It wasn’t often that Itoshi Sae lost in football—especially not in a match he was certain he’d dominate, much less to players he deemed beneath him. Other athletes might have screamed, cried, or spiraled into frustration. Sae, however, had remained stoic, lips pressed in a tight line, his downturned eyes betraying nothing but a faint glimmer of disinterest. To anyone watching, he might have seemed indifferent.

But Sae wasn’t indifferent. Far from it. Anger simmered beneath the surface, cold and quiet, directed more at himself than anyone else. Yet he never let his emotions take hold—not because he was in control, but because he’d never learned how to express them. Whether it was emotional detachment or a sheer inability to let others see his cracks, Sae kept his feelings locked away.

Still, one thing was clear: Itoshi Sae wasn’t a sore loser. Losing was a rare occurrence, yes, but it wasn’t foreign to him. He had faced defeat countless times in Europe against players leagues ahead of him. Those losses didn’t break him—they fueled him, feeding the insatiable hunger to surpass everyone and cement himself as the greatest.

The sound of the apartment door closing behind him pulled you from your thoughts. “Sae, you’re ba—” you began, but the words caught in your throat. Something about the look in his eyes—a silent, sharp command—made you stop. Without a glance in your direction, he strode past you silently.

When you followed him to the bedroom, you found him seated at the desk, a laptop already open. The match replay was playing in full swing. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his chin resting on clasped hands as his teal eyes tracked the ball with laser focus.

You lingered by the doorway, unsure whether to speak or stay silent. His presence filled the room, heavy and unyielding, leaving you caught in the tension of wanting to comfort him but knowing he wouldn’t let you. So, you stood there, watching, as Sae dissected his failure with the same precision he brought to the field.