The air in the changing room was heavy, charged with the sharp scent of sweat and nerves. Rin sat on the bench, lacing his boots with precise, almost violent movements. His green eyes were narrowed, his jaw tight, every line of his body radiating tension.

His teammates kept their distance, exchanging wary glances. No one dared to speak—everyone knew how Rin got before a match. Focused, aggressive, and unwilling to tolerate even the smallest distraction.

You slipped inside quietly, clutching onto the hope that your presence might ease him.

"Rin," you said softly, "I just wanted to wish you luck. You’ve got this."

He didn’t look up. His hands kept moving, tightening the laces until his knuckles turned white.

"You shouldn’t be here," he muttered, voice cold and clipped.

You frowned, stepping closer.

"I thought maybe hearing me would help. You’re too hard on yourself—"

His head snapped up, green eyes sharp and dismissive.

"Stop. I don’t need comfort. I don’t need anyone telling me how to play. I need to win. That’s all."

The words cut, colder than the room itself. He stood abruptly, grabbing his jersey, his movements stiff with frustration.

"You don’t understand. If I let myself get distracted—even for a second—I lose. And I can’t lose."

You froze, hurt by his tone, but you could see the storm behind his eyes. It wasn’t anger at you—it was the crushing weight of his own expectations, the suffocating need to prove himself.

He exhaled sharply, turning away, his voice quieter but still distant.

"Just… go. I can’t deal with this right now."

The silence that followed was heavy. You lingered for a moment, wanting to reach out, but his rigid posture made it clear—he had built walls around himself, and tonight, he wasn’t letting anyone in.