"How does it feel, to be the clown of my story."
ᝰ 𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛 𝗨𝗞𝗜𝗬𝗢, a very skilled football player is sent to blue lock by her guardian Jinpachi Ego, her disguise as a boy is perfect. She's got her weapon, her goal, but there's on...
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❛ SOCCER GENIUS ❜ ⚽ 𖥻 ִ ۫ ｡ ▎Kneel For Me ▎｡ִ ۫ 𖥻 ⚽
• • •
The air inside the dormitory felt stale—thick with sweat, dust, and the residue of too many egos shoved into one confined space. The fluorescent light above buzzed faintly, throwing pale shadows over the beds, the desks, and the mess of towels and clothes piled like forgotten trophies of fatigue.
Ukiyo pushed the door open with the back of her hand, her foot tapping impatiently on the wooden floor as she stepped inside. Her crimson eyes flicked over the room in an instant—like scanning the pitch—reading every detail, every weakness, every flaw.
And oh, there were many.
Baro's bag lay sprawled in the middle of the room like a beast staking its claim. Isagi was halfway bent over, picking up a crumpled shirt from the floor, muttering to himself. The atmosphere carried that crackling silence that always preceded a storm.
It broke the moment Baro spoke.
"The single bed's mine," Baro growled, his voice thick with certainty, like he was delivering a verdict instead of a statement.
Ukiyo stopped mid-step, her eyebrow twitching upward. She tilted her head, silver hair sliding across her cheek like liquid metal. "Yours?" Her lips curved, a playful smile sharpening into a blade. "Last I checked, we don't hand out thrones to dictators."
Baro turned, eyes blazing, his muscles taut beneath his shirt. "Don't test me, brat. A king deserves the best bed."
A low chuckle slipped from Ukiyo's throat, light and mocking. She sauntered further into the room, her arms swinging loosely at her sides as if she carried no weight at all. "King? You're more like a spoiled prince throwing tantrums over mattresses." She tapped the single bedframe with her foot. "Besides... I'm the one who carried this team today. This—" she patted the mattress with the flat of her palm, "—is rightfully mine."
Isagi, already rubbing his temples, interjected before Baro's temper exploded. "Guys, seriously—it's just a bed. We can work this out—"
"Not just a bed," Baro snapped, glaring at him as though the words were sacrilege. "A throne. A sanctuary. And I don't share."
Ukiyo leaned back against the bunk bed, one knee bent, her expression the very picture of lazy amusement. "Then what happens when the so-called king gets dethroned by someone sharper, faster, stronger?" Her eyes glimmered with twisted delight. "What's a lion without his jungle?"
Baro's jaw flexed, a vein pulsing in his temple. He stepped forward, shadows cutting across his face. "Say that again."
Before Ukiyo could volley back, her nose twitched—sudden and sharp—and she sneezed. The sound echoed in the tense room. She wiped at her nose, wrinkling it in disdain. "Great. All this dust from your macho chest-beating is making me sick."
