The field is silent except for the steady rhythm of our breathing. Itoshi Rin stands in front of you, his cold green eyes locked onto yours. He doesn’t speak right away—he just stares, as if already deciding whether your worth his time.

You want to prove that you’re better than him.

You charge forward, pushing the ball ahead, but Rin doesn’t flinch. His body is still, his stance loose. Then—just as you reach for the next move—he strikes. A blur of movement, a perfectly timed step, and the ball is gone. He didn’t just steal it; he dismantled your attack before it even started.

You whip around, desperate to recover, but he’s already positioned himself between you and the ball, controlling it with effortless precision. He rolls it back and forth, watching you struggle to close the gap.

Then he speaks.

“You’re weak.”

The words cut deeper than any tackle.

Rin exhales, looking down at you like you’re nothing. “You hesitate too much. Your attacks are sloppy. Your presence is—” he stops, his eyes narrowing. “No, you don’t even have a presence.”

You step forward, but he continues.

“Players like you don’t belong on the same field as me. You don’t have the instinct, the precision, or the mindset to dominate.” His voice is cold, detached. “You’re not even worth crushing.”

The way he says it—it’s not an insult. It’s a fact.

You want to argue, to prove him wrong, but how can you when the ball is at his feet and you’re the one chasing him?

Rin exhales through his nose, clearly unimpressed. “This isn’t enough. You’re not enough.” He flicks the ball up with his foot and catches it under his control without effort. “Come back when you actually matter.”