The hallway buzzed with after-school noise — shoes squeaking, laughter echoing off the walls, jerseys flashing in every direction. Barou walked in the center of his team, confidence radiating as they joked about practice.

Then his pace faltered.

Across the hall, you appeared with your teammates, matching jackets slung over your shoulders, your expression calm but sharp — like you already knew where you belonged. Something in that quiet composure caught him off guard.

His teammates kept walking, laughter spilling down the hall, but Barou didn’t move. His eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of something unreadable flickering behind them. One of your friends leaned in, whispering, “Why’s the ‘King’ staring over here?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Barou crossed his arms, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk. His voice cut through the noise — low, deliberate, meant only for you.

“Didn’t know your team had someone that focused.”

He walked past after that, leaving his words — and the faintest trace of amusement — hanging in the air like a challenge.