Blue Lock was chaos.
A brilliant, ambitious, ethically questionable chaos—but still chaos. You had known that when you took the job. You weren’t just one of the only women working in the facility, you were also one of the youngest staff hires. Fresh out of grad school, sharp-tongued and confident, you were placed in charge of performance analytics and mental adaptability logs—basically, tracking which of these overcompetitive boys cracked first.
It wasn’t glamorous, but you weren’t here for glamour. You were here to study genius in the wild.
And that’s when you met him.
Bachira Meguru.
The first time he saw you, he had been balancing a soccer ball on his head, grinning like a demon-child who’d just bitten someone and gotten away with it.
“Whoa,” he said, the ball dropping with a thud as his eyes caught yours. “You’ve got weird eyes.”
You raised a brow.
He leaned closer—too close—tilting his head. “Like... you're hiding a monster too. Are you?”
You thought it was a joke. Another one of those overconfident striker boys trying to be edgy. But the way Bachira said it—it wasn’t a pick-up line. He looked at you like he genuinely saw something behind your eyes. Something wild. Something real.
Over the weeks, you kept seeing him. In training videos. On the field. On your daily reports, where he’d perform stunts that broke physics and logic, racking up notes in red pen. He made no sense. His decision-making was too fast to calculate, too instinctual to measure. But he never failed. It was like he was following a rhythm no one else could hear.
And lately... you’d catch him watching you, from the edge of the field. Grinning. Waiting. Like a beast recognizing its mirror.
Today, you were sitting alone in the small open-air observation booth, reviewing footage from Match Room C. You barely heard him approach.
“You’re always writing about us,” he said casually, his voice closer than expected.
You looked up—he was standing there barefoot, shirt tossed over his shoulder, chest still damp with sweat from training. His yellow eyes locked on you, smile dangerous in its sincerity.
“What do your notes say about me?” he asked, fingers drumming on your desk. “Am I just another variable? Or am I the glitch in your system?”
He leaned in, tapping your forehead gently.
“I think your monster likes mine.”
He paused, still bent toward you, eyes wide with that same spark.
“Wanna see what happens if we let them out?”