Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The steady thrum of the airport blends with the occasional ding of announcements overhead, draping a soft rhythm over the terminal. Alexis Ness sits with his fingers gliding across his phone screen. Headlines sweep past his gaze—transfer rumors, injury updates, championship predictions. His brows twitch in thought as he scrolls, eyes flickering with quiet concentration.

After a few minutes, he exhales, stretches his arms above his head, and lets out a soft groan. The motion makes his track jacket shift, and he glances sideways, drawn by the stillness beside him.

Michael Kaiser sits slouched against the bench, one leg casually draped over the other, radiating an air of effortless arrogance. His blonde hair falls over his brows, and sleek, black headphones cover his ears. His gaze is locked on the screen of his phone, completely absorbed. There's a faint glow reflecting in his eyes.

Ness leans in slightly, curiosity tugging at his spine. The screen plays a video—vibrant lights flashing, the crowd waving luminous sticks in unison, voices screaming in pure, high-pitched excitement. On stage, a figure dances with perfect precision, beaming under the spotlight. A Japanese idol concert, unmistakably.

Ness blinks. His lips press into a thin line as his brows draw together. Kaiser? Watching this?

He turns his face away and straightens his posture, quelling the stir of confusion that curls in his stomach. “I didn't know Kaiser's interested in Japanese idols...” he murmurs under his breath as he unlocks his phone again, though the screen now feels dull.

Eventually, the boarding announcement echoes through the terminal, and the two rise with the rest of the Bastard München team. Hours blur into silence and turbulence. Clouds pass outside the window like smoke.

After almost a day of travel, the plane finally descends into Tokyo.

As they step off the aircraft into the cool press of the arrival hall, Kaiser has already removed his headphones. His phone rests forgotten in his hand, his gaze distant, jaw propped lightly against one hand as he stares ahead.

Ness faces him, heart tapping with quiet interest. “That video you were watching earlier....” he begins, voice light but probing, “what was that all about?”

Kaiser doesn't even blink. He digs his phone out of his coat and tilts the screen toward Ness lazily, as if indulging a child's curiosity. “Ah, that. It's from a concert.”

Ness tilts his head, watching him. “I didn't know you were into Japanese idols, Kaiser.”

A small smirk plays at the edge of Kaiser's lips. “Curious, that's all.” he replies.

────୨ৎ────

The arena pulses with life, a tempest of chants and screams crashing against your ears as you command the stage. A blazing kaleidoscope of lights bathes you in brilliant hues, spotlighting your every move. The microphone is an extension of your hand, your voice carrying a melody that electrifies the massive crowd.

Your smile shines bright, the corners of your lips curving naturally as your eyes glimmer with fiery passion. Every step of your choreography is precise yet brimming with energy—fluid spins, playful poses, and deliberate gestures aimed directly at the cameras that magnify your presence on the towering screens flanking the stage.

For a fleeting second, you catch a glimpse of yourself on the display—a larger-than-life figure captivating the sea of fans.

Sweat trickles down your forehead, the heat of the performance combining with the stage lights to create a sheen on your skin. Your cheeks flush, but you never falter, drawing deep, steady breaths between verses. Your muscles burn from the relentless pace, yet your every movement remains seamless—a perfect blend of dedication and adrenaline.

“Thank you so much for coming, everyone!” you shout, your voice filled with both sincerity and practiced showmanship. You break into a run along the extended platform, your arms wide open to embrace the audience's roaring response. Your hair whips around with your momentum, strands catching the light like threads of gold.

The final leg of the tour ends in a swell of lights, cheers, and adrenaline. Backstage, the buzz still lingers in the air, but you barely register it. Your knees give way under the weight of exhaustion as you slump into a chair, head tipping back and eyes fluttering shut. Your chest rises and falls in labored, uneven breaths, the rush of the last performance still echoing faintly in your veins.

Behind you, the staff moves in methodical motion—someone's packing up the clothes you wore onstage, another carefully wipes down your makeup kit, brushes clinking lightly in a tray. Murmured conversations drift around you, but they're muted, like you're underwater.

Minutes tick by. Maybe more. You finally peel yourself from the seat, your joints ache as you change into a loose hoodie and sweatpants—soft fabric a relief against your skin. It's over, you remind yourself. No more rehearsals. No more back-to-back interviews. No more forced smiles through sore muscles and sleepless nights. Just home. Rest. Silence.

Inside the company car, the city lights trail past the window. You lean your head against the glass, eyes half-lidded, until the fatigue pulls you under completely. The world fades.

You're shaken gently awake.

“We're here, [Name].” your manager says, voice low but kind.

You blink groggily, momentarily disoriented. The familiar street outside your condominium slowly comes into focus. With a tired smile, you mumble your thanks and goodbye, stepping out into the quiet night.

Your feet drag with every step toward the door. The building feels colder, lonelier than usual—but you're too tired to care. Once inside, you flip the locks shut with muscle memory, double-checking windows out of habit. Then, finally—blessedly—you collapse onto your bed without changing, face buried into the pillow.

Sleep claims you before you even have the chance to exhale.

♪Ahh, I think I can do it!

I feel like my heart's going to burst, it's overflowing so much;

so can I steal yours away?♪

You hum the song you sang for last night's encore, sinking deeper into the couch, limbs draped over the cushions like a marionette with its strings cut. Late afternoon light filters lazily through the blinds. The air is quiet, broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird outside the window. Peaceful. Almost unreal.

You savor it—the absence of rehearsal schedules and call times. It's been a few months since your last album dropped. Then came the tour. And now, this calm—a fleeting pause before the storm. Soon, it'll all begin again: writing lyrics until dawn, agonizing over harmonies, producing track after track until your ears ring. The music videos—early morning shoots, intricate choreography that leaves your muscles screaming, take after take until every frame is flawless. And the promotion: endless radio shows, chaotic variety appearances, back-to-back live performances. The thought of it all hovers in your mind like an incoming tide.

You exhale sharply through your nose and flick the thought away like an annoying gnat. Not now. Not today. Today is yours.

Phone in hand, you scroll aimlessly, your thumb moving. Headlines stream by unnoticed—celeb scandals, beauty trends, someone's dog becoming the next viral sensation—until one particular story catches your eye.

“Blue Lock stuns Japan in shocking match result—”

Your brows knit together slightly, interest piqued. You tap on the article. The title expands into a flurry of images and fan reactions: grainy screenshots of the match, a clip of a player weaving past defenders with near inhuman agility, and a trending tag that still glows hot even a day after the game.

Your lips part slightly in surprise.

Blue Lock? That training program for forwards? You'd heard about them in passing—mostly whispers in variety show green rooms and excited chatter from makeup artists—but you never paid attention. Sports weren't exactly your thing. But something about the energy of the comments—the awe, the disbelief—pulls you in.

You start to read, skimming the play-by-play. Apparently, Blue Lock had gone up against Japan's U-20 in a televised exhibition match—and won. Not just won—dominated.

Your eyes narrow, scrolling faster now, devouring names you've never heard before. Isagi Yoichi. Itoshi Rin. Nagi Seishiro.

The corner of your mouth quirks.

There's a video embedded at the bottom. You tap it. The screen lights up, and you watch, transfixed, as Isagi Yoichi—dark-haired, sharp-eyed—lurks just outside the goal area, unnoticed, before launching a direct shot that tears through the net, securing Blue Lock's victory.

U-20 Japan (3) vs. Blue Lock (4)

The final score: 3–4. Blue Lock takes the win.

The crowd erupts, a thunderous roar shaking the stadium. The commentator nearly shouts himself hoarse, voice cracking with disbelief and excitement.

Your reflection stares back from the dark screen when the video ends, lips slightly parted. You blink, and suddenly, you're sitting a little straighter.

Maybe you're just imagining it. But for a second, it feels like watching someone onstage—commanding the spotlight, playing to the crowd, stealing breaths with every movement.

Your thumb pauses over the screen. You hesitate for just a beat before typing his name into the search bar. Isagi Yoichi.

Curiosity hums in your bloodstream like a low bassline.

Just a little peek won't hurt, right?

Let's just say, because of that, you start getting curious about the whole Blue Lock project.

At first, it's just a passing interest—something you thought you'd glance at once or twice. A passing mention of Blue Lock here and there, an offhanded comment during an interview, the way your staff couldn't stop talking about “that insane match-winning goal.” 

You didn't think much of it at first. But now, the seed has been planted.

And, just like that, your temporary break vanishes beneath the tidal wave of work. You're back under the spotlight. Buried beneath an avalanche of rehearsals, shoots, and press appearances. Your phone stays silent in your bag for most of the day, untouched. Sleep becomes a luxury. You're running on caffeine, adrenaline, and stubborn willpower.

After the album release, there's no time to breathe. The promotions begin. Every second of your day is carved out—radio shows, music programs, meet-and-greets. And when you finally come home after another excruciatingly long day, your shoulders drop as soon as the door shuts behind you.

You tug off your shoes, toss your bag by the door, and collapse onto the couch with a sigh that echoes in the quiet apartment. Groggy fingers swipe at your phone screen out of habit.

A single notification glows on the screen.

Blue Lock TV.

You blink.

“What's this...?”

You tap into the app out of idle curiosity. A sleek interface greets you. Football matches. Player cams. Commentary. Replays. All for 500 yen a month?

You snort softly. Cheap entertainment. You subscribe on a whim.

The next day, after promoting your album at a high-profile radio show, you exit the recording booth and finally get a moment of peace in the hallway. You glance at your phone again.

Live Match: Bastard München vs FC Barcha – Now Streaming

Something about those names feels oddly familiar. You open the stream.

A high-speed match flashes to life on your screen.

“Huh?” you breathe out, surprised.

A sudden tap on your back jolts you.

You jump and whip around to find your manager behind you, brow arched, clipboard in hand.

“Everything okay?” she asks, peering at you questioningly.

“Yeah—yeah,” you say quickly, locking your phone and tucking it back into your pocket. “All good.”

She nods. “You can head to the car first. I need to speak with one of the hosts for a minute.”

You offer her a grateful nod. “Got it.”

You bow deeply to the radio staff, thanking them politely before darting toward the door.

Outside, a wall of fans immediately floods your vision. Dozens of phones are raised, faces beaming, voices calling out your name.

You smile, pushing the weariness down as you wave brightly. With a bow to the crowd—every motion precise and familiar—you slip into the van waiting at the curb. The door clicks shut. Silence.

You exhale, shoulders slumping with relief. Without hesitation, you pull your phone out again.

The match is still going.

Bastard München vs FC Barcha.

You scroll briefly. Bastard München—Germany. FC Barcha—Spain. Both professional teams.

You press play, and the game fills your screen.

Almost instantly, one player draws your attention like a magnet.

Number 10.

Blonde hair streaked with metallic blue at the ends, fluttering as he darts across the field like lightning. His movements are sharp, aggressive—yet smooth, like water cutting through stone. Even surrounded by defenders, he remains untouchable.

Your jaw parts slightly.

Your breath catches as he slips past two defenders with a feint, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—smug, confident, utterly in control. The ball sticks to his feet like it belongs there.

You squint to read the name on his back.

Kaiser.

This Kaiser guy doesn't just play the game—he owns it.

You watch, transfixed, as his teammates orbit around him. Especially Number 8—Ness, who passes to Kaiser again and again, the two moving with uncanny synchronicity.

Kaiser lingers at the edge of the play, positioning himself perfectly. He's bait. A trap. A blade waiting to be drawn.

Your eyes narrow as your brain starts to catch up, connecting dots from the countless soccer videos you've binged during sleepless nights.

He hasn't wasted a single movement. 

Not one.

He moves like he's already ten steps ahead, always in the right place, always ready.

Then it happens. Ness approaches the goal area, making a quick feint—an illusionary pass—and Kaiser, like a predator sensing blood, moves.

In a split second, he traps the ball, body angled like he's going for a direct shot.

“Oh—?”

And the net ripples.

You stare in stunned silence.

You didn't blink. You know you didn't. And yet you missed it.

He spreads his arms wide in victory, expression dripping with superiority. A slow, condescending smirk stretches across his face—as if this was inevitable. As if he was always meant to score.

Your skin prickles with something you can't name.

“Oh... my.” you whisper, eyes wide, heart pounding like you've just witnessed something divine.

And for the first time in weeks, you're not thinking about music, or cameras, or sold-out stages.

You're thinking about him. 

Kaiser.

Chapter Text

You're dancing at the center of the stage, movements fluid, effortless—each step hitting the beat. The lights flash in vivid colors, syncing perfectly with the rhythm of your latest song, casting prismatic patterns across the screaming crowd. The fans are chanting your name, their voices reverberating through the venue. You're glowing under the spotlights, quite literally beaming—cheeks flushed, eyes shimmering with something more than adrenaline.

Something's changed, and it shows.

Studio cameras zoom in, capturing every angle, every breath, every sparkle in your gaze. This is a live stage, streamed in real-time on YouTube, broadcasted on one of the top music shows. But even with all eyes on you, your mind drifts.

You can't stop thinking about that game—the one you watched the other day. Bastard München versus FC Barcha. That young man. Michael Kaiser. His name floats through your thoughts like a song stuck on repeat.

♪I won't regret it, not even once—

It's ridiculous, really, how he's managed to take up space in your head like this. You had tried to ease your curiosity, looking him up, and when you read his full name—Michael Kaiser—it felt... perfect. Fitting. Regal, even. You'd whispered it to yourself just to see how it tasted on your tongue.

I'll keep moving forward, forever with you♪

And now? Now, you can't help the quiet chuckle that escapes your lips in the middle of a verse, breathless with more than just the exertion.

♪Even if I stand against the world,

Even when loneliness creeps in—

Your presence is all I need to stay brave♪

When the performance ends, the crowd erupts. You bow, still catching your breath, smiling as fans scream your name. You lift a hand to wave, fingers quivering from the thrill, before retreating backstage where another performer waits their turn.

The moment you step past the curtains, your staff swarms in—one dabbing a towel gently against your damp forehead, another pressing a bottle of water into your hand. A straw already pokes through the cap. You take a grateful sip, chest still rising and falling.

One of them finally breaks the silence, unable to hold it in any longer. “You're different today, [Name].” she says, eyes wide with curiosity and a teasing grin forming at the corners of her mouth.

You blink at her, swallowing another sip before raising your brows. “Hmm?”

“You were literally sparkling out there,” she giggles, nudging your shoulder playfully. “Something happened, didn't it?”

You glance away, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips. “Oh... nothing, really.” You press the towel to your face, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your cheeks. “I'm just happy... that's all.”

But your mind is already gone again. Back to the pitch. Back to him.
Michael Kaiser.

You're lying on your stomach on the couch, arms folded beneath your chin, the quiet buzz of your phone filling the still room. A faint light spills from the screen, illuminating your face as you scroll through the familiar layout of your dummy account—one you've dedicated entirely to Bastard München's number ten: Michael Kaiser.

Your fingers scroll through your feed, filled with posts from fellow fans—edits, slow-motion clips of his goals, highlight shots from the latest match. You've followed dozens of them, engaging in long comment threads, gushing over his performance, his footwork, his smirk. Every time someone posts a clear screenshot of his face—especially when the camera catches that brief moment of arrogance just before a goal—you save it immediately.

Sometimes, you can't help but add your own thoughts underneath. “Michael Kaiser supremacy!” you write under one. “How is he this unreal?” under another.

You giggle, a pink flush dusts your skin, and roll over onto your side, then back again, kicking your feet lazily in the air. The couch creaks under your restless movement, but you don't care. Kaiser is amazing. Truly. There's something magnetic about the way he plays—confident, calculated, yet wild. Like he knows the world is watching and he thrives in that spotlight. Watching him is like staring at a star that knows its brilliance, a star so blindingly self-assured it's impossible to look away.

You sigh dreamily and press your phone to your chest, eyes fluttering shut as if trying to etch his last goal into your mind forever. 

“Haaah... I feel like I'm going to combust.”

A breathless giggle escapes your lips again, impossible to contain.

Your life right now borders on ridiculous. You're an idol—trained, polished, always on schedule. And yet, behind the stage lights and rehearsals, you're also just a fan. A full-fledged, heart-thumping, screen-capping fan. It doesn't even have to be Bastard München playing—you'll still find time to stream matches, muttering reactions under your breath, clapping like a child whenever someone scores. But when it's Kaiser on the field?

You're glued to the screen.

Even the busiest day can't pull you away from watching him shine.

────୨ৎ────

You stand before the mirror, staring at the reflection looking back at you. A small smile creeps onto your face as you examine every angle, every curve, like trying to memorize it all before stepping into the spotlight. Your fingers begin to fidget unconsciously—pulling at the hem of your sleeve, brushing your thumb over your palm. You inhale deeply, then exhale just as slow, trying to steady your nerves.

“[Name]?” your manager's voice calls from just outside the dressing room door.

You hum in acknowledgment, still watching yourself.

“Two more minutes. I need you to be on standby.”

You nod, even if she can't see you, then glance back at your reflection one last time. The smile you give it is soft—but effortful. It holds the weight of the expectations you're about to carry.

Moments later, you're seated at the center of a long, pristine white table. A single black pen rests near the edge, perfectly aligned, like it's been waiting just for you. Beyond the stage, beyond the lights, a sea of faces waits—rows and rows of fans, eyes bright with eagerness, adoration flickering in their eyes. The energy crackling in the room is warm but heavy, full of anticipation.

The lottery system behind this fansign event always feels bittersweet. It ensures fairness, sure, but it also means only the most persistent—those who bought dozens, even hundreds of albums—are here today. Their dedication is written all over their faces, and for that, you owe them your very best.

You plaster on your practiced smile. Not insincere, but something you've worn so many times it feels like second skin. You remind yourself: give them what they came for. Let them remember this.

The lights dim briefly, then blaze to life again as you step onto the stage. The crowd erupts—cheers, camera flashes, the constant whir of video recordings. Fansites are already zooming in, capturing every blink, every breath. You can feel the gravity of hundreds of eyes tracking your every movement.

You launch into your opening song, your body moving automatically through the choreography—sharp, graceful, fluid. The rhythm pounds in your chest, syncing with your heartbeat as the crowd sings along, their voices rising beneath your own.

By the time the final notes of your set fade into silence, your pulse is still racing, though the high has begun to ebb. You make your way back to the table, sweat cooling against your skin, replaced by the warm tingle of post-performance calm. Staff weave in and out of view, checking placements, adjusting timing, organizing lines. Everything must flow smoothly now.

The fansign begins.

You brace yourself.

One by one, they come. Each fan steps forward with a tremble in their hands, eyes wide and alight, carrying with them stories, drawings, questions—hope. Some stammer, others chatter excitedly. A few tear up before they even sit down. And through it all, you meet them with the same patient warmth. You sign albums, write their names carefully in the corners, listen as they speak. You laugh when it's expected, smile when it matters, offer nods and reassurances that they'll remember forever—even if you won't.

Hours pass in a gentle blur, marked by flashes of cameras and the faint scent of permanent marker. The smile never leaves your face. Your voice softens with every passing moment, but your gaze remains focused. Present.

Because right now, in this room, you're not just an idol. You're someone's dream come true.

The day slips away quietly, and before you realize it, night has fallen deep and heavy. The world outside is still, cloaked in darkness, but you're wide awake—refusing to give in to sleep.

You lie curled up in bed, the soft glow of your phone illuminating your face in the dim room. Your fingers scroll endlessly, eyes glued to the screen. You're completely absorbed—diving into match analysis threads, exchanging thoughts with fellow fans, and gushing over every move Michael Kaiser made on the field.

Your heart swells a little every time someone posts a clip of his goals, his smirks, the sheer command he holds on the pitch. It's late, much later than you meant to stay up, but you can't help it.

Before finally setting your phone down, you open the caption field  and type out a message. Your thumbs hover for a second before you begin to write, smile tugging at your lips.

“I can't wait to see Michael Kaiser play again. His skill, control, and confidence never fail to amaze me! I'll always be rooting for him—and for the rest of the Bastard München team. I love you so much~!”

You reread it once, then again—nodding in quiet satisfaction before hitting post.

With a final sigh, you lock your phone and set it down beside you. The screen fades to black. You close your eyes, a small, contented smile still hovering as sleep finally begins to pull you under—Kaiser still playing behind your eyelids like a star you're chasing in a dream.

♪da-ding... da-ding... da-ding...♪

The shrill sound of your phone ringing snaps you out of sleep. You groan, arm flailing blindly across the nightstand until your fingers finally brush against the device. You drag it toward you and press it to your ear without even checking the caller ID.

“Hello...?” you mumble, voice rough and low with sleep.

“[Name]? Where are you?!” your manager’s voice bursts through the speaker—high-pitched, panicked, and far too loud for this hour.

You blink slowly, brain still foggy. “...In bed?” you answer honestly, rubbing your eyes. “Where else would I be?”

“Are you kidding me right now?! What the hell did you do last night? Were you drunk?!” she screeches, disbelief lacing every word.

That jolts you. You bolt upright, heart thudding. “What? No! Why would I—what are you even talking about?”

She doesn't miss a beat. “Why would you post something like that? Without telling anyone? Without clearing it with the team? Do you even realize what you’ve done?!”

“Post...?” you echo, blinking as you scramble for clarity. “What post? I don't—”

“Check the news, [Name].” she hisses through gritted teeth. Then the call cuts off.

You stare at the screen, still displaying the call duration, before inching the phone down, as if afraid to let go. A heavy silence sinks in the room. Your fingers move on instinct, tapping through apps until the headline greets you like a slap to the face.

Bold. Blazing. Inevitable.

“Top Idol's Public Declaration of Love for Bastard München's Football Star Michael Kaiser Sparks Uproar!”

You freeze.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Your thumb scrolls automatically, heart dropping lower and lower with each line.

“No.”

A sinking feeling settles deep in your stomach.

“No, no, no—”

Your head hangs low as you sit stiffly in the conference room, the air tense and suffocating. The CEO's footsteps snap against the floor as he paces back and forth, voice scathing and unforgiving as he scolds you over last night's post on your professional media account.

Your manager is seated beside you, hands clenched tightly in her lap, her jaw visibly tense. She looks as if she hasn't blinked in the last five minutes.

Your staff stand nearby, trying their best to look serious, though it's clear some are losing the battle. One has their head ducked behind a clipboard, another is biting their lip so hard it's turning white. You can feel the barely suppressed laughter rippling through the room, just under control.

But you?

You're dissociating.

Your soul has already left your body and is floating somewhere above this room, watching you suffer. You stare blankly at the table, eyes unfocused, shoulders hunched in shame.

You want to die.

No—worse. You want to disappear into the void and never be found again. What you did wasn't just unprofessional. It was mortifying. Reckless. Utterly stupid.

How could you forget to switch accounts? How?

You had one job: fangirl in secret. Use the dummy. Keep it low. Maintain your idol image. But no—one rush of excitement and suddenly you're confessing your undying love for Michael Kaiser to the entire internet on your verified account with a million followers.

You sigh heavily, slumping further into your chair.

And of course, the internet exploded.

Collages of you and Kaiser are everywhere now—your photo side-by-side with his, captioned by your very own heartfelt confession. Fans are analyzing your post with the seriousness of scholars: linking it to the lyrics of your latest album, matching timelines, building theories.

Some even say that's why you've been smiling more lately. That you're glowing. That you must be dating Kaiser in secret.

That thought alone sends heat rushing to your face.

You groan and drop dramatically to the floor, rolling onto your side in utter despair. Your manager glares at you like she's contemplating murder.

The meeting ended an hour ago, but you're still stuck inside the company building. Outside, a mob of reporters, paparazzi, and vloggers have swarmed the entrance, all shouting the same thing:

“What's your relationship with Michael Kaiser?!”

You bury your face in your hands.

“I think I'm going to quit.” you declare with grave determination, looking up at your manager from the floor.

She doesn't blink. Her eyes are dark. Flat. Unforgiving.

“If you can pay 2,000,000 yen in penalty for breaking your ten-year contract, be my guest.”

You pause, then smirk faintly as you sit up and shrug.
“Haaah. I can pay that much.”

Without missing a beat, she lifts her foot and gives your side a gentle kick.

“Ouch!!” you yelp, falling over again. “That's abuse—abuse!”

“Keep talking,” she mutters, standing. “I'll make it 3 million.”

You grip your hair tightly, fingers tangled in the strands, eyes wide and glazed with panic.

“What should I do?! What if... what if he sees the news?! I swear to God, I'm going to die—no, I'll kill myself!”

One of your staff snorts from the corner, still scrolling through the flood of articles on her phone.

“You really had it bad for that Kaiser guy, huh, [Name]?” she teases, shaking her head with an amused smile.

You shoot her a death glare.

“Quit it already! I can't take this anymore—my life is over!” You pause for dramatic effect, then suddenly shift into an unnervingly cheerful tone, forcing a smile. “Oh well! It's not like he'll understand what I said anyway. He's German, and he's probably too busy with the league and stuff, duh.”

Your manager raises a brow from across the room.

“Translations exist, you idiot.”

Your smile falters instantly. It twitches, then drops completely as dread washes over you again. You let out a strangled sound and collapse back to the floor.

“Nooooooo...” you groan, voice muffled as you bury your face into the carpet.

Another staff member—one who's clearly enjoying your slow unraveling—pipes up with a casual, “So... when's his next match?”

You jerk upright, expression suddenly radiant, eyes gleaming.

“Ten days from now! They're playing against Manshine City!” you chirp, clapping your hands excitedly. “They beat FC Barcha a few days ago—he scored during that match, did you see it?! They're calling it the Kaiser Impact. It was insane! So fast, so clean—he just sliced through the defense like—”

You stop, noticing the room has gone oddly quiet. Everyone is staring at you.

Blank stares. Raised brows. One of them is biting back a laugh.

“Uh... it's really obvious you like him.”

“Of course I do!” you chirp again with no shame.

Then reality slams into you like a truck.

You gasp—over-the-top, like a stage actress. “He's going to see it. He's going to see it and laugh. I'll be a meme. I'll have to change my name. Move to the mountains. Bury my phone. Burn my albums.”

Your manager rubs her temples and grumbles under her breath, “And I'll be right behind you, making sure you don't post anything else while we're at it.”

At the Germany Stratum—Blue Lock's Man System Field—Michael Kaiser collapses onto the turf, body thrumming with adrenaline. Hours of intense training have pushed him to his limits. His chest heaves as he gulps down air, sweat clinging to every inch of his skin.

He closes his eyes briefly, letting the silence fall around him. Sweat trickles down his temple, soaking into his collar. After a few moments, he sits up slowly, muscles aching as he rises to his feet and drags himself toward the showers.

The water scalds and soothes. He lingers longer than usual, letting the heat work through his sore limbs. By the time he emerges, towel slung over his shoulder and dressed in Bastard München's sleek black tracksuit, he finally reaches for his phone.

And that's when he sees it.

The headlines. The photos. The post.

Dozens of articles across multiple languages, but one image keeps repeating: a collage—his press photo from Bastard München beside a candid shot of a certain idol taken by one of her fans.

He raises a brow, thumb hovering. The text is in Japanese, but a small “Translate” button sits beneath the post. He taps it.

Your words load on screen—your heartfelt confession, your support, your love.

“Huh?”

His gaze skims the translation, scanning the message quietly.

Then, he scoffs. A smirk curls the corner of his mouth—wicked, amused, unreadable. He pockets his phone without a word and walks off.

Back in your place, the night stretches on like a never-ending punishment. You haven't dared open your professional account. The notification count is dizzying—thousands and climbing—but you ignore it, choosing the comfort of your dummy account instead.

You sigh, loudly and miserably, leaning heavily into the pillows with dark circles forming under your eyes. Even your mutuals gushing about Kaiser can't pull a reaction from you tonight. You're too tired. Too on edge.

You lock your phone and toss it aside.

Just as sleep begins to creep in, your phone rings.

You groan, reaching blindly for it. You don't even check the name before answering.

“Hello...?”

“News. Now.” It's your manager—curt, cold, no patience left. The line goes dead immediately after.

You blink and lurch into a sitting position, startled.

“What now?” you mutter, already spiraling. You mentally retrace your day. You didn't post anything. You made sure of it. No tweets. No accidental reposts. Nothing.

But just to be safe, you open the news tab.

Your entire body goes rigid.

There it is.

Michael Kaiser's official, verified account.

He's posted a series of Spotify screenshots.

“What—?”

His top artist: you.

His most-played song? One of your recent singles. The rest of the top five is a mix of your older tracks, charting your career like a discography of undeniable interest.

Beneath the photos is a single caption written in German.

You press the translate button on the right:

“I don't loop just anyone.”

Your heart starts racing, thunderous in your ears. Your hands go clammy.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” you shriek, clutching your phone as if it might explode. Your face turns crimson in an instant.

And just like that, the media finds its next wildfire.

The top idol who confessed.
And the football star who just might be listening.