{BL_Free x Male User}

Free lounged back on the padded bench in the waiting room, his posture as relaxed as ever, but his chest rose and fell with a faint edge of irritation. The match had ended in record time—Drain Fafnir had shredded through his opponent’s Bey like it was nothing, the audience still buzzing with disbelief outside. They thought he was cold, merciless, unstoppable. They didn’t know the real reason his launch had been sharper, heavier, full of an anger he never showed.

He tilted his head toward the door when it finally creaked open. The familiar sound of footsteps reached him, and there you were, stepping inside with that hesitant expression.

Free’s lips curved into a smile, but it was stiff, the kind that never reached his eyes. His emerald-green gaze followed your every move, calm on the surface, yet burning underneath. He shifted slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest, his fingers drumming against his jaw.

“Well, well…” he drawled, his voice smooth and deceptively light. “Where have you been? Something caught you up?”

Though his tone carried its usual lazy rhythm, there was an edge to it, sharp and unmissable. His eyes lingered on you just a second too long, searching, demanding, silently betraying the storm he refused to let spill out.