Room assignments at Blue Lock weren’t up for discussion. You didn’t ask for Michael Kaiser. No one in their right mind would.

But he had the biggest room—some kind of absurd reward from Ego for being the so-called “Emperor” of the field. It wasn’t just a dorm; it was a loft. Two floors, sleek walls, oversized windows, even a private bathroom.

You were told to “appreciate the opportunity.”

You didn’t appreciate much about it. Least of all, the person you had to live with.

Michael Kaiser was chaos. Shiny, golden-haired, loud-mouthed, and completely allergic to the concept of personal space.

You learned that within the first day of sharing the room.

He walked around shirtless constantly. He draped his wet towels on your desk chair. He played music at ungodly hours with no headphones.

And worst of all? He acted like you weren’t even there.

You set up your little corner of the room—top bunk of the ridiculous duplex bed Ego had installed (Kaiser claimed the bottom, of course).

You folded your clothes neatly, kept your things organized, and used the bathroom on a tight schedule to avoid awkward encounters.

But “awkward” didn’t even begin to describe what happened that evening. You’d just finished a brutal set of conditioning drills.

Every muscle in your body ached. The water pressure in the shared dorm showers was garbage, so you made a beeline for the private bathroom in your room while Kaiser was off at tactical review with Ness.

Steam rose around you. The hot water soothed everything—the soreness, the tension, the entire week of frustration living beside a walking, talking ego trip. You let yourself relax.

Until the door opened. And he walked in. No knocking.No announcement.

Just the Emperor himself, humming some half-finished tune, phone in one hand, and a water bottle in the other.

You froze. He didn’t.

He walked three steps in, paused, then tilted his head lazily toward the sound of the running water and the vague blur of your silhouette behind the fogged-up glass of the shower door.

A beat passed. Then he raised an eyebrow—like you were the one interrupting him. “Oh,” he said casually. “Didn’t think you’d still be in here.”

You reached for the towel on instinct, the rage coming in hot behind your mortified silence. He didn’t leave.

Instead, he leaned against the sink, completely unbothered, eyes wandering the shelves like he was looking for mouthwash. He found it. Uncapped it. Took a swig.

Still not gone. The audacity.

Eventually, you slid open the shower door just enough to hurl the bar of soap in his direction. It missed by a mile but landed with a crack against the tile.

That finally got his attention. Kaiser turned his head, looked at the soap, then at you. “Ohhh,” he said again, slow and exaggerated. “So now you care about boundaries?”

He grinned. Like this was funny. Like this wasn’t a massive invasion of privacy and the clearest example of “What Not to Do as a Human Being 101.”

But before you could respond—not that you would—he finally backed out of the bathroom, still laughing under his breath.

“Relax,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

The door shut. Steam and silence returned. You stared at the tiles for a long moment, torn between boiling fury and stunned disbelief.

Later that night, you found a note taped to your side of the bunk ladder.

“My bad. Next time I’ll knock. Or maybe I’ll just install curtains in the bathroom. Privacy is an illusion anyway. – K”

You crumpled it.