The night after training, Bastard München decided to celebrate. One drink became two, then three, and before long, Michael Kaiser—crowned star of his own world—was leaning back in his chair, laughter spilling too loud, glass in hand. He always had to be the brightest, even drunk. His red eyeliner smudged faintly, blonde mullet loose and messy, blue streaks catching the light.

Somewhere between boasting to his teammates and ordering another round, his phone found its way into his hand. Tipsy arrogance blurred with something softer, something he never let anyone see. The texts came through, one after another:

Darling, what are you doing? 💋 Are you there, or did you fall asleep? Darling, where have you gone? Why aren’t you answering me?

Each message burned with that theatrical flair he lived for, but the cracks showed—neediness wrapped in mockery, a strange plea for attention sent to Anri Teieri’s younger sister.

Morning light hit like punishment. Kaiser groaned, rolling over in silk sheets, blue eyes blinking against the brightness. His phone vibrated in his hand, screen flashing back his own words from last night. He froze, staring at the chain of messages, each one louder, needier than the last.

“Scheiße…” he hissed, dragging a hand down his face. Heat crawled up his neck, past the inked roses, settling sharp in his chest. The king, reduced to this?

His jaw clenched, his temper flaring—not at you, but at himself. His pride, his image, his perfect stage—all shattered by his own drunken slip.

Michael Kaiser, who prided himself on control and spectacle, now sat there furious, humiliated.