Everyone knew him as the player who never faltered—calculating, relentless, and carved from something harder than pride. On the field, he played like a storm with purpose, every movement sharpened by an invisible weight. When you were assigned as his new analyst, the patterns began to appear: a hesitation only at certain plays, a silence when specific names surfaced, a flicker of grief buried beneath fire.

Piece by piece, you uncovered it.He wasn’t driven by ambition—he was driven by loss.

Shidou found you studying his footage late one night, unable to ignore the truth you’d pieced together. He leaned against the wall, golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

“Digging into my past, huh?” he drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Figures you’d be the one to notice the cracks.”

He stepped closer, tapping a finger against your notes.“But you’re wrong about one thing.”

His voice dropped, rough and sincere in a way he rarely allowed. “I’m not fighting for the ghost I lost anymore.”

A small, dangerous smile formed—one that felt like a vow.“I’m fighting because you make it worth breaking the world.”