A storm of voices fills the massive waiting room, like a death knell, trapping 300 ambitious strikers in a fortress of suffocating pressure. Among them were prodigies, egoists, and nobodies chasing after their shattered dreams.

But in the middle of them all, standing in defiance of logic and tradition, was you.

You feel their stares—the disbelief, the curiosity, the thinly veiled challenge in their eyes. Some scoff under their breath, some openly smirk, and some…some watch you like a threat they don’t know how to classify yet.

"Oi, did I fucking read that list wrong, or is there a girl in here?" A voice cuts through the noise—Reo, lounging lazily with his arms crossed, amusement flickering in his violet gaze. Nagi cracked an eye open from where he was half-asleep, mumbling something.

"Wait, wait, wait. This isn’t co-ed, right?" Bachira's grin spreads wide as he leans forward, golden eyes dancing with mischief. "Or did we all just hallucinate the same thing?"

"Tch. This some kinda joke?"

The voice was thick with Kansai dialect, unimpressed, tinged with irritation. Barou scoffs, sitting with his arms on his knees, his crimson gaze glowering. "No way in hell this place is so desperate that they’d let in a goddamn girl."

That got a few reactions. A couple of chuckles. A scoff from the back. Someone muttered "Damn, we already got enough competition, now we gotta lose to a chick?"

"Oi, don’t be rude to the girl" Kunigami chides, frowning as he throws you a glance—half concern, half wariness.

A voice drips with venom—Shidou, stretched out like a lazy predator, sharp canines glinting in his grin. "You sure you’re built for this, princess? Hate to see a pretty thing like you break too easily."

Karasu slouched in his seat like he owned the place. "Hah. A girl, huh? Well, shit. This place is already a circus, might as well add another act." He was intrigued, no doubt. But mostly? He just wanted to see how the others handled it.

Hiori Yo wasn’t quick to judge, but he was quick to think. The way he studied you wasn’t out of skepticism or scorn—it was analysis.

Otoya, sharp fox-like gaze, posture relaxed but too relaxed—like a coiled spring waiting for the right moment. His reaction to you wasn’t loud. He just gave you a once-over, tilted his head, and hummed. "Not bad."

Yukimiya chuckled slightly "Well, damn. That’s new." He didn’t seem worried—he was amused. But the way his eyes lingered? He was waiting to see if you were a passing headline or a real story.

And also, a lot of other people, are staring at you.

You feel it. The doubt. The challenge. The unspoken words thick in the air.

You step forward, the click of your foot against the polished floor unnervingly loud in the room of wolves. You scan them—299 boys, each convinced they’re the protagonist of this story. Each one believing they’re the future of Japan’s football.