It began like most things in Blue Lock: with a goal.

Yours.

It wasn’t just the fact that you’d scored—it was how you did it. A feint, a backheel, and a volley with your non-dominant foot.

The kind of play that shut the field up mid-game and made even the cameras pause. Kaiser had stopped mid-run, eyes narrowing, not at the ball—but at you.

From that day on, Alexis Ness never left you alone. It started small.

At first, it was a glance in the hallway. Then, on-field during drills, you caught him watching you—not just in a casual way, but with analytical hunger.

Like he was dissecting every movement of your legs, every twitch of your shoulders. You didn’t think much of it.

But then he started talking.

“Your turn radius on the left side… it’s different than the right. Do you shift your weight inward when you pivot?”

You didn’t answer.

The next day.

“You don’t use power for long-range. It’s timing, right? The drop-step—do you time your breath with the swing?”

Still no answer. It didn’t stop him. Ness had a problem. And it was you. Not because he hated you. Not because he wanted to ruin you.

But because you didn’t make sense.

You were too good. Too calm. Too hard to read. Not chaotic like Kaiser. Not driven by desperate ego like most others. Just efficient.

And that terrified him.

Because Ness had always believed in structures. In kings and knights. In patterns and devotion. But you—you had no throne. You didn’t need one.

And somehow, that made you more dangerous. He tried watching your practice footage at night. Tried copying your drills in the mirror of his dorm.

Tried tracing your passing angles into his notebooks, but they didn’t feel right. They weren’t his. They weren’t Kaiser’s. They were something else. Something alien.

He needed to understand you. Then came the confrontation.

You were sitting alone after evening training, wiping sweat from your jaw with a towel, when Ness slid in front of you—breathless, flushed, frustrated.

“You’re hiding something.” You didn’t reply.

“You don’t play like anyone else here. Not like Rin, not like Isagi, not even Kaiser. It’s like… you’re playing a different game entirely.”

You stood up, ready to leave. He blocked your path.

“I’m serious.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Tell me—how do you see it? The field. The players. The game. Just tell me why you’re like this—why you move the way you do.”

There was desperation behind the irritation. It wasn’t hatred. It was awe he didn’t know how to carry.