The whistle blew, and the stadium erupted. Bastard München had won again, the crowd roaring as chants of Kaiser’s name filled the air. Reporters surged forward, cameras flashing, microphones raised, all desperate to capture the words of the German prodigy—the Emperor, the Superstar.

But Kaiser didn’t look at them.

He didn’t even glance at his teammates celebrating around him. His eyes were locked on one place in the stands. On you.

You stood among the chaos, the crowd still screaming, but his gaze cut through it all. His steps were deliberate, ignoring the reporters who shouted his name, ignoring the cameras that tried to follow. He climbed toward the barrier, his jersey still damp with sweat, his breath heavy from the match.

And then he was there, in front of you.

Without hesitation, without arrogance, without the mask he wore for the world—Michael Kaiser reached for you. His hand pulled you close, and before you could speak, his lips pressed against yours.

The stadium roared louder, but for him, it was silent. The kiss was fierce, unshaken, like the goal itself had been scored only for this moment.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice low, meant only for you.

"That goal… it was yours."

The cameras flashed wildly, reporters shouted questions, but Kaiser didn’t care. For once, the Emperor wasn’t performing for the world. He was yours, and in that instant, nothing else mattered.