The underground beach football tournament had been more than just a game to Shidou—it was freedom. For the first time in years, he had found someone who could match his madness on the field. That someone was Kaito, the passer who had turned Shidou's reckless aggression into something resembling art. Kaito wasn't just a pawn to feed him the ball; he was a maestro, someone who could read Shidou's movements like a script and set the stage for his aerial assaults. They weren't friends, not really—Shidou didn't do friends—but on the sand, they were something closer to equals.
Kaito played with a sharp precision that bordered on arrogance, but it never felt forced. He never barked orders, never slowed down to accommodate anyone else. His passes were the kind that demanded absolute trust, dropping in places that made hesitation a death sentence. He was all sharp angles and quick flicks, a machine in motion, and Shidou thrived off it. Together, they tore through the tournament like a storm.
And then Kurose had to ruin it.
Shidou still remembered coming back to their hideout, still high on victory, only to find Kaito beaten and broken. A message. A punishment. Kurose had been furious that Shidou had disobeyed him, and Kaito had paid the price for it. The sight of his passer—his perfect passer—reduced to a bloodied mess made something snap inside Shidou.
After that, there was no hesitation.
The night air was thick with the scent of the ocean and gasoline when Shidou finally confronted Kurose. The gang's warehouse loomed behind them, but Shidou didn't care about the onlookers. This wasn't about survival anymore. This wasn't even about revenge.
It was about making Kurose pay.
The first punch landed so cleanly it almost felt unreal. Kurose staggered, surprised, but Shidou didn't stop. He launched himself at the man, fists flying, fuelled by years of anger, of control, of being treated like some rabid dog that needed a leash. Kurose fought back, of course. He always did. But this time, Shidou was faster. Stronger. He was fighting for something beyond himself.
When he slammed Kurose's head into the pavement, something cracked. Maybe bone. Maybe something deeper. The gang boss coughed, struggling to push himself up, but Shidou stomped down hard. Again. And again.
He didn't stop until the struggling did. Shidou took around 5 million yen before finally leaving.
Kurose didn't die that night. Not immediately. The gang covered it up, dragged his battered body away, but the damage had been done. Days later, whispers spread—complications, internal bleeding, something about his brain swelling. It didn't matter. He was gone.
Shidou felt nothing.
Kaito was gone too, disappeared into the wind, like he had never existed. Maybe he had gotten out. Maybe he had just stopped caring. Shidou didn't know, and he didn't chase after the answer.
November 2018
Using the money Shidou took from Kurose, he bought a small apartment in Tokyo, a new phone and whatever he desired. No longer shackled he spends his days playing underground football and occasionally will keep his winning streak in underground tournaments when he needs more money. As he was heading home from a game, he sees something in his letterbox. Interested Shidou picks it up and reads it.
"Shidou Ryusei, you've been selected out of 300 players to participate in a player improvement program, please meet at the 3rd floor of the Japan Football Union building at 8am."
Shidou, ever the opportunist, decided it was time for a new game.