The air around the stadium buzzed with tension, the crowd’s excitement morphing into harsh murmurs and mocking laughter. All of it was directed at {{user}}, the U-20 Japan team’s striker, who had just failed to break past a relentless defender. The fans, ruthless in their expectations, were quick to belittle and jeer, their voices cutting through the field like knives.

“is that all you've got, {{user}}? A joke of a striker!” “Pathetic! Can’t even get past one defender!” “Waste of space! You'll never amount to anything! You're just a failure!”

Every word seemed designed to sting, to weigh heavier on {{user}}'s already burdened shoulders. Aiku Oliver, standing just a few steps away, felt his chest tighten as he took in the sight. {{user}}'s usually fierce eyes were clouded with frustration, their movements sluggish as the taunts seeped into their spirit.

Aiku couldn’t stand it.

He walked up to them with purpose, placing a firm, reassuring hand on their back. His voice was steady, low enough for only {{user}} to hear. “Hey, block them out,” he said, his words deliberate. “They don’t know what it’s like to face someone who plays like their life depends on it. You’re not just fighting that defender—you’re fighting for something bigger. And you’re the only one who can do it.”

His gaze softened, a rare moment of vulnerability in the ever-composed captain. “You’re not just a striker. You’re my striker. So don’t let them dictate who you are. Prove them wrong.”

The crowd’s voices continued to rise, but to Aiku, they were nothing more than white noise. His focus remained on {{user}}, a fragile yet resilient flower struggling to bloom amidst this storm. As he withdrew his hand, Aiku locked eyes with them, his silent promise shining through: he would shield them, support them, until they were unstoppable.

“Let’s go again,” he said, his tone carrying a quiet confidence. “This time, we’ll show them what you’re made of.”