6:47 PM - THE LOCKER ROOM
The silence was louder than any crowd.
Takeshi sat fully clothed in his kit, jersey still damp with sweat, staring at his hands as they belonged to someone else. His leg bounced slightly, a nervous tic he couldn't control. Around him, his teammates moved like ghosts. Kenji somewhere in the corner, shoulders shaking silently. Yuta staring at nothing. Sato wandering between lockers with no destination.
The air smelled like defeat. Sweat, grass, and something else, disappointment, maybe. The kind that seeps into your pores and never quite washes out.
Takeshi's ears were still ringing.
Not from the crowd noise. From the whistle. From the moment the final score was locked in: 5-4. From Daichi's voice: "You were never the star of Japan. It was always me."
His system notification box sat empty in his mind:
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
[SYSTEM OFFLINE]
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Nothing. Just void.
He'd pushed so hard, burned so much of himself, 2 goals, 2 assists, everything he had—and the system had just... quit. Shut down. Abandoned him when he needed answers most.
Two goals. Two assists.
Matched him for 85 minutes.
Then he woke up.
Daichi's final words kept cycling through his head like a anything,
"You were never the star of Japan. It was always me."
"Seven years ago, they called YOU the prodigy. But I was always better."
"You just were just brighter for a moment. That's all it was."
"You didn't fall from the top, Takeshi. You fell from the shadow of someone who never fell."
Each word was a knife. Not because they were cruel. Daichi hadn't been cruel. That was the worst part. He'd been factual. Clinical. The way you'd state that water is wet.
What if he's right?
The thought arrived quietly and stayed.
What if the last seven years, the comeback, the hope, the belief that he could resurrect himself, what if it was all just him chasing a ghost? A kid who got lucky once and spent years trying to relive a moment that was never real to begin with?
He looked down at his jersey number... 10.
I don't deserve this.
Whispered it so quietly he almost didn't hear himself.
The locker room had been silent for too long when Ryo stood up.
The 17-year-old captain looked like he'd aged ten years in ninety minutes. His jersey was torn. There was a cut above his eye. His hands were shaking.
He didn't ask for permission. Just walked to the center of the room and stood there until everyone looked up.
"I need you to hear something," Ryo said. His voice cracked on the third word. "Yeah. We lost. It fucking hurts."
Kenji's crying stopped. Yuta looked up slightly.
"But I need you to understand something." Ryo's eyes found each player in sequence. "Kenji, you made saves that shouldn't be possible. You read him. You positioned perfectly. And it still wasn't enough. That's not on you."
Kenji's shoulders shook again.
"Yuta. You threw your body on the line every single time. You gave him nothing for 85 minutes. You're 16 years old, and you fought a demon. That matters."
Yuta's hands tightened into fists.
"Sato." Ryo's gaze softened. "You controlled chaos. You were everywhere. You held this midfield together against an avalanche."
Sato looked away, jaw clenched.
Then Ryo turned to Takeshi.
Their eyes met, and Takeshi felt something shift. Not hope. Just... attention. The focused attention of someone who'd seen him today.
"And you," Ryo said. "You went to war with a fucking demon"
Takeshi couldn't look away.
"You scored twice. Assisted twice. You matched him until your body literally quit on you. And even then, you didn't stop."
Ryo walked over, knelt down to eye level. The captain's hands were still shaking.
"I'm 17. I've played longer than you. And I couldn't do what you just did."
Takeshi's throat closed.
"You're 15, Takeshi. FIFTEEN. You have years. Seasons. Championships. You have EVERYTHING ahead of you." Ryo's voice got quieter. "This wasn't the end. This was just... the beginning of something."
He squeezed Takeshi's shoulder once, hard.
"Monday, we come back. Because that's what we do. We survive. Together."
Everyone else had started changing. Peeling off the evidence of their loss, torn jerseys, muddy socks, the physical reminders.
Takeshi hadn't moved.
Coach Tanaka entered the locker room quietly. Looked at his broken team. Looked at Ryo, standing like a leader. Nodded approvingly.
Then walked to Takeshi last.
The coach knelt, actually knelt—to eye level with his number 10.
"Takeshi."
No response.
"Son, look at me."
Takeshi lifted his head slowly. His eyes were empty. Like someone had reached inside and removed the lightbulb.
Coach's heart broke visibly. You could see it happen. The moment a coach realizes he can't fix this with words or tactics or motivational speeches. This was beyond that.
"What you did today..." Coach trailed off. Didn't have words. Just put a hand on Takeshi's shoulder. "Go home. Be 15 for one night. Tomorrow, we figure out what comes next. But tonight? Just... breathe."
Takeshi nodded mechanically.
But how I am 34 inside, I lost once I... can't lose again... I won't have another chance...
But he followed his coach orders.
Started removing his kit like an automaton. Number 10 jersey felt heavier than when he put it on.
I don't deserve this number.
He folded it carefully anyway.
The evening had turned golden, that late Saturday light that makes everything look like a memory.
Families were celebrating. Other families. Takeshi saw Kenji being held by his dad, still crying. Saw Yuta with his mom stroking his hair like he was small again. Saw Sato waiting alone for his train.
Normal 15-year-old problems.
Takeshi's phone had a voicemail from his mother, "So proud of you, honey. Come home safe."
She didn't know yet.
Akira was waiting on a bench.
He almost didn't see her at first. She'd changed out of her crowd clothes—now in school uniform, hair slightly messed up like she'd been running her hands through it. When she saw him, she didn't smile. Didn't need to.
Just: "Hey."
Takeshi: "Hey."
She fell into step beside him. "I'm riding with you."
He didn't argue. Too tired to argue. Too broken to care.
The train was crowded with Saturday evening. Families going to dinner. Teenagers planning karaoke. Couples holding hands. Normal life was happening around them like Takeshi wasn't drowning right in the center of it.
He stared out the window.
Each passing light was a moment from the match.
Flash: Daichi's first goal (0-1, the beginning)
Flash: His own goal, the trivela, the hope (1-1, the moment he believed)
Flash: The assist to Ryo (2-2 at halftime, the illusion of balance)
Flash: The fourth goal (the demon awake, the illusion shattered)
Flash: The fifth goal (the dagger, the end)
Flash: Daichi standing over him, looking down like he was looking at an ant.
Over and over. Can't make it stop.
Ten minutes of silence. Akira didn't push. Just sat beside him, her presence a rope keeping him tethered to reality.
Finally, quietly, "He said I was never the star."
Akira turned to face him. "Daichi?"
Takeshi nodded, still staring out the window. "He said it was always him. That I just... burned bright for a moment. Just Three years ago, they called me the prodigy. Japan's future. But what if that was the lie?"
He turned to look at her. His eyes were red, not from crying yet, just from exhaustion and pain.
"What if THIS is the real me? Just a regular 15-year-old who got lucky once?"
Akira chose her words carefully. "Takeshi, you scored twice today. Against HIM. Against Daichi."
He cut her off. "And we LOST."
Voice rising for the first time, real emotion breaking through the numbness. "All of that and we lost. He scored four. FOUR. Then assisted the winner like it was nothing."
Takeshi's spiral accelerated.
"Three years. THREE YEARS I've been clawing back. Every day. Fighting my body. Fighting everyone. For what? To prove he was right? To prove I was never that good?"
His hands were shaking now. "What was the fucking point?"
Akira took his hand.
He startled, looked down at it like it was foreign.
"The point is you're still here," she said. "You fell three years ago, Takeshi. You should have quit. Everyone expected you to. But you didn't. You got back up. You fought back. That's not nothing."
He pulled his hand away. "It IS nothing if I can't beat him. Don't you get it? He's the proof. The LIVING proof that I was never special. That I was just... lucky."
His voice broke. "And now the luck's run out."
Akira didn't try to fix it with false comfort. Just: "I know. I know you are. Then be tired tonight. Fall apart tonight. Be 15 and broken. But tomorrow you can decide if you want to keep fighting."
Their stop approached.
Takeshi opened his eyes, looked at her. She wasn't pitying him. Just seeing him. All of him. The broken parts too.
Small, sad smile: "You're walking me home, aren't you?"
Akira's response: "Obviously. You don't have to—"
"Takeshi. Shut up. I'm walking you home."
Quiet residential streets. Saturday evening. Golden light. Families visible through windows. Normal life.
Takeshi felt miles away from normal.
Akira broke the silence first: "Do you think he's right?"
Takeshi: "Does it matter what I think?"
"It matters to me."
He stopped walking. So did she. She turned to face him fully.
"I think Daichi is better than you. Right now." Akira said it brutally honest.
Takeshi felt something crack.
"But I also think you're 15. And he's what, 17? Two years. Two years of extra training, extra growth. And you still scored twice on him. You still lasted 90 minutes. So yeah, he's better. But you're not done growing. He might be at his peak. You? You're just starting."
Takeshi: "What if I never reach his level?"
Akira: "Then you gave everything. And that's enough."
And then—finally—anger.
Real anger.
"It's NOT enough!" Takeshi's voice rose, cracking. "I don't want to just 'give everything' and lose! I want to WIN! I want to BE THE BEST! I want to prove he's WRONG!"
He was shouting now. First real emotion all night. His hands were shaking. His breathing was ragged.
Then it left him, the outburst. Took all his energy. Left him gasping.
Akira just watched. Let him feel it.
Finally: "Good."
Takeshi: "What?"
"Good. You're angry. Anger is better than empty. Anger means you still care. Anger means you're still fighting."
She took his hand again. "Come on. Let's get you home."
They walked the last block in silence.
Takeshi's breathing slowly steadied. The outburst had exhausted him but also... clarified something. He was still broken. But at least he was feeling it now instead of drowning in numbness.
(part 1)