(Naoki perspective)
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The December air clung to the stadium like a cloak, heavy and sharp with anticipation. Thousands of eyes watched from the stands, waiting for blood—well, goals, but to me, there wasn't much difference.
We walked onto the field, and that's when she greeted us.
A tall girl—towering, maybe 5'10, with a confident smirk already plastered on her face. She looked us up and down the way a predator sizes up prey.
"Well, well, well," she drawled. "I must say, I'm surprised you kids showed your faces. I thought you were scared and backed off."
Cocky. Predictable. Her type always reveals themselves before the whistle even blows.
Rika stepped forward, sharp and direct as always. "I presume you're Scarlet."
The girl tilted her head, smirk widening. "Yep, that's me. Though people around here call me the fastest person in this school."
Ayame chuckled under her breath, that sly little edge never leaving her tone. "You seem cocky. I guess the rumors about you were true."
Before Scarlet could respond, a shadow fell over her. A giant of a man, at least 6'3, lean but built like steel wire. His smirk was carved with arrogance. "Sorry about Scarlet here—she's a bit feisty."
I didn't need to ask. My eyes had already drawn the lines together. **Scarlet** in front, her speed worn like a crown. The giant beside her could only be **Iron**—a defender through and through, every muscle radiating stubborn resistance. And behind them stood the third one… unassuming, quiet, with hair veiling his eyes. The type people mistake for plain, ordinary. That kind of camouflage is never an accident. **Dusk.**
Iron smirked, rolling his shoulders. "Name's Iron. Remember it." His voice carried the weight of someone who was far too comfortable in his role. Then he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the boy in the shadows. "What about you, Dusk? Aren't you gonna introduce yourself?"
The boy barely looked up. His voice was low, cold, dismissive. "I'll pass. I don't have time to waste. Let's just dominate these newbies already."
Iron laughed, unfazed. "Antisocial as always, aren't ya? Alrighty then. Let's do this."
I almost pitied them. They thought their little performance was intimidation. But intimidation only works on the insecure.
The freshmen shuffled into our side of the pitch, the seniors took theirs. The referee—a woman taller than most men I'd seen in this school, almost statuesque—stood at the center with the ball cradled in her palm. She raised it into the air like a judge about to declare a verdict.
Time slowed. The crowd hushed.
And then she dropped the ball, blew the whistle, and screamed, "KICK OFF!!!"
The stadium erupted, and the first heartbeat of the match thundered through the field.
I let a smirk tug at my lips, low enough no one but me would notice.
*Finally… the curtain rises.*
"Let the games begin," I whispered, almost savoring the words.
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