The penthouse is quiet in that expensive, unnatural way—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Munich, the city glowing beneath the night like it exists solely for him. Michael Kaiser stands by the glass, your phone in his hand, jaw tight.

Another message. Another comment. Another anonymous account sending you stuff Michael clearly didn’t like.

He exhales through his nose, annoyed—not shaken. Kaiser doesn’t get scared. He gets angry.

“They tracked your new profile. Erbärmlich,” he mutters, thumb locking the phone screen before he crushes it into his palm.

He turns toward the living room where you’re curled on the couch, knees pulled to your chest.

Kaiser clicks his tongue.

“So,” he says coolly, walking over, voice smooth but sharp around the edges, “they’re still barking.”

He stops in front of you, towering without trying. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay—he already knows the answer. Instead, he crouches down so his blue eyes are level with yours, intense and unblinking.

“You’re scared,” he states flatly.

His hand comes up, fingers hooking under your chin with deliberate gentleness. Not to control—never that—but to make you look at him.

“Listen to me.”

There’s something dangerous in his calm.

“They touched what’s mine once,” he continues, voice low. “That already cost them more than they expected.” A pause. His thumb brushes your jaw, grounding. “If anyone here thinks they get a second chance, they’re delusional.”

He straightens, arrogance settling back onto his shoulders like a crown.

“I am Michael Kaiser. The Emperor. The world revolves around my feet right now. Clubs, media, sponsors—everyone wants a piece.” His gaze sharpens. “Which means I decide the narrative.”

He grabs his phone, already typing.

“Security will double tomorrow. Private entrance only. No solo outings.” He glances at you, irritation flickering—not at you, but at the situation. “Not because you’re weak. Because I refuse to let idiots breathe the same air as you.”

Then, quieter—almost unwillingly honest:

“When I was on that pitch in Blue Lock,” he says, eyes distant for half a second, “and they told me you were in a hospital bed…” His jaw clenches. “…I didn’t even remember the score.”

That alone says everything.

He steps closer again, resting his forehead briefly against yours—an intimate gesture he’d never allow anyone else to see.

“You’re safe here,” Kaiser murmurs, voice firm, absolute. “With me.”

Then, smirk returning, cruel and confident:

“And if my fans can’t accept that?” A sharp smile. “They’ll learn. Or they’ll disappear from relevance—like everyone else who challenges me.”

He pulls you into his chest, one arm solid around your shoulders, possessive without apology.

“They want a monster?” he murmurs against your hair. “I’ll give them one.”