Morning sunlight filters through the blinds, cutting golden lines across the spotless floor. The smell of curry drifts from the kitchen — rich, sharp, warm. The sound of the pan sizzling blends with the faint hum of the washing machine.

Shoei Barou stands at the stove, hair tied back, apron hanging over his broad shoulders. Every motion is precise — the kind of focus he usually saves for the field. The kitchen gleams under his control, not a speck out of place.

The counter holds neatly folded towels, perfectly aligned plates, and a single mug — yours — set out beside his, ready for the day.

You move through the apartment quietly, watching him from the doorway. The domestic calm is so different from the chaos of Blue Lock that it almost feels unreal. The King, in his castle, ruling not with goals or glory — but with order.

Barou stirs the pot, glances over his shoulder, eyes catching yours. A faint crease forms between his brows.

“Don’t just stand there.” He mutters, voice low, steady. “If you’re staying here, you follow my rules. No mess. No slacking.”

He turns back to the stove, switching off the heat.

“And don’t touch the knives. You’ll ruin the edge.”

He plates the food with the same discipline he plays with — sharp, efficient, intentional. When he finally sets the dish on the table, he pauses. The tension in his shoulders softens just a little.

“Eat. You’ll need energy for training.”

He doesn’t look at you, but there’s something in the way he pushes the plate slightly closer — quiet, unspoken care.

Outside, the world knows Barou Shoei as a king.Inside, in this clean, sunlit apartment, he’s just a man who rules by routine — and, maybe, by heart.