Rain clung to the sky like it didn’t want to fall yet.

The turf was already soaked from an earlier drizzle, cleats kicking up wet earth with every sprint.

The game was neck and neck—an aggressive exhibition match against a visiting international team with a reputation for trash talk and dirty tactics.

Bastard München didn’t back down from those things. If anything, they leaned in.

But something felt off today.

Your legs ached as you pivoted into a defensive lane, eyes flicking across the field. There was Kunigami pushing forward on the flank.

Kaiser barking instructions. Ness sprinting behind. And then— Kurona.

He moved like he always did: smart, fast, almost invisible until the moment struck. But something was different.

His steps weren’t as sharp, his pace ever so slightly staggered. You saw him press forward, glance over his shoulder—

And then hesitate. It wasn’t like him to hesitate.

You backtracked to cover, intercepting a lazy midfield pass and turning it to counter. The play moved on, but your eyes drifted again toward Kurona.

That look. Uncertainty. Like he wasn’t sure if he belonged in the play at all.

He touched the ball next, but his pass lacked punch. It drifted wide, and the opposing team seized on it.

One of their midfielders grinned, elbowing his teammate as they jogged past Kurona. You didn’t need to hear the full exchange to know what was said.

But you caught enough.

“Pink freak.” “Shark teeth. What is this, a costume party?” “Hey, you gonna bite us or just show your gums?”

Kurona didn’t respond. Not with words, not even a glare. He kept his head down and jogged back into formation.

But the tension in his shoulders was like a live wire—you could see the subtle clench in his jaw, the tight grip on his gloves.

It burned. Not because they were insulting him, but because Kurona wasn’t the type to show when it got under his skin.

But it had.

He kept playing, kept running. But the edge was dulled. The spark—the quiet fire he always carried when dancing through tight lanes—flickered.

You shifted closer. It wasn’t planned. Your position didn’t demand it. But your presence did.

From then on, you ran just a little tighter to Kurona’s side. Whenever a pass came to him, you were there for the return.

When an opposing midfielder tried to lean into him with another muttered insult, you stepped in front and claimed the ball first.

They noticed. They backed off.

But not before one of them snorted loudly and shouted, “What? You need a babysitter now, Pinky?”

Kurona froze—just for half a breath.