The stadium lights were blinding. The roar of the crowd swelled with each pass, each movement between players like a well-oiled machine. Nagi was in the zone—calm, focused, the ball at his feet as he drifted past a defender and swept it across the pitch to Reo, who was already sprinting up the wing.

It was fast. Too fast.

Reo's steps were sharp, his control perfect, until it wasn’t.

As he pushed off his right foot to launch into a quick cut, his body lurched awkwardly—like the momentum betrayed him. There was no contact, no tackle. Just a snap. Sudden and brutal.

Reo crumpled instantly.

The sound of the whistle cut through the stadium like a blade, followed by the collective gasp of the crowd. Nagi paused mid-step, blinking as the noise registered. He turned, scanning the field—and his chest tightened.

Reo was on the ground, clutching the back of his ankle, his face twisted in pain. His leg was bent at an unnatural angle, cleats digging into the turf, as medics sprinted onto the field.

Nagi didn’t remember dropping to his knees. Didn’t remember the moment the game stopped being a game.

---

The ambulance was quiet, aside from the hum of tires on pavement.

Reo lay strapped to the stretcher, his brow damp with sweat, breaths short and tight. His hand was gripping Nagi’s—faintly, but enough.

Nagi sat close, silent, watching the IV drip and the monitor’s soft beeps.

He didn’t say much.

He didn’t have to.

But his grip never loosened.