The TV was still on.

Muted. But the last highlight of the Blue Lock ranking match flickered across the screen again — List of players who pass in Blue Lock, Bachira’s sprint, and then the list: Kira Ryosuke — ELIMINATED.

Your fingers had long since stopped moving on the remote.

You just sat there, staring at the screen in the dark.

When the front door finally opened, it was quiet. No angry footsteps. No thrown gear or kicked shoes.

Just the click of the lock and the slow creak of the door closing behind him.

You didn’t turn.

He stood in the entryway for a long time. Maybe longer than necessary. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to come home.

“…It was rigged,” he muttered.

His voice sounded different. Less sure of itself. Still calm — it always was — but something cracked under it. Something raw.

“They let freaks like this Bachira stay and kicked me out first.”

He was still wearing his training shirt. The number printed on it meant nothing now. The team logo looked heavy, like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

You finally turned to look at him.

Ryosuke’s eyes weren’t red. He didn’t cry.

But they weren’t the same eyes you saw when he left.

“Isagi passed to someone else,” he added, like he still couldn’t believe it. “I was open. That was a big trap from all of them.”

The living room filled with the soft hum of the television. Blue Lock interviews. Ego Jinpachi’s smug voice. Rankings.

Kira wasn’t even on the list anymore.

He stepped out of his shoes. Set his bag down gently. He didn’t meet your gaze as he passed the couch, walking into the kitchen like it wasn’t 2:00 in the morning.

He poured himself a glass of water. His hands were shaking.

“…Do they even remember me?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t know if he was talking about the audience, the coaches, or the other players.

He finally looked over his shoulder.

“Maybe I wasn’t good enough,” he said, quieter this time. “Maybe I was just… safe.”

Safe. The striker who didn’t gamble. Who played clean. Who believed football was about teamwork.

And Blue Lock destroyed that.

He sat down on the couch next to you. Didn’t speak for a while. Just stared at his own replay. The moment he got passed over.

The moment everything ended.

You got up.

Went into the kitchen.

Made tea.

Set it beside him.

He didn’t say thank you. Just held the cup between both hands, as if the warmth could stop everything else from shaking.

“…Don’t tell Mom and Dad,” he said eventually. “Not yet.”