She knew the moment would collapse if she rushed to fill it with words. Only when the sobs steadied, when breathing slowed, did she finally lean forward.

Her voice was calm, even. “That was brave. All of you.”
Theo lifted his head from Kaiser’s shoulder, eyes still wet, face red but defiant. Kaiser’s arms tightened automatically, like muscle memory refusing to let go. Ness brushed a hand over Theo’s hair, soothing. Shane smiled faintly. “You’ve started something today. But it doesn’t end here.” She glanced at Kaiser, and her tone shifted—firm, but not unkind. “Michael… your son gave you a gift just now. He called you ‘Father.’ That word is not yours to keep. You earn it every day.”

Kaiser bowed his head, voice hoarse. “I know.” Theo sat straighter, small but regal in posture. “And I meant what I said.” Shane inclined her head, acknowledging the boy’s authority. “And you set a clear boundary, Theo. That’s important. Your voice matters here.” She shifted, folding her hands loosely. “I want to give you some homework. Small things, but important.” All three looked at her—Ness attentive, Theo sharp, Kaiser wary but listening.

“First,” Shane began, “I want each of you to practice something daily: a hug. Not out of guilt, not forced, not in anger. Just one hug every day, on purpose, where you remind each other you’re still here. Safe. Chosen.” Ness’s lips curved faintly, a whisper of warmth. Theo gave a small nod, as if weighing the order and finding it acceptable. Kaiser only swallowed, emotion twisting in his chest.

“Second,” Shane continued, “words. Every day, one thing said out loud that affirms the bond. It can be small. ‘Thank you for dinner.’ ‘I’m glad you’re home.’ Or even just, ‘I love you.’ But it has to be said, not assumed.” She turned her eyes to Kaiser again. “You were raised in silence and fists. You don’t get to raise your family in the same way.” Kaiser flinched, but nodded. “…Got it.”

“Third,” Shane said, softer now, “remember boundaries. Theo is your child, but he is also his own person. Ness is your partner, not your shadow. And you, Michael—you are more than the boy your father tried to break. I expect you to act like it.” Theo’s hand slipped back into Kaiser’s sleeve, grounding. Ness’s other hand caught Kaiser’s knuckles, squeezing once. For the first time, Kaiser didn’t pull away.

Shane leaned back in her chair, voice final but encouraging. “You did something hard today. Now go practice it. Stumble if you must, but keep trying. The repair doesn’t end in this office—it begins here.” Theo pressed his face back against Kaiser’s shoulder, quieter this time. Ness exhaled, a shudder leaving him, and Kaiser—still trembling—let himself hold them both. For the first time, the word family didn’t feel like a punishment.

DAY 9 — 3:00 p.m.

BASTARD MÜNCHEN – ISAGI’S PRIVATE ROOM

The room was unusually full. Not with teammates or training equipment, but with something infinitely louder: five children. Rin sat on the couch, Amane perched on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. The baby’s dark lashes brushed against flushed cheeks as she gnawed determinedly on the corner of Rin’s shirt. Rin’s hand rested automatically against her back, steady, soothing, even as his eyes flicked across the room—tracking each sibling like he was in charge of a whole team instead of a family.

Isagi stood with arms crossed, posture strict, eyes trained not on Rin but on two very guilty-looking culprits sitting stiff on the floor in front of him: Aoi and Sato. Theo had once called Isagi “Uncle Strict,” and Aoi had scoffed at the nickname. Right now, though, the title looked painfully accurate. Isagi’s voice cut sharp, controlled, but unmistakably firm. “Do you two realize what you put Karasu through today?” Aoi’s ahoge twitched, her sharp little chin tilting up, unrepentant but wary. “He didn’t look that mad. He handled it.” Sato fidgeted, eyes down, his small hands picking at the hem of his shirt. “We didn’t mean to… it was just supposed to be a game.”

“Not a game.” Isagi’s Alpha tone landed heavy in the small room. “Karasu is older, yes, but he’s still human. He was in pain. He told you his heat was close and he needed rest. And instead of respecting that, you pushed and pulled and fought until he was overwhelmed.” Aoi’s lips pressed together. She tried to glare back, but Isagi’s eyes didn’t budge. Her bravado shrank, bit by bit. “You will thank him,” Isagi continued. “And not because I told you to—but because he gave you something important today: his care. You don’t spit on someone’s care. You respect it.” Silence.

Rin’s voice came softer, from the couch. “Do you understand why your dad is angry?” Sato’s lip trembled, but he nodded slowly. “Because… we didn’t listen. And we hurt him.” Rin nodded. “Exactly. Hurting people doesn’t always mean punches or kicks. Sometimes it’s not listening when they say ‘enough.’” Aoi finally dropped her stare, muttering. “…I guess.” Isagi’s brows knit. “Not ‘guess.’ Say it properly.”

She let out a long sigh, rolling her eyes in a way only a ten-year-old Alpha could. “…Fine. We’ll thank him.” From the couch, Itsuki chuckled under his breath. The eldest son had been silent the whole time, leaning back against the wall with arms crossed, watching with hawk-like amusement. “You’re way too soft on them, Dad. If it were me, I’d make Aoi write a full apology letter in triplicate.” Aoi whipped around, glaring. “Shut up, ’Tsuki nii-chan!” Isagi’s hand shot out, palm raised. “Enough.” His Alpha presence filled the space again—not threatening, but solid. “We don’t snap at each other like that in this family. You don’t need to agree, but you do need to stay respectful.”

Aoi’s shoulders hunched. She crossed her arms, but Rin’s quiet gaze caught her, and she exhaled, muttering, “…Sorry.” Sato peeked sideways at her, then nodded quickly. “…Sorry.” Rin smiled softly. “Good. That’s all we ask.” The tension loosened. Amane squealed suddenly, kicking tiny legs against Rin’s stomach, demanding attention. Rin bounced her lightly, brushing his lips against her soft hair. Minato, curled against Rin’s side, stirred at the sound and mumbled into his mother’s sleeve. “Mama… hungry.” Rin smoothed his hair. “We’ll eat soon.”

Isagi exhaled, finally letting his posture relax. He looked at Rin, then at the kids, and the edges of his stern façade softened. “You all know we’re not here to just yell at you. But this—this family—we have to look out for each other. That means caring about how our actions affect the people around us. That’s what Karasu gave you today. And that’s what we expect you to give back.” Aoi and Sato both nodded this time, genuinely. Itsuki smirked again, but softer now. “Guess it’s true. You two really are softer than people think.” His ice-blue eyes flicked toward Isagi, a little too sharp, a little too amused. “Dad pretending to be the scary Alpha, but he’s just a softie when Mama looks at him like that.”

Rin flushed faintly, glaring. “Itsuki.” The boy only grinned wider, unrepentant. “What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” Isagi ran a hand down his face, groaning. “You’re too much like your mother when you get like this.” Rin shot him a sharp look, but there was warmth in it. Amane squealed again, like she agreed. The rest of the afternoon softened into something domestic, chaotic but warm. Minato crawled into Isagi’s lap, clutching his shirt. “Papa, stay.” Isagi’s arms wrapped around him instantly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Aoi tugged at Rin’s sleeve, whispering something about helping with Amane. Rin guided her hands gently, showing her how to hold the baby without pressing too hard. Sato curled up near them, eyes heavy but trying to watch. Itsuki leaned against the wall, smirking, but the way his gaze lingered on his parents’ closeness betrayed the affection behind the sarcasm. And in the center of it all, Rin and Isagi’s eyes met across the room—shared exhaustion, shared responsibility, and a quiet pride. This wasn’t easy. But it was theirs. And for the first time since yesterday’s chaos, the air felt like a home.

The scolding had left the air taut, but it didn’t last long. Not in a house with five voices, each pulling attention in different directions. “‘Tsuki nii-chan,” Minato squeaked, crawling clumsily into the nest of blankets on the floor. His chubby hands clutched a toy ball he’d smuggled into the room. “Play? Goal?” Itsuki arched a brow from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re three, Mina. You can barely kick straight.”

“Can too!” Minato puffed his cheeks, glaring with a baby-seriousness that was more adorable than intimidating. He wobbled upright, ball tucked under his chin. “See?” He kicked—and the ball rolled five sad inches before bumping against the leg of the couch. Sato immediately groaned. “You didn’t even use your instep—” Aoi blew her whistle. Literally. Where had she even pulled that thing from? “FOUL! Illegal commentary from Sato!” Sato whirled on her. “What are you talking about?! I was coaching him!”

“Sounds like whining to me,” Aoi shot back, grinning devilishly. She darted across the room, snatched the ball, and took off like a rocket. “And the crowd goes wild—GOAL!” She launched it into the laundry basket Rin had neatly folded clothes into earlier. Rin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Aoi. That basket had clean clothes.”

“Now it has victory!” Aoi declared, hands thrown up. Isagi groaned. “You’re impossible.” Itsuki’s smirk widened as he watched the chaos unfold. “That’s your clone, Dad. Not Mom’s.”

“Shut up,” Isagi muttered, but the heat at his ears betrayed him. On the couch, Amane babbled happily, patting Rin’s chest with sticky little hands. “Mammm… mammm… bah-bah-bah.”

“Not Papa, huh?” Isagi said dryly, glancing at her. Rin’s lips quirked. “Looks like she knows who does the heavy lifting.” He adjusted her ribbon headband gently, smoothing her wispy hair. “Mammm,” Amane repeated with gusto, before shoving her entire fist into her mouth. Minato scrambled up next to Rin, tugging at his sleeve. “Mama, Aoi nee-chan cheat. Took ball!” Rin bent, pressing a kiss into his son’s hair. “You’ll get it back after dinner. And what’s the rule about fighting?” Minato parroted back instantly, though in a whiny singsong: “No yelling. No name-calls. Talk.”

“That’s right.” Rin’s tone softened, but his gaze flicked toward Aoi and Sato, who were now in a full-on tug-of-war over the laundry basket. “Which applies to all of you.” They froze mid-grapple. “But she—” Sato started. “She—” Aoi echoed. “Talk,” Rin cut in, firm. Sato’s glare softened reluctantly. “…You made me mad, Aoi nee-chan. You don’t let anyone else finish, you just run off.” Aoi blinked. She hadn’t expected him to phrase it like that. Her grip slackened. “…Sorry, Sato. I was just playing.”

“Next time, let Mina try before you steal it.” She grumbled, but then handed the ball back toward their toddler brother. “Fine. Here, Mina.” Minato gasped like he’d just been gifted a holy relic. “Mina goal!” He took a wild swing—this time sending the ball ricocheting off the couch, into the wall, and nearly into Rin’s tea mug. Rin caught it one-handed, Amane still perched on his hip. Calm as ever. “Nice try.”

“Papa, did you see?!” Minato turned wide blue eyes to Isagi. “Mina goal!” Isagi chuckled despite himself. “Yeah, I saw. Good job, bean.” He ruffled his son’s auburn hair. Itsuki watched all of it with the air of someone quietly storing ammunition for later. “Wow. Dad praising someone for chaos goals. Didn’t think I’d see the day.” Isagi snapped him a look. “Keep talking, Itsuki, you’ll be running laps around the training pitch.” Itsuki only smirked wider, folding his arms behind his head. “You couldn’t catch me if you tried.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Isagi muttered, but Rin’s quiet laugh beside him cut the tension. Amane suddenly leaned toward her eldest brother, babbling, “’Tsuki nii! ’Tsuki nii!” Her chubby hands reached out. Itsuki blinked, startled for once, before carefully taking her from Rin’s arms. She nestled into his shoulder, drooling onto his shirt. “Guess she likes you best,” Rin said, faint smile tugging at his lips. Itsuki tried for his usual sly smirk, but it wobbled. “Well… I am the coolest nii-chan.”

“Mammm,” Amane said again, muffled against his shirt. “Close enough,” Itsuki muttered. For a moment, the room was noisy but warm. Aoi was back to climbing the couch cushions, Minato toddled around shouting “Goal! Goal!” with every wobbly kick, Sato scribbled strategies in his little notebook, and Amane babbled into Itsuki’s chest. Rin leaned back against the couch, eyes soft as he watched them. “Siblings are the ones who’ll still be there when life gets hard,” he murmured, half to himself.
Isagi glanced at him, then at their brood. “Guess they’ve already figured that out.” Rin’s hand brushed his. And for once, Isagi didn’t hide the smile tugging at his mouth.

The ball had finally rolled to a stop under the bed, and Minato immediately flopped down on his stomach to wriggle after it. His little legs kicked uselessly in the air like he was swimming. “Mina, you’re gonna get stuck,” Aoi warned, crouching next to him. “Mina not stuck,” he said, muffled by the blanket dust. “Mina strong.”

“Strong but dumb,” Sato muttered, scribbling something in his notebook. “That’s a bad combination.”

“Oi!” Aoi snapped, glaring. “Don’t call him dumb!” Sato didn’t even look up. “I wasn’t name-calling. I was describing.” Rin cleared his throat, and Sato’s pencil froze. “…Sorry. Not dumb. Just reckless.” Minato wriggled out again, triumphantly clutching the dust-covered ball. “Goal safe!” Amane clapped her tiny hands at the declaration, babbling something that sounded suspiciously like “Gooool.”

“See?” Aoi crowed, scooping her baby sister up into her lap. “Even Amane knows it was a goal!” Itsuki smirked from his corner. “You’re all too easy.” Sato narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start nii-chan.” The banter rolled on easily, but then Aoi leaned back against the couch with a dreamy sigh. “You know who Mina and I really wanna play with? Uncle Bachira.” Rin’s spine went taut in an instant. “…What?”

“Uncle Bachira,” Aoi repeated like it was obvious. “He’s the best! He does funny voices when he plays tag and lets us climb on his back like he’s a horse.”

“Mina horse!” Minato shouted, dropping the ball and immediately trying to climb onto Aoi’s shoulders. “Nee-chan giddyup!”

“Oi, get off—” she tried to shake him, but she was laughing too hard to make it convincing. Sato didn’t even look up from his notebook as he said, “You two like him so much because he matches your energy. He’s the only adult who actually thinks chaos is a sport.”

“Exactly!” Aoi said, half-dragged down by Minato. “That’s why he’s the best uncle.” Itsuki finally looked up, arching a brow. “You mean he’s the only one dumb enough to let you bite his arm mid-game.”

“I did not bite him!” Aoi protested instantly. “Yes, you did nee-chan,” Sato said flatly. “You said it was ‘part of the strategy.’”

“Mina bite too!” Minato chirped proudly. “Oh my god,” Isagi blurted out, running a hand down his face. “Wait. Stop. Hold on—did you just say Uncle Bachira?”

“Yeah,” Aoi said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. The room went quiet, save for Minato’s squeaky attempts to ride on his sister’s shoulders and Amane’s babbling. Rin blinked once. Twice. His expression remained neutral, but the tips of his ears gave him away. “…Uncle,” he repeated, deadpan.

“Of course,” Aoi chirped. “He’s like family! Isn’t he, Mina?”
“Mina love Uncle Bachira,” Minato declared, collapsing back into Rin’s lap with sticky hands. “He fun.” Rin and Isagi traded a look. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was a look. Because for the first time, the future had handed them not tragedy, not grief, but something else: a thread of warmth. Isagi’s heart squeezed, because of course it made sense. Bachira had been his best friend since the start. The one person who always seemed to understand him without needing all the words. If anyone was going to worm his way into his kids’ lives, it would be Bachira.

And Rin… Rin didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t. But the thought of Bachira, of all people, being close enough to his children to be called uncle—close enough that Minato squealed his name like a comfort word—left him more rattled than he’d ever admit. Aoi’s grin stretched wide as she caught their silence. “See? You’re both surprised, but you shouldn’t be. Uncle Bachira’s the coolest. He takes us out for ice cream, too.” Rin’s eyes
narrowed. “…Ice cream?”

“Yup,” Aoi said brightly. “Sometimes he buys two scoops just for Mina ‘cause Mina cries if his falls.”

“Mina not cry,” Minato muttered stubbornly, but his cheeks turned pink. Amane babbled, bouncing in Itsuki’s lap. “Beecha! Beecha!” That was the final nail. Even the baby knew his name. Isagi sat back, stunned. “…Unbelievable.” Itsuki finally smirked. “What? Did you think you two were the only ones with good influence?” Rin exhaled slowly through his nose, fixing his eldest with a sharp look. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Obviously,” Itsuki said smoothly. “It’s fun watching you malfunction.”

“Tsuki nii-chan’s mean,” Aoi muttered. “He’s honest,” Sato corrected. “Same thing,” Aoi shot back. The chaos spiraled again—Minato trying to put Amane’s sock on his own foot, Aoi blowing that damn whistle, Sato glaring at his strategy notes like they’d betrayed him, Itsuki smirking from the sidelines like a shadow puppeteer. And all the while, Rin and Isagi sat in the eye of the storm, quiet but heavy with the knowledge. Their kids knew Bachira. Trusted him. Loved him. Enough to call him uncle. Isagi finally let out a shaky chuckle, half fond, half overwhelmed. “Guess it makes sense. He’s always been like that.”

“Like what?” Rin asked, voice low. “Someone who makes everything feel less… heavy.” Rin didn’t answer. But his eyes softened, just barely, as Minato curled into his side and Amane clapped her tiny hands at nothing. The room was loud again, but under it ran a new current. For once, the future wasn’t only a warning. It was a promise.

The whistle shrieked again—Aoi’s lungs were unfairly powerful—and Minato yelped, covering his ears. Sato groaned, scribbling “Confiscate whistle” in his notes. Before Rin could confiscate anything, the door slammed opened "HEELLOO YOUR HIGNESSES!” Kai strode in like they owned the place, all flowing black hair and crimson eyes gleaming with wicked delight. Their coat swished dramatically even though the air was perfectly still, one teal sneaker untied just to make the aesthetic clash on purpose.

“Duchess Rin. Lord Isagi. Peasants,” Kai announced grandly, sweeping a hand over the room like they were addressing an adoring court. The Isagi children froze mid-chaos. “Kai nee-chan!” Aoi squealed like she’d just seen her favorite pop idol. “You’re here!” Minato gasped and scrambled upright. “Kai nii-chan!!” He tried to run, but tripped on his own foot and face-planted into Rin’s leg. Kai stepped daintily over him, grinning. “Fear not, Blue Bean. Your stylish savior is here.” Rin blinked slowly, then exhaled like he was already regretting everything.
“…Why are you here?”

“Why am I here?” Kai pressed a hand to their chest as if offended. “Because your esteemed firstborn and I have important business to attend to.” Itsuki arched a brow, arms still folded. “Important business?”

“Terrorizing Ubers,” Kai said breezily. “Obviously.” The room went dead silent. Even Amane stopped babbling, staring at Kai with wide silver-blue eyes. Isagi pinched the bridge of his nose.
“…Terrorizing?”

“Diplomatic outreach,” Kai corrected smoothly. “In the form of psychological warfare. It’s character-building.” Rin’s voice cut in, sharp. “You’re not dragging my son into your dramatics without asking.” Kai smirked, unbothered. “Then ask your majesties.” Itsuki, infuriatingly calm, tilted his head toward his parents. “Permission to go?” Rin’s glare sharpened. But Itsuki’s foxlike eyes didn’t waver. He wasn’t smirking this time—just waiting. Isagi sighed, running a hand through his hair. “…You’ll actually come back, right? No disappearing, no starting brawls?”

“No brawls,” Itsuki said evenly. Then, after a beat, the corner of his mouth tugged up. “Unless Kai starts them.”

“Excuse you,” Kai said, looking delighted. “I don’t start brawls. I curate chaos.” Rin rubbed at his temple. “This is a mistake.” But Isagi caught his eye, the tiniest smirk there. Better to let them than try to stop them. “…Fine,” Rin said at last, though his tone was clipped. “But you’re back before dinner. And if I hear even one complaint from Ubers—”

“We’ll take full responsibility,” Itsuki finished smoothly, already standing. He slipped his phone into his pocket, grabbed his jacket, and moved to Kai’s side like this had always been planned. Kai beamed, throwing an arm around him like they were already co-conspirators. “And thus, the power duo departs!”

“Don’t call yourselves that,” Rin muttered. But they were already gone—the door swinging shut behind them, leaving only the faint echo of Kai’s dramatic laughter down the hall. Silence lingered. Then Aoi huffed, arms crossed. “Not fair! I wanted to go terrorize Ubers too.”

“No,” Rin said instantly. “Why not?!”

“Because you’re still grounded for making Karasu babysit you and stealing his heating pad.”

“That was Sato!” Sato didn’t even look up. “No, it was you. I had the evidence bagged and labeled.”

“Traitor!” Aoi lunged, and the chaos resumed. Isagi leaned back against the couch, watching it all with a weary fondness.
“…We’re not gonna survive this timeline, are we?” Rin just sighed, bouncing Amane gently on his hip. But there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “…Barely.”

The knock never came. The door just slammed open. “YOOOO~ ISAGIIIIII!” The sound was so sudden, so loud, Rin nearly dropped Amane. The baby startled, letting out a squeaky wail before Rin could rock her back into calm. Isagi jerked up from where he sat, almost knocking over a cup of tea. “The hell—Bachira?!”

And there he was: curls bouncing, grin stretched wide, barefoot for some inexplicable reason, as if he’d literally run across the halls just to get here faster. His golden eyes glinted like a cat who’d found a mouse to toy with. “Ohhh, jackpot!” Bachira sang, skidding into the room without hesitation. “So this is where the party is!” The “party” looked up at him in varying degrees of confusion. Aoi blinked once. Twice. And then gasped so dramatically it echoed. “UNCLE BEECHA!!” Before Rin or Isagi could react, she sprinted and flung herself at him. Bachira caught her mid-air with the ease of someone who’d spent his entire life catching flying balls—and people.

“Uncle?!” Isagi sputtered, but his voice was drowned out by Aoi’s delighted shriek as Bachira spun her around. “Uncle Beecha!” she repeated, clutching his curls. “You’re here!” Minato’s round eyes went wide. He toddled forward with unsteady determination, arms raised. “Mina too! Mina too!!” Bachira grinned like a kid himself, crouching down and hoisting Minato onto his shoulders in one swoop. “There we go, double trouble! Tall view for the bean!”

“Mina tall! Mina tall!!” Minato kicked his legs, clinging to Bachira’s head like he was steering a horse. From the couch, Sato tried to scowl, arms crossed. But Bachira crooked a finger at him like he was luring a stray cat. “C’mon, storm cloud. I see that look—you wanna join.”

“…No, I don’t,” Sato muttered. “You totally do.”

“…Fine,” Sato grumbled, stomping over. Bachira immediately ruffled his hair until it stuck up like a static-charged hedgehog. “See? Knew it. Tactical storm acquired!” Sato tried to slap his hand away but ended up half-smiling despite himself. Rin and Isagi just sat there. Staring. “…Did they just—” Isagi started. “—really call him uncle,” Rin finished flatly. The word rang in the air. And Bachira? He didn’t even flinch.

He was too busy making airplane noises while zooming Aoi around the room, Minato shrieking “NEEEEOWWW” from his shoulders, and Sato trailing like a bodyguard trying to pretend he wasn’t laughing.Amane babbled at the sight, clapping sticky hands. “Beecha! Beecha!” Rin blinked down at her, stunned. “…Even she—”

“Unbelievable,” Isagi muttered, burying his face in his hands. “ALRIGHT, TEAM CHAOS!” Bachira declared, planting his feet like he was about to announce a mission briefing. “Objective: terrorize the Bastard training field. Who’s in?!”

“ME!!” Aoi pumped her fist, hanging upside down in his arms. “Mina! Mina! Minaaaaa!” Minato bounced so hard Bachira had to tighten his grip. “…For tactical research only,” Sato muttered, though his eyes were gleaming. “Good enough!” Bachira grinned ferally. “Let’s go, minions!” He turned on his heel with all three kids orbiting him like satellites. Aoi clung to his arm, Minato rode high on his shoulders, and Sato trailed like the unwilling but secretly pleased general. The door swung shut. Silence. Rin stared at it. “…He stole them.”

“Yeah,” Isagi muttered, staring too. “He always does this.”
Amane burbled softly, chewing on Rin’s collar. “Beechaaa.” Rin exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “…This isn’t normal.”

“For him?” Isagi said, rubbing his temple. “It’s exactly normal.” Down the hall, Bachira’s cackles echoed faintly, punctuated by Aoi’s whistle shrieking like a war cry and Minato screaming “GOAAALLL” at random intervals. Rin leaned back, rocking Amane in his arms. Her little hand patted his cheek like she was telling him not to worry.

“…Uncle,” Rin muttered again under his breath. His tone was skeptical, but the way his chest tightened wasn’t. Isagi glanced at him, then at the baby. “…Guess we know why they mentioned him.” Rin stayed quiet, gaze fixed on the door. “Honestly,” Isagi continued, softer this time, “it makes sense. He’s always been like that. Someone who makes things lighter.” Rin finally looked at him. His expression was unreadable, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “…Don’t tell him I said this. But… it suits him.”

Isagi smiled faintly. “…Yeah. It does.” Amane gurgled, drooling happily. Rin wiped her mouth with a sigh. “You’re too young to be on his side already.” But Amane only babbled louder, like she was cheering for the chaos team from afar.

Meanwhile, in the halls… “Chargeeee!” Bachira bellowed, sprinting with Minato bouncing dangerously on his shoulders. Aoi blew her whistle like a referee possessed. “PENALTY AGAINST BASTARD MÜNCHEN!” Sato sighed but still jogged after them, notebook in hand. “…We’re going to get banned from the cafeteria for this.”

“Worth it!” Bachira shouted back. “Uncle Beecha is the best!!” Aoi declared. “Mina love Beecha!!”

“Goal!” Minato screamed at nothing in particular. And for the first time since the future had crashed into their present, the sound echoing down Bastard München’s sterile halls wasn’t grief. It was laughter.

The echoes of whistles and childish war cries finally faded down the hall, leaving Rin and Isagi alone with the quiet hum of the room. Well—almost quiet. Amane was curled against Rin’s chest, her tiny fist tangled in his shirt. Every so often, she let out a contented coo, like she’d already forgotten her siblings’ chaos. Rin exhaled, pressing his lips briefly against her wispy navy hair. “…She’s the only one who doesn’t scream the building down.”

“Give her time,” Isagi muttered, settling into the couch across from him. “She’s your kid too. Bet she’s got a sharp tongue waiting.” Rin rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite. “She doesn’t need one. She’ll have four siblings yelling on her behalf.”

“True.” Isagi leaned back, watching Rin with a small smile he didn’t bother to hide. The sight—Rin cradling a baby with a natural grace he’d never admit—had done something to his chest since yesterday. Something he still couldn’t quite name. Rin noticed the stare. “…What.” Isagi shrugged. “Just… didn’t think I’d see you like this.”

“Like what?” Rin’s tone was flat, but his ears had gone faintly pink. Isagi chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like a mom. Soft.” Rin’s glare sharpened. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not teasing,” Isagi said quickly. His voice dropped into something steadier, more serious. “I mean it. You’re good at this. With them.” The room paused. Amane gurgled, as if filling the silence. Rin lowered his gaze to her again. “…They don’t make it hard.”

“Mm, I dunno.” Isagi’s lips quirked. “Itsuki’s got your mind games, Aoi’s a little devil, Sato’s basically a mini-you, Minato runs like a loose ball, and Amane—well, she’s cute, but give her a year.” Rin’s shoulders shook once. “…You’re not wrong.” For a while, the only sounds were Amane’s soft breaths and the faint tick of the clock. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable—it never had been with Rin. If anything, Isagi found himself… relaxed. Which was saying something, considering his whole life was football, rivalry, and tension. Finally, Rin broke it. “…Do you think we did alright?” Isagi blinked. “Huh?”

“With them.” Rin’s voice was softer now, almost hesitant.
“The kids. They came from our future, and…” He trailed off, brows furrowing. “…they don’t hate us. Not really.”

“Of course they don’t,” Isagi said immediately. “You’re sure?” Rin’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and searching. “They listen to you more than me sometimes. Itsuki, especially—he only ever smirks when I scold him. But with you, he actually shuts up.”

“That’s not respect,” Isagi said dryly. “That’s fear.” Rin huffed, but it was closer to a laugh than he wanted to admit. “…Idiot.” Isagi grinned, leaning forward. “Listen. They don’t hate us. They’re loud, yeah, but they look at you like you’re their anchor. And me—” He shrugged, lips tugging upward. “—I’m just the strict guy who makes sure they don’t climb the roof.” Rin’s grip tightened on Amane. “…Mom said siblings are the ones who’ll still be there when life gets hard,” he murmured, half to himself. “I guess it’s the same with parents.” Isagi’s smile softened. “Exactly.”

Rin shifted Amane to his shoulder, patting her back gently. The baby sighed, drifting deeper into sleep. His profile in the warm lamplight was sharper than usual, but gentler too. And Isagi realized—this was the Rin he wanted to protect. Not the rival snarling at him on the field. Not the Itoshi heir carrying scars from a brother who’d abandoned him. But the one sitting here, holding a baby like the world hadn’t already tried to break him.
The thought left Isagi’s chest tight. He swallowed, then spoke before he could overthink it.

“Rin.”

“…What.”

“I’m gonna court you.”

The words landed like a free kick into dead silence. Rin blinked at him, brows twitching. “…You’re gonna what.”

“Court you,” Isagi repeated, steady now. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked with Rin’s. “Properly. Like I should’ve done from the start.” Rin just stared, expression blank as stone. “…You’re insane.”

“Probably,” Isagi admitted. “But I’m serious.” Rin scoffed, but his grip on Amane betrayed a flicker of unease. “…Why now?”

“Because.” Isagi’s voice roughened, the weight of the kids’ laughter still echoing in his head. “We’ve already seen it. Our future. Five kids, chaos, everything. And I don’t care if it’s fate or some twisted ego experiment—we did that together. Not as rivals. As… something more.” Rin’s lips pressed thin. “…You think that’s enough?”

“No.” Isagi shook his head. “That’s why I’m saying it now. I don’t want us to just… end up there by accident. I want to choose it. To choose you. Every step.” Rin’s eyes flickered, sharp edges faltering for just a breath. “You’re too dramatic.” Isagi smirked faintly. “You’re one to talk.”

“…Tch.” They sat there, the air stretched thin between them. Amane shifted, mumbling nonsense in her sleep. Rin smoothed her hair down automatically. His fingers trembled—just slightly. Isagi saw it. And for once, he didn’t push. He just leaned back, letting the weight of his words hang. Finally, Rin exhaled. “…If you’re serious, you’ll have to prove it. Not just to me. To them.” His gaze dipped to Amane, then toward the door where the rest had disappeared. “…They deserve more than promises.” Isagi’s chest warmed. “…Then I’ll prove it.”

Rin glanced at him again, suspicious, but there was a faint color dusting his cheeks now. “Idiot.” Isagi’s grin widened. “Yours.” Rin rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue. The door stayed closed, the room warm with quiet again. Outside, faint echoes of Bachira’s laughter and Aoi’s whistle carried through the halls, but in here—it was just the three of them. Rin, Isagi, and a baby girl whose tiny hand, still dreaming, had found both their fingers and curled tight. For the first time in a long while, Rin let the silence sit. And Isagi, for the first time, felt no need to fill it. Because maybe, just maybe, they’d already started choosing each other.

DAY 9 — 4:10 p.m.

BASTARD MÜNCHEN MAIN FIELD

The Bastard München training grounds were supposed to be calm. Ordered. Precise. At least, that’s how Noa wanted it. Right now, though? Absolute hell. Because Bachira had brought three little gremlins straight onto the field. Aoi ran ahead first, whistle already in her mouth, blowing it at random intervals like she was a referee possessed by chaos. “Piii! Training foul! Yellow card for running boring drills!” Sato followed behind with his arms crossed, teal eyes sharp and judgmental. “You’re not even watching properly, Aoi-nee. That wasn’t a yellow card, it was nothing.”

“Shut up, Sato, it’s called fun!” she shot back, blowing the whistle again for emphasis. Trailing after them came Minato, shorter legs pumping hard to keep up. He was carrying a football almost as big as his torso. “Wait! Mina too! Mina wanna playyy!” His auburn hair flopped wildly as he ran, his sweater sleeves dragging in the dirt. And right behind all three, Bachira grinned like a wolf set loose. “Heeey, guys! Look what I found in the lounge bonus training partners!” The field froze.

Kurona spat out his water. Yukimiya paused mid-stretch. Hiori nearly tripped over a cone. Raichi’s veins popped in real-time. “…What the hell,” Raichi barked. “What the actual—Bachira! Why are there kids on the pitch!?”

“They’re my new best friends!” Bachira beamed. “They’re children!”

“Future children,” Aoi corrected smugly, hands on her hips. “Future children. Don’t you get it, Uncle Shouty?” Raichi’s jaw dropped. “…Did she just—what did she—Oi! Don’t call me that!”

“Uncle Shouty! Uncle Shouty!” Minato echoed gleefully, bouncing the ball on the grass. Aoi blew her whistle again. “Piii! Ten points for Mina! Good teamwork!” Raichi looked about ready to combust. Yukimiya, meanwhile, crouched down smoothly, offering a polite smile. “So you three are Rin and Isagi’s, huh? You’ve got their eyes. And manners, apparently.”

“Uncle Sparkles,” Aoi chirped instantly. “You’re too fancy for football. Why are your shoes so clean?”

“Uncle Sparkles?” Yukimiya repeated, blinking. Then, with a faint sigh and the poise of a man who had seen worse insults: “Well. At least it’s better than Uncle Shouty.”.Raichi exploded again: “WHAT’S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN!?” Kurona edged closer, scratching his cheek. “Oi… what about me, me?” Sato sized him up with Rin’s exact unimpressed glare. “…Shark.” Kurona’s eyes went wide. “…Shark?”

“Uncle Shark,” Minato confirmed happily. “Mina like sharks! Big teeth! Grrr!” He bared his tiny baby teeth in demonstration. And Kurona—Kurona’s entire face lit up. “Finally, someone gets it! Sharks are cool as hell!” He crouched down, ruffling Minato’s hair. “Good taste, kid, kid.” Sato smirked. “At least one adult here isn’t useless.”

“HEY!” Raichi yelled from the other side. Hiori had been standing quietly, expression calm but eyes soft as he took in the kids. When Aoi turned her gaze to him, she tilted her head. “You’re… Uncle Pretty.” Hiori blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“You’ve got lashes,” she explained bluntly. “And hair. You’re pretty. Deal with it.”

“…Oh,” Hiori said, genuinely at a loss. His ears pinked faintly. “…Thank you?” Then Minato toddled toward the tall figure standing at the goalpost. Gagamaru had been silent the whole time, observing like a mountain that couldn’t be moved. “Mina likes you,” Minato declared, squinting up. “…Uncle Bear.” The entire field went silent. “…Bear?” Gagamaru rumbled slowly. “Yeah!” Minato puffed his cheeks, hugging his football tighter. “You big. You protect. Bear.” For a long moment, Gagamaru just stared down at him, unreadable. Then—he crouched, scooping Minato up in one effortless motion. “Good name.”

“Mina knew it!” the toddler cheered, holding his ball aloft like a trophy. “THIS IS NOT NORMAL!” Raichi shouted again, voice cracking. “Kids shouldn’t be handing out nicknames like—like some mafia boss!”

“Uncle Shouty’s mad,” Aoi stage-whispered. “Uncle Shouty’s always mad,” Sato corrected. Raichi’s vein bulged so hard it was a miracle he didn’t pop. “WHY YOU LITTLE—” Yukimiya sighed, stepping in like a gentleman mediator. “Children, don’t antagonize him too much. He has blood pressure problems.”

“UNCLE SPARKLES—!” The drills had collapsed entirely by now. Bachira, of course, had joined the chaos full throttle—chasing Aoi in circles, juggling balls with Minato, encouraging Sato’s smug commentary like it was gospel. Kiyora, the quiet one, tried to continue running his laps on the far side of the field. He should’ve known better. “Hey,” Aoi said suddenly, blowing her whistle and pointing. “What about him?” Sato squinted. “…Uncle Ghost.” Kiyora nearly tripped mid-step. “…Excuse me?”

“You’re too quiet,” Aoi explained, hands on her hips. “Like you disappear. Ghost.”

“…That’s just rude,” Kiyora muttered, though his ears betrayed faint embarrassment. “Uncle Ghost, Uncle Ghost,” Minato chanted gleefully, waddling after him. Kiyora sighed, resigned. “…Fine.” By now, the entire Bastard München lineup was in shambles. The kids had nicknamed every last one of them, and Bachira was egging it on like a proud uncle. Raichi was still yelling. Kurona was thrilled. Yukimiya maintained calm dignity. Hiori tried not to melt under “Uncle Pretty.” Gagamaru hadn’t let Minato down. Kiyora had accepted his ghostly fate. And Aoi? Aoi blew her whistle one more time, grinning wickedly. “Alright, uncles! New drill: chase me!”
She bolted.

“MINATO TOO!” the toddler shrieked, wriggling free from Gagamaru’s arms and sprinting after her with legs half the length. Sato pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “…Idiots,” before following anyway. And just like that—the entire field dissolved into chaos, Bastard München’s best reduced to chasing three future kids and one grinning Bachira around like it was recess. For everyone on the field? It was the loudest, strangest, happiest training session they’d had in months.

The drills were supposed to be simple. Warm-ups. Passing patterns. Controlled shots. And then Bachira showed up with three kids. Now? The pitch looked less like Bastard München and more like a kindergarten recess during a sugar rush. “Piiiiii!” The shrill whistle cut through the air again, and half the players flinched like they’d been caught offside by God himself. Aoi was sprinting across the cones with her ahoge bouncing wildly, whistle glued to her lips like she was chief referee of the apocalypse. “Uncle Shark! Handball! Yellow card!” she yelled, pointing straight at Kurona.Kurona froze mid-dribble, looking down at his perfectly clean hands. “What? I didn’t even touch it, touch it!”

“Cheater!” she declared, blowing the whistle again. “…You know what, what?” Kurona muttered, running after her with his shark grin sharp and bright. “Fine. You want to play referee? Then dodge this!” He kicked the ball low and fast. Aoi shrieked, cackling as she leapt clear. “Too slow, Uncle Shark!” Sato groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he were forty instead of eight. “You’re enabling her.”

“Enabling what?” Kurona shot back, still chasing. “Her stupidity.”

“HEY!” Aoi snapped, puffing her cheeks. “I’m not stupid! I’m tactical!”