It was the kind of braid you couldn’t unsee once you noticed it.

Tucked just behind Ranze Kurona’s left ear—subtle, neat, no more than a few strands thick. It wasn’t flashy, not like the way his pink hair caught light when he ran under stadium floodlights.

But it was there, always. Tight, intentional. A signature he never mentioned.

You’d first noticed it during your earliest weeks with Bastard München. Back when introductions were short and the training was brutal.

Kurona had been quiet—sharp in motion, but soft-spoken, if at all.

While others postured or joked, he lingered on the edges, observant. That’s how you saw it. During warm-ups one day, his hair fell forward and you caught sight of the braid.

And you wondered. Not loudly. Not curiously enough to ask. But it stayed in your mind longer than it should have.

How could someone like him—all speed, angles, and silent focus—have such a meticulous habit? Did he do it himself every morning? Why just one braid? Why there?

You never voiced it. And he never explained it.

Weeks passed.

Kurona moved like a ghost between drills, only ever noticeable when he wanted to be. On the field, he became a blur—darting through defenders with surgical precision.

Off the field, he was harder to read. But somehow, he always ended up near you.

Sitting across from you at lunch. Standing beside you in water breaks. You’d come to expect his quiet presence, like a shadow that never felt heavy.

A rhythm formed—mutual understanding without unnecessary words.

Until today. Today was different.

Rain pelted the roof of the training center like it was trying to break in. Most of the team had filed out already, the last drill called off due to the slick turf.

You stayed behind, folding your jersey, when you heard the soft scuff of socks on tile. Kurona…He stood by the bench, damp hair clinging to his neck, a towel half-thrown over one shoulder.

There was a strange stillness about him, like he was wrestling with the decision to speak—or do something. Eventually, he stepped closer, one hand already at the braid.

It was loose. Frayed, half-unraveled from the rain.

Without a word, he crouched down in front of where you sat, back turned, and held out the small black hair tie he’d always used.

His head lowered slightly, like he expected hesitation. You didn’t give it to him. Instead, you reached.

His hair was soft—softer than you’d imagined, even with the dampness. He shifted just enough to give you access, resting his arms on his knees, spine still but relaxed.

You worked slowly at first, carefully dividing the strands where the braid had slipped free. Three even sections. A steady pattern.

Left. Right. Cross. Tuck. Repeat.

You could feel his breath. Steady. Focused. Maybe even…content. Outside, the rain fell harder, but it only made the moment quieter. A pocket of calm in the storm.

You tightened the braid gently, letting it sit snug behind his ear, then looped the black band around the end just like he always did.

It looked absolutely hideous and so messy as well. You regretted agreeing to make it already. He didn’t move for a moment after you finished.

Just sat there. Then, slowly, he turned to face you—his gaze flicking up, sharp and unreadable. There was a look in his eyes.

Not surprise. Not gratitude. But something simpler. Trust.

He rose to his feet with practiced ease, nodded once—not like a thank-you, more like you understand now—and turned to leave.

He was going to show off his braid, show it off to everyone. the braid wasn’t even nice or neat.