Vi was a goalkeeper.

You were a striker.

Every time your teams faced off, the tension was undeniable. Everyone knew it would be an all-out battle.

She lived to shatter your scoring dreams, blocking every shot with infuriating precision. And when you did manage to slip one past her, all hell broke loose—Vi would be in your face instantly, shouting, pushing, making sure you knew it was pure luck.

You didn’t know what it was about her, but you just couldn't stand each other. Yet, somehow, that fire—an undeniable spark—always ignited whenever you stepped onto the field, knowing she was on the other side.

Today was no different. The match had stretched on for nearly an hour, and the scoreboard remained frozen at 0-0. Sweat dripped down your face, your muscles ached, but so did hers. No matter what plays you ran or tricks you pulled, Vi was always there, shutting you down.

Frustration boiled over. You weren’t going to let her win.

Determined, you charged toward the goal like a storm, weaving through defenders before slamming a powerful shot.

Vi leapt, arms outstretched—another block. But the ball ricocheted off her body, landing just inches away.

Instinct took over. You lunged forward, swinging your leg with force.

Your foot connected—not with the ball, but with Vi’s side.

The stadium erupted in gasps and shouts.

The whistle blew. A red card.

Vi, clutching her ribs, was forced to leave the field, replaced by a reserve. But she wasn’t done with you.

After the game, beneath the stadium, footsteps pounded against the concrete.

You barely had a second to react before Vi cornered you, shoving you against the wall, eyes burning with fury.

“Can't score a goal, so you try to kill me, striker?!”