Night had settled fully over Barcelona.
The city didn't slow—it changed.
Lights replaced sunlight. Noise softened into rhythm. Conversations blended with distant music, and the air carried a quiet warmth that refused to fade even after dark.
On a quiet street just off the main road—
Two figures walked side by side.
Lamine Yamal had his hands in his pockets, relaxed as always, his expression somewhere between bored and amused.
Beside him—
Bunny.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Bunny broke it.
"…I met someone interesting today."
Yamal glanced at him.
"Yeah?"
"Who?"
Bunny's eyes stayed forward.
"…The ace of Blue Lock."
Yamal stopped for a second.
Then—
A small grin formed.
"You mean the place Lavi went?"
"…Yeah."
Yamal let out a short laugh and kept walking.
"They invited me too. Me and Cass."
A shrug.
"Not gonna lie—it sounded interesting."
A pause.
"I've always wanted to visit Japan."
Bunny glanced sideways.
"…Then why didn't you go?"
Yamal smirked.
"I'm a busy person."
Then—
"…Why do you want to go to Japan?" Bunny asked.
Yamal didn't hesitate.
"They've got a lot of cute girls."
Silence.
Bunny's expression twisted slightly.
"…Don't you have a girlfriend right now?"
Yamal waved it off casually.
"I can always break up."
Bunny sighed.
"…Unbelievable."
A brief pause.
Then—
his tone shifted.
"…So?"
"What do you think about them?"
Yamal's expression changed—not serious, but sharper.
"They've got potential."
"Good potential."
"But not enough."
Bunny didn't interrupt.
Yamal continued, voice calm but firm:
"If they want to go toe-to-toe with us… they're not there."
"And even if they reach where we are now—"
A faint shrug.
"We'll already be further ahead."
"It's an endless circle."
A brief pause.
"Unless they've got something unreal…"
"…like Lionel Messi or Ronaldinho level talent."
Another small shake of his head.
"That's rare."
He glanced ahead, eyes steady.
"They've got talent, sure."
"But that kind of talent?"
A faint shrug.
"We see that everywhere."
Silence lingered.
Then Bunny asked:
"…Anyone stand out?"
Yamal thought for a second.
"…Yeah."
"Nagi."
"Shidou."
A slight grin.
"Give them a year… they'll be dangerous."
"Even here."
Bunny nodded slightly.
"…What about Isagi?"
Yamal let out a quiet breath.
"You mean the guy using his eyes to control everything?"
A short pause.
"…He's smart."
"Really smart."
Another step.
"But as a striker?"
He shook his head.
"…No."
"He doesn't have the talent for it."
Silence.
Yamal didn't look back.
"He can read the game, sure—control space, move people, predict plays…"
A slight shrug.
"But that's not what makes a striker."
His voice stayed calm.
But firm.
"A striker needs something else."
"Instinct."
"Strong intent."
"The ability to finish on their own."
A beat.
"He doesn't have that."
The words landed clean.
"If he keeps trying to be a striker…"
A small pause.
"He'll break."
Bunny glanced at him.
"…Then what is he?"
Yamal answered without hesitation.
"A midfielder."
"A very good one—if he's honest with himself."
Then—
a faint smirk.
"But not a striker."
Elsewhere—
Far from the noise of the streets—
The night settled differently.
Inside a high-rise apartment overlooking the city, everything was quiet.
Not empty.
Not lifeless.
Refined.
Floor-to-ceiling glass reflected the lights of Madrid, the city stretching endlessly beneath like a living constellation.
The hum of distant traffic barely reached this height, reduced to a faint vibration that blended into the background.
On a wide, low sofa—
Itoshi Sae sat alone.
One leg crossed over the other, posture relaxed, almost careless—but nothing about him truly was.
A glass of red wine rested between his fingers, tilted slightly as he watched the screen in front of him.
Barcelona.
Playing.
The match unfolded with speed and precision—quick passes, fluid movement, players shifting space like pieces on a board.
Sae's eyes followed everything.
Not just the ball.
The gaps.
The timing.
The decisions made before the play even began.
A pass cut through midfield.
Clean.
Sharp.
His fingers tapped lightly against the glass.
Another sequence.
A forward drifted wide, pulling a defender out of position.
The space opened.
"…Predictable."
On the screen—
Lamine Yamal received the ball near the edge.
One touch.
Two.
A shift—
The defender lost balance.
Sae's gaze narrowed slightly.
The ball moved again.
Faster.
Sharper.
The game was good.
High level.
The glass touched his lips briefly.
A small sip.
Then—
A vibration.
His phone lit up beside him.
Sae didn't reach for it immediately.
He let it ring once.
Twice.
Then picked it up.
The screen glowed in the dim light.
A single message.
"You will face Barcelona from the start.
Give everything."
Silence.
No reaction.
Sae stared at the message for a moment longer.
Then—
His thumb moved.
The screen went dark.
Outside, the city continued to breathe.
Inside—
Something shifted.
The glass lowered.
Rested against the table.
Sae leaned back slightly, eyes returning to the screen.
Barcelona.
Still playing.
"…Good."
A quiet breath.
Then—
"Let's see how long you last."
His gaze sharpened.
Meanwhile—
In a spacious apartment in Madrid, Cassian sat in front of his PC, the soft glow of the screen lighting his face as he played.
The room was quiet, relaxed—nothing like the roar of a stadium.
Then—
A voice echoed from downstairs.
"Cassie~"
"Dinner's ready. Come down."
Cassian leaned back in his chair, stretching slightly before standing up.
"COMING—"
He stepped out of his room and headed downstairs.
The moment he entered the living area, he saw her.
His mother.
A woman in her late thirties, wearing a simple apron. Her long black hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and her presence alone made the space feel warm—like nothing in the world could go wrong here.
Cassian frowned slightly.
"Mom… I told you, don't call me Cassie. It sounds—"
He paused, clearly annoyed.
"…feminine."
She turned toward him instantly, eyes lighting up.
"Oh, my baby~"
She walked closer, completely ignoring his complaint.
"I've called you that since you were little. Now that you've grown up, you don't want your mom anymore?"
She placed a hand on her chest dramatically.
"I'm hurt~"
Cassian let out a tired breath.
"Ah… when did I say that?"
"You always twist my words like that."
She gasped softly.
"Now you're arguing with your mother?"
Her tone dropped slightly, pretending to sound wounded.
"Enough, Emily. Let the boy breathe. He just got back."
Before Cassian could respond, a deeper voice cut through the room.
His father—
Edward Marchessi.
A successful businessman, tall and well-built, with the same grey eyes as Cassian. He sat on the sofa, a newspaper resting in his hands, his presence calm but firm.
Emily sighed dramatically.
"See? Even your father is against me now."
Cassian just shook his head slightly.
Edward lowered the newspaper and looked at him.
"So," he said evenly,
"are you confident for the final match, my boy?"
Cassian's expression shifted.
Subtle—but real.
"It'll be tough," he replied.
A small pause.
"But I'm confident."
Edward nodded once.
"Good."
Emily clapped her hands lightly.
"Cassie—go call your sister!"
Cassian groaned.
"Ay…"
The room settled again.
Warm.
Normal.
No pressure.
No expectations pressing down from millions.
Just family.
But beneath it all—
Cassian's excitement hadn't faded.
As he turned toward the hallway, a faint thought crossed his mind—
I hope they don't lose too easily…
A slight smile appeared.
Because one way or another—
He was waiting.