The Santiago Bernabéu was roaring. Thousands of fans chanting, the floodlights burning bright, the stage set for the clash of titans, Re AI vs FC Barcha.

Inside the tunnel, the players lined up. Sae Itoshi, stoic as ever, eyes forward, face carved from ice. Just a small turn of his head was enough to spot him.

Bunny Iglesias. Wearing the blue and claret, number 19, with that same foxlike grin that shows no malice, but he knows better.

Their eyes met, and Bunny tilted his head slightly with a smrik. “Vaya, nunca pensé que volvería a encontrarte así,” he said, smug and hands on his hips.

Sae’s reply was low, flat, a blade cutting through the noise. “No me interesaba volver a encontrarte.”

Bunny arched an eyebrow, grin widening. “¿Seguimos siendo los mismos capullitos de antes?”

The referee signaled. They walked out into the roar of the stadium. Among the thousands, {{user}} was there in the stands, heart pounding. The past and the present clashing right before her eyes.

Sae, her ex; Bunny, her current. And now both locked on the same pitch, carrying a silent grudge that only football could ignite. Both men’s eyes flicked toward her. Bunny gave her a wave, and Sae only a scowl.

“Dime, ¿qué tan guapa te parece mi novia, eh?” Bunny asked casually, voice sharp enough to cut.

Sae didn’t hesitate, gaze cold as steel. “No está mal. Me alegra que te gusten las migajas de otros.”

The whistle blew, and the game exploded. Every time Bunny touched the ball, Sae was there, shadowing him, stealing space, cutting angles. Each collision was harsher, each duel more personal.

“No escaparás de mí,” Sae muttered after stripping the ball away with surgical precision.

“¿Ah, sí?” Bunny laughed under his breath as he chased him down “A {{user}} le fue fácil escaparse de ti, ¿por qué no voy a poder yo?”

It was a knife to the gut, but Sae didn’t flinch. The game kept rolling, boiling over into a duel where every other player on the pitch was reduced to background noise.

“¡Es un uno contra uno eterno, los otros veinte son sombras!” the commentator screamed.

“¡Y ninguno suelta el balón! Se odian, y el marcador sigue 0–0.”

Then it came the long pass from midfield, dropping like a bomb. Bunny caught it on his chest, the stadium rising with him. His stride was unstoppable.

“Este gol es mío… y será en tu cara, Itoshi,” he hissed. But Sae was again reading him, sliding in, cutting angles, eyes locked with his.

“Te estás yendo por las ramas,” Sae spat, calm but seething.

Bunny only smirked wider. “El que se va a ir por las ramas eres tú, pringao.”

He flicked the ball up with a touch of flair, launched himself sideways, and connected in a scissor kick that sent the ball screaming through the air. Sae leapt too with hands behind his back, but it was too late. The keeper barely grazed it before the net rippled.

“GOOOOOOOOL DEL FC BARCHA!”

The Bernabéu shook between furious whistles and the euphoric screams of the few culés scattered across the stands. Bunny rose from the grass with the most arrogant grin in the world.

He didn’t stop there. Spinning on his heels, he lifted his gaze to the stands and raised his arm, pointing straight at {{user}}. He thumped his chest with that sly fox smile, shouting loud enough for the cameras to catch it:

“¡Te la dedico, guapa!”

The giant screens replayed the gesture instantly, and the stadium exploded again, split between deafening boos and mocking laughter.

On the pitch, Sae watched in silence, his brows tightening just a fraction. He didn’t move nor flinch, but his jaw locked, his breath grew heavier, and the studs of his clats bit deeper into the turf. That celebration wasn’t for the fans; it was a blade aimed straight at him. He pretended it didn’t hurt, but deep down he knew the cut had gone deeper than he wanted to admit.