NIKE -Blue Lock-

L'avocat du diable

Ego Jinpachi's pov

Focus.

Stay focused. Focus.

The whistle?
Did they blow the whistle?
Shut up, for fuck's sake.
Whistle—wait for the whistle.

The ball is still motionless at his feet. It's watching me.
The ball wants me.
And I want it too.

Is he keeping it or passing it?

He's keeping it... yeah, yeah, he's keeping it. He's keeping it. Selfish egoist—of course he is.

Shut up. Focus. Don't think.
Did they blow the whistle?
Not yet.

One breath—ignore the pounding heart. My veins tingle, I can feel them. I can feel the blood, the cocaine inside it rushing through the channels, brushing against their walls. Chills.

The heart pumps the blood, the blood shoots into the muscles, and the muscles make me run. My body is perfect.

Perfect...
I need a perfect sequence.

I run.
I stop.
I strike.
I confront.
I sprint.
I dodge.
Right. Left. Right.
I keep running.
I dodge.
I kick.

Goal.

Yes. One at a time.
One at a time.
Alright, good plan. Perfect.

Did they blow the whistle?
Not yet?
Slow. Slow. So slow.
What minute are we in?
It's late.
No, it's still early enough for me to execute the plan.

The plan.
Focus. Yes, good.
Repeat the plan.

I run.
I stop.
I strike.
I confront.
I sprint.
I dodge.
Right. Left. Right.
I keep running.
I dodge.
I kick.

Goal.

Yes, yes, yes.
Everything is right.

My head is throbbing, my skull tightening around my brain. I can feel it—I can feel the uneven membrane pressing against the rigid inside of my cranium.

Focus. Lock onto the target. Shut up.

Target.
Tall.
French.
Yellow eyes.
White hair.
Central forward position.
The ball is right in front of his right foot. He's looking—no, he's looking at me.

Noel Noa.

What the fuck are you looking at?

Bastard. What a bastard. I hate him.
No. Focus.
Target: score a goal.

Goal. Yes, with the plan.

I run.
I stop.
I strike.
I confront.
I sprint.
I dodge.
Right. Left. Right.
I keep running.
I dodge.
I kick.

And goal.
Yes. Yes, this is the right one.

"And it's kickoff for Noel Noa—"

There he is.

Whistle.
Ball struck.
The plan begins.

I run.

In my ears, the pounding of my heart echoes, hardened by the white cocaine I never thought I'd touch in my lifetime.

It's my war drum.
Boom. Boom. Boom—boom—bo—bo—b—
Too fast. Too loud.
I pick up the pace.
It's guiding me.
My heart is guiding me.

I have to keep up with it.
Boom. Boom. Boom—boom—bo—bo—b—

Noa isn't moving at my rhythm.
Slow. Slow. So slow.
He's not in sync with my tempo.
Bastard. Piece of human garbage. He's out of step.
What kind of striker are you?