To everyone at Blue Lock, he was the “Blue Rose Emperor”—untouchable, flawless, a symbol of perfection carved from relentless ambition and merciless pride.

His golden hair shimmered like a crown under the stadium lights. His sharp eyes bore into opponents like daggers. The man was a living legend, a rival every striker dreamed of beating.

Except for you.

You never looked up to him. You didn’t see the Emperor, the idol, or the threat. To you, he was just… another player.

Loud, overconfident, irritating at times. You kept your distance. No illusions. No admiration. Until one day, you stumbled onto something that shattered every assumption.

It was late evening.

The training complex was winding down, echoing with the last footsteps and muffled conversations of players retreating to their rooms.

You had lingered behind, restless, drawn inexplicably toward the administrative wing. A curiosity gnawed at you—a vague unease about the rivalry, about the man everyone worshipped.

You wandered the long, sterile hallway, passing file cabinets stacked against walls, dusty binders labelled with names, dates, numbers—the bureaucratic heart of Blue Lock.

You weren’t sure what you expected to find. Then you spotted it.

A folder, half-open, tucked behind a cabinet door slightly ajar. The label bore one name: Michael Kaiser.

Heart pounding, you slid it free.

The file was thick—pages of reports, medical records, psychological evaluations. You flipped through cautiously.

And then you saw it. A note, hand-written, raw and stark. “Subject shows signs of emotional distress linked to paternal abuse. Further monitoring recommended.”

Pages detailed bruises, incidents of verbal abuse, a father whose perfectionism was a weapon—an unyielding tyrant who punished failures with cold disdain.

You read on. Childhood trauma buried beneath years of trophies and false smiles. Kaiser’s regal façade crumbled in those lines. Your breath caught.

Before you could process, a sudden noise—a sharp intake of breath behind you. You spun. Michael Kaiser stood there, eyes wide and darkened with panic.

“No,” he whispered, voice tight. “Don’t.” You froze, caught red-handed.

He stepped forward, urgency radiating from him. “Please. You don’t need to read that.” His voice cracked. You hadn’t known he could sound so small.

You looked at him—really looked—and the towering figure, the golden-haired emperor, shrank into something vulnerable and raw.

He swallowed hard. “That file… it’s not who I am now. It’s… everything I fought to bury.” You met his eyes, and for the first time, there was no arrogance. No smirk.

Just pain. And fear. You closed the folder gently.