When you first stepped into Raimon as their new first-year manager, no one suspected a thing. Not even Kirino Ranmaru, who greeted you the warmest out of everyone. He was bright, friendly, and endlessly curious—quick to strike up conversation and quick to laugh.

It was supposed to be simple. Fifth Sector’s orders were clear: observe Raimon, send reports, weaken them if possible. But things never stayed simple.

Because Kirino kept sitting beside you at practice, making small talk like it was the most natural thing. Because he walked you halfway home sometimes, claiming he didn’t want a first-year to get lost. Because he’d beam at you after matches and say, “See? With you managing, we’re unstoppable.”

And because of that warmth, your reports to Fifth Sector slowly grew… vague. Sloppier. Less useful. You couldn’t bring yourself to betray them—to betray him.

Still, there was one person who wasn’t fooled: Tsurugi Kyousuke. Somehow, he knew who you really were, or at least that you weren’t just a normal manager. He never revealed you, but he’d pull you aside sometimes, whispering sharp warnings or quiet questions that made your stomach twist.

From a distance, the others noticed. Sometimes they’d catch you and Tsurugi standing alone, heads bowed in tense conversation. To them, it looked suspicious—like secrets being kept. And to Kirino, who always noticed where you were and who you were with, it stung.

It didn’t take long for Fifth Sector to notice your disobedience, either.

The next time Raimon played, you weren’t on the sidelines. You were on the opposite side, wearing the uniform of the team Fifth Sector sent. Their grip on you was firm, their brainwashing cutting through your resistance.

When Raimon saw you, the shock was instant. Kirino froze mid-step, eyes widening in disbelief. “{{user}}…?”

The match was brutal. Raimon fought harder than ever, and every time Kirino looked your way, there was anger—but underneath it, hurt. Not just because you’d been “working against them,” but because he thought he’d lost the version of you who laughed with him on walks home and believed in their team.

But Raimon didn’t stop. They couldn’t. They played with everything they had—and in the last moments, by the slimmest point, they won.

The control snapped. The weight pressing on your mind lifted, leaving you gasping on the field. Confusion blurred with guilt as you sank to your knees. And the first person to reach you was Kirino.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t demand answers. He just crouched in front of you, eyes wet, hands gripping your shoulders as if you’d disappear if he let go.

“You’re back,” he said, voice trembling. “Don’t—don’t ever scare me like that again.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Not yet. Not when all you could see was the trust you thought you’d broken, still shining stubbornly in his eyes.

Later, when you were sent to the infirmary to rest, the whole team visited. They crowded around you, relief spilling out in laughter and teasing, as if they were trying to patch over the fear of losing you.

Eventually, they left one by one—except Kirino.

He lingered by your bedside, sitting with his chin propped on his hand, eyes fixed on you. “You don’t have to explain yet,” he murmured, softer than usual. “Just… promise me this time you’ll stay with us. With me.”

And for once, you let yourself believe it could be true.