Chapter Text
The grass glistened under the short afternoon sun, punctuated by long shadows. It was an official scrimmage—half the Neo-Egoist League team against their rivals. Amidst the staged training sessions and the subdued cheering, something was different: Rin Itoshi would be playing as the starting center forward. And, for some reason no one could quite explain, every detail about him seemed to matter.
Isagi was on the field, on the defensive line. He wasn't just an opponent that afternoon; he was the point of comparison. Every step Rin took was a lesson, and Isagi opened his eyes to learn. He observed his posture, his weight shift, the way Rin deceived his marker without even looking: a shoulder movement, a three-step sprint, and there was no more space. Isagi felt his stomach clench—not only from being dribbled past, but from the feeling that there was a logic to it that he didn't yet understand.
Barou was on the opposing team's bench, his jaw tense. When Rin received the ball and made that first sharp shot—not for the goal, but to reorganize the game—Barou gritted his teeth. He didn't like seeing anyone so controlled. Every touch from Rin was an affront to his own brutal way of dominating. Barou's reaction was visceral: he stood up, ready to go in, like a predator that senses blood in the water.
Chigiri occupied the side corridor, his left foot bandaged, ready to enter as a winger. When Rin released a short feint and turned his body as if it were a blade, Chigiri had an almost imperceptible sob. It was a mixture of fear and beauty—and at the same time an urgency that made him wish for more playing time just to cross paths with that movement again.
Nagi was leaning against the fence, his expression impassive, but his hands didn't stop following the trajectory of the ball. When Rin sped off in a run that left two defenders behind, Nagi murmured something like "Interesting," but his eyes betrayed something different: the boredom had vanished for precious minutes.
Sae Itoshi stayed out of direct view, observing from the technical annex. Each of Rin's cuts, each decision not to pass the ball, reminded Sae of a strategy that existed before his brother became a legend: total control, calculated sacrifice. There was guilt in the way Sae's chest tightened—guilt and an admiration he pretended not to have.
In the corner of the field, Charles Chavier held a sketchbook and had already begun to scribble. For him, everything there was composition: the curve of Rin's shirt, the almost impossible balance of a body in acceleration, the light clinging to the working muscles. When Rin received the ball behind the defensive line and, in a clean turn, touched the ball with his heel for the run that opened the fatal pass, Charles thought of ink. It was the perfect scene: the movement was not only efficient, it was sculpture in motion — destructive in its precision, beautiful in its intention. He wanted to capture that instantaneous gesture before it became a memory.
Loki watched with the calm of someone noting probabilities. "Reaction time, acceleration variation," he murmured. For him, Rin was a living experiment, and that match was a set of moving data. But even Loki, analytical to the core, let out a tiny nod when Rin disarmed two opponents with the same touch that Charles had just drawn in his mind.
Bunny taunted from the stands, the ball bouncing off his foot nonstop, a wide smile on his face. “This boy plays with death,” he commented in Spanish, and in his tone there was more admiration than any provocation. Otoya, leaning against the wall, chuckled softly—amused to see which of those boys would break first before the enigma that was Rin.
Kaiser and Ness were close to each other: Kaiser was acting theatrically, but Ness observed with restrained devotion. When Rin performed a body reversal that nullified the opponent's pressure line, Ness squeezed his fingertips as if praying for it. It was a wordless adoration, and Kaiser noticed—and smiled inwardly, wishing to conquer this untouched figure as well.
Karasu and Hiori remained in the stands like shadows. Karasu had a half-smile; he recognized the emptiness that Rin radiated, and therefore knew the danger of getting too close. Hiori took notes, focused, but there was meticulous attention in his gaze—a kind of silent recognition: Rin was someone who carried a fine line between brilliance and ruin.
Bachira ran along the side of the inner court, thrilled by the improvisation. When Rin, face to face with the goalkeeper, made a move that seemed to deny his own goal—he sprinted to the left, stopped, looked the marker in the eyes and, instead of shooting, returned the ball with a reverse pass for his teammate's run—Bachira clapped with pure enthusiasm. That wasn't just skill; it was the play of an artist who broke rules for pleasure.
Yukimiya, always theatrical, made an expression that could only be defined as aesthetic ecstasy. Nanase, more reserved, held Rin's gaze for a second longer than usual—as if touching something that already belonged to him.
Shidou and Reo, positioned for pressure, exchanged a brief glance. Reo was uncomfortable; Shidou, excited by the battle unfolding. When Rin dribbled the ball in a sequence of quick touches—three touches on the line of the first marker, a backheel to escape the second, and then the final explosion—the human audience around reacted as one: those who loved violently roared; those who admired with devotion were breathless.
In that final play, the ball ended up at Rin's feet inside the area. The goalkeeper came out at the wrong time, time seemed stretched. Rin didn't shoot as expected. Instead, he slowed down, touched the ball sideways as if painting the scene, and there—there—the ball passed between the defender's legs and found the chest of his teammate who came empty to push it into the goal. The sound of the impact on the net was small compared to the silence that followed: it was the beauty of the gesture that made beauty out of evil.
After the goal, there were applause, scattered words, some frustrated curses, and a certainty that spread: something about Rin wasn't just skill; it was a conscious choice to extract from the game something that could both hurt and enchant at the same time. The performance wasn't just technical—it was performative and calculated, as if each movement held its own language for anyone who wanted to learn.
Charles closed the block for a moment, looking at the scene as if he had witnessed an embroidery being done with feet. Hiori crossed his arms, thoughtful. Barou cursed through his teeth—wishing for more direct confrontation. Isagi took a deep breath, his eyes shining with a curiosity that was no longer just tactical. Sae remained with a stiff mouth, and yet, there was something almost like relief after the goal: the confirmation that his brother still had something intact, however painful it might be.
Rin walked back, his expression as impenetrable as ever, sweat dripping but his composure intact. He didn't celebrate. He didn't need to. The match was what he had celebrated — and the others, in different ways, began to understand that that celebration wasn't just about a goal. It was about what he did with the game and with those around him.
In the tunnel, quick footsteps. Low voices — whispers that were promises and plans. The game was over, but the real match, the one played outside the ball, had just begun.