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CH 19

You lean back in your chair, eyes fixed on the monitor as the players move, their teams already formed and locked in battle. Each one of them is evolving, pushing themselves further.

Narrowing your eyes, you start analyzing.

Tabito Karasu.
A completely cunning man. He knows exactly how to shake his opponent's confidence with just words-his tongue is as sharp as a blade. More importantly, he's smart and calculated. He never moves without a plan, always strategizing his next step before he even takes it.

Ryusei Shidou.
A complete lunatic. Unlike the others who strive to be the best striker, he's only in it for the thrill, the rush of playing. He's reckless, violent, and his personality is straight-up offensive. He always has to pick a fight with someone-physical confrontations are basically his second nature. Teamwork? Forget about it. The guy doesn't even know how to function like a normal human, let alone cooperate with others.

You let out a sigh, rubbing your temples before shifting your gaze to the rest.

One by one, you analyze each player, jotting down notes, observing their strengths, weaknesses, and the way they move on the field.
The more you watch, the clearer the patterns become-their habits, their instincts, the way they react under pressure.

Hours pass, your focus never wavering, until finally, with one last note scribbled down, you lean back and exhale deeply. Stretching your stiff muscles, you grab your notebook and walk over to Ego's desk, dropping it onto the surface with a satisfying thud.

"All done..." you mumble, rolling your shoulders.

After finishing your lunch, you step outside, making your way down the prison-like hallway. Your footsteps echo softly against the cold floor as you move forward, passing door after door-until you finally reach a black one at the end.

Slowly, you push it open.

The moment the door cracks open, a wave of intense heat rushes out, slamming into you like a furnace blast. But you don't flinch. It doesn't bother you. Instead, you step inside, letting the heavy door click shut behind you.

Even the tiles under your feet are burning hot.

The room is dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls, barely allowing you to make out the figure inside. But you don't need to see clearly to know what's happening.

Someone is running-no, sprinting-on the treadmill at an insane speed.

The air in the room is thick, suffocating, weighed down by the raw, almost animalistic aura radiating from them.

The atmosphere feels heavy. Like stepping into the lair of a beast.

You let out a deep sigh, stepping closer until you're right beside his treadmill.

"Oi, Kunigami," you call out, voice firm but calm. "Training's important, but eating is even more important. You gotta refuel, man."

But he doesn't even flinch. He doesn't slow down. If anything, he pushes himself harder, his legs hammering against the belt like a machine that refuses to break.

Your eyes lock onto his face. Veins bulge against his skin, pulsing with raw intensity. His breath is sharp, ragged, like a beast on the verge of snapping its chains.

Sweat drips from his jaw, soaking through his Blue Lock jersey, clinging to his body like a second skin. The heat in the room is suffocating, but it doesn't seem to faze him.

And his eyes-those wild, untamed eyes-are burning.

Like a predator locked onto its next kill.