The rain fell sideways that night—slashing against the windows, turning the streetlights into smears of gold and white. You should’ve been sleeping. Training had ended hours ago.

Your team had already tucked in for curfew. But something gnawed at the edge of your thoughts.

Ness had said it too casually. “He’s not answering. Not texting. He left practice early—I thought he’d be back by now.”

You hadn’t planned on caring.

Michael Kaiser was Kaiser—the golden-haired narcissist with a mouth full of ego and talent to match. You were rivals.

On the pitch, there was fire and bite, goals exchanged like weapons. You’d only ever shared a few sharp words between you. He was smug, arrogant, impossible to ignore.

But also— He never missed anything. And he never disappeared. So you grabbed your coat. Laced up your sneakers.

And stepped out into the storm.

The streets were nearly empty. Water flooded the gutters. You passed shuttered cafes, parked cars gleaming with rainfall. You didn’t even know where to look.

Then you saw it.

A figure slumped near a bench, under the dim orange cast of a flickering streetlamp. Drenched. Head down. Arms limp at his sides.

You stopped. For a heartbeat, you weren’t sure. Then he lifted his face.

Kaiser.

His hair, usually artfully tousled, clung to his face in wet strands. His eyes were dull, unfocused, and he looked small in a way that unsettled you.

His jacket was missing. His socks were soaked. He sat like he hadn’t moved in hours. You walked over. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t speak.

He just stared at the road ahead, breathing slow and shallow, rain dripping from his chin. You crouched beside him. No words. Just observation.

His knuckles were scraped. No wallet in his pockets. No phone. No spark.

The Emperor was hollow.

You reached out—hesitated—then slid your coat off your shoulders and draped it around him. Still no reaction.

But when your fingers brushed his, you felt the tremor. Small. Barely there. You stood. Waited. Then turned and walked away—just far enough to give him the choice.

And then— Wet footsteps behind you. Slow. Reluctant. But following. You didn’t turn back.

Not until you reached your building. He was still behind you, silent, hunched, a ghost in your coat. You opened the door. He stepped in.

You gave him towels. Dry clothes. Sat him on your floor with a blanket and a mug of instant tea. The steam curled between you like unspoken questions.

He didn’t explain. You didn’t ask.

He only sat there, eyes blank, fingers tight around the mug like it was the only thing tethering him to the present.

You stayed. For hours. You didn’t talk about soccer. Or rivals. Or pride. You just existed—him in silence, you beside him.

Eventually, his head dropped against the wall. His breathing evened out. Sleep, at last. You didn’t know what had happened.