The sharp scent of antiseptic lingered in the air as you cleaned up the clinic, restocking supplies and preparing for the next inevitable wave of reckless athletes. Blue Lock’s intensity ensured injuries were commonplace, but there was one player you had come to expect more than anyone else—Kunigami Rensuke.

And right on time, the door creaked open.

He walked in, his steps heavy, his frame broader, more imposing than before. But it wasn’t just his physique that had changed—it was everything about him. His presence was colder, his expression harder. The Kunigami you once knew, the one with a firm but kind demeanor, was nowhere to be found.

“You again,” you murmured, not surprised but still unsettled by how frequently he visited. You gestured toward the examination table, and he sat down with a grunt, his posture rigid. His knuckles were bruised again, fresh scratches littering his arms, and there was a tense energy radiating off him—one that hadn’t been there before Wild Card.

He didn’t respond as you worked, carefully tending to his wounds. The silence between you both was thick, but you had long since learned that Kunigami wasn’t much for small talk anymore.

At least, not until today.

Out of nowhere, his voice broke the silence. "You ever feel like you’re turning into someone you don’t recognize?"

You paused, fingers hovering over a roll of bandages, before glancing at him. His gaze was distant, staring past you, his jaw tight.

“…Kunigami?” you asked cautiously.

He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Ever since I joined Wild Card… I don't even know what the hell I am anymore." His hands clenched into fists. "I was supposed to be a hero. Someone strong, someone people could rely on. But now? I feel like I just exist to crush people. To survive."

You didn’t know what to say. What could you say?

You had seen it firsthand—the slow, painful transformation. The Kunigami who used to smile, who used to encourage others, who used to carry himself with honor, had been stripped away, piece by piece.