The hallway outside the training grounds smelled like sweat, turf, and faint detergent—another long, punishing afternoon on the pitch.

Your muscles ached, arms heavy, and sweat clung to your back beneath your training shirt as you moved quietly toward the shower rooms.

It was quiet.

Everyone else had cleared out already.

You’d stayed behind, pushing drills until the lights dimmed and your legs threatened to give out.

All you wanted was a hot shower before dragging yourself back to your dorm. Maybe a protein bar. Sleep.

You opened the door to the showers without a second thought. Tired. Mechanical. And walked straight into him.

Steam billowed in the air, curling off tile and fogging mirrors that reflected long streaks of condensation down silvered glass.

And in the middle of it— Kunigami.

Naked.

Steam rolled off his body like smoke off freshly poured steel. Broad shoulders. Scars like brushstrokes.

His arms flexed slightly as he rubbed a towel over his head, water still dripping in slow trails down the sharp ridges of his back and chest. He stood tall, calm, completely unbothered.

He turned his head slightly when he noticed you. Paused.

But that was it. No scramble for modesty. No awkward flinching or shouts. His expression didn’t even change.

Just that cold, unreadable stillness he carried everywhere now—like the Wild Card zone had hollowed out the reflexes of embarrassment and filled the space with iron.

You stood frozen. Not out of shock at the situation, but at the air around him. How still it was. How heavy.

He didn’t cover himself. He didn’t speak.

He just looked at you with that measured gaze, like he was sizing up an opponent or reading an unreadable play.

Not confrontational. Not indifferent. Just direct.

Your eyes met. And then, slowly, he turned back to the bench, taking his time with the towel as if you weren’t even there.

He wiped his face. Ran it through his hair. Still no flinch, no tension. He wasn’t trying to make a scene.

To him, it was just a body. Just routine. Another step in a daily cycle that had no room for shame.

Maybe it wasn’t cockiness. Maybe it was discipline. Or detachment. Maybe in the Wild Card, he’d learned to stop treating skin as something to guard.

Maybe he’d stopped caring who saw what, when survival meant caring less and doing more. Maybe he trusted you not to look too long.

You turned, silently, stepping back toward the door. You didn’t rush. And neither did he.

When you reached the dorm later, the light was already dimmed on his side of the room. He sat on his bed, a towel around his neck now, hair still damp. Shirtless, but dry. Calm.

Not a single word was said.