The Silent Striker

The Nankatsu team was in the middle of their morning run, the air crisp as they jogged along the narrow path near the river. Tsubasa, Ishizaki, and the others were talking and laughing, the familiar rhythm of their training setting the pace. They were on their usual route, crossing the old bridge that connected the neighborhood to the outskirts of the city, when something unusual caught their attention.

Tsubasa's eyes darted toward the far side of the bridge. There, under the shadow of a concrete arch, a lone figure stood. He was positioned at the base of the bridge, his back to them, firing shots at the old brick wall ahead. The sound of each strike was sharp, almost violent, as the ball collided with the surface.

"Did you hear that?" Ishizaki muttered, slowing his pace. "That sounds very loud."

Tsubasa squinted, his curiosity piqued. "Let's check it out."

The team jogged toward the area where the figure stood, and as they got closer, they saw the boy—a young man with shoulder-length black hair and striking crimson eyes, standing alone and concentrating intently on his target. With each strike, the ball hit the wall with such force that the sound of impact echoed through the empty space beneath the bridge. The worn-out ball bounced back with each hit, but it was clear that the boy was putting all of his energy into his shots.

"What the heck?" Ryūzaki whispered, wide-eyed. "That's not normal. Those shots are insane!"

Ishizaki, ever the loud one, couldn't hold back. "Hey! What are you doing, shooting like that?!"

The boy didn't flinch at the shout. He continued shooting, his movements fluid and precise, the powerful strikes punctuating the air with each thud against the wall. The wall, battered from countless shots, showed clear signs of wear—a few cracks and bits of stone missing from the repeated impact.

Tsubasa stepped closer, his curiosity growing. He had never seen anyone shoot with such intensity, nor with such refined control over the ball. It wasn't just about power—there was a technique behind it. The boy's form was elegant, controlled, but there was a raw, untamed force in the way the ball hit the wall.

"Is he even a part of any team?" Tsubasa asked, half to himself, as he watched the relentless shooting.

"I don't know," Ishizaki said, eyes glued to the boy. "But if he's not, then he should be. Those shots are crazy!"

At that moment, the boy finally stopped, the ball rolling to a stop at his feet. He didn't turn to face the team but instead bent down to pick it up. He walked a few steps, retrieving the ball and inspecting it. It was worn, almost falling apart—no longer smooth, with patches of the surface beginning to peel away. Yet, his expression didn't change. He didn't seem bothered by the condition of the ball, nor by the fact that he was practicing alone under the bridge.

"Hey!" Tsubasa called again, this time a little louder. "That was some shot!"

The boy didn't answer right away, and when he finally did, it was with a cool, almost disinterested tone. "It's nothing."

His voice was steady, devoid of emotion. He didn't seem interested in engaging with the group. To him, this was simply a way to train, a ritual that had no place for conversation or distractions.

Ishizaki, not one to let things slide, took a few steps forward. "What do you mean, 'nothing'? That was incredible! Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

The boy paused, his eyes flicking up for just a moment before looking back at the cracked wall. "Just practice. You don't need a team to get better."

The words hung in the air. There was an edge to his voice—a hint of something more beneath the surface. It wasn't just about soccer for him. It was clear he had been practicing alone for a long time, but why? Why did he choose to isolate himself like this?

Tsubasa stepped forward, his usual friendly energy coming through. "You've got real talent. You could probably join a team and go far with that kind of shot."

The boy finally glanced at Tsubasa, his crimson eyes unreadable. There was a long pause before Tsubasa asked, "What's your name?"

For a moment, it seemed as though the boy wouldn't answer. Then, he said simply, "Kaito. Kaito Fujiwara."

Tsubasa smiled, his tone warm and inviting. "Kaito, huh? Nice to meet you. I'm Tsubasa, and this is the Nankatsu team."

Kaito didn't respond to the introductions. Instead, he just stood there, looking at the ball in his hands. It was as though the idea of joining a team didn't even cross his mind. After a long pause, he simply said, "I don't need a team. I just need to be good enough."

There was a strange weight to his words, and Tsubasa, who usually had a quick reply, fell silent for a moment. Ishizaki frowned. "But if you joined us, we could help you get better. You don't have to do it alone."

"I'm fine," Kaito replied curtly. "I don't need anyone."

There was no anger in his tone—just a quiet certainty that this was how things had to be for him. Tsubasa could sense that Kaito wasn't just distant because he didn't want to talk. There was something deeper—a reason why Kaito kept himself so isolated.

Tsubasa exchanged a glance with Roberto, who had silently observed from the edge of the group. Roberto's expression was unreadable, but his eyes flickered with understanding. He could see the potential in Kaito, but he also saw the walls Kaito had built around himself, the way he shut people out. It wasn't just that Kaito didn't want to join a team—he seemed unwilling to let anyone in.

"You don't have to answer now," Tsubasa said, trying to lighten the mood. "But, if you ever change your mind, we'd love to have you on the Nankatsu team."

Without waiting for Kaito to respond, the team slowly started to turn, resuming their run. But Roberto lingered for a moment longer, watching Kaito in silence. He could sense the raw talent that Kaito had, but it was clear that Kaito wasn't ready to open up to anyone—not yet.

Kaito didn't look at them as they walked away. He remained standing in the same spot, staring at the wall, his expression as unreadable as ever.

As the Nankatsu team jogged off, Ishizaki couldn't help but mutter, "That guy is something else. We've gotta get him on our team. I don't care what it takes."

Roberto simply nodded, though he knew that it wouldn't be easy. Kaito was like a locked door, and even Roberto—who had helped many players through their own struggles—knew it would take more than just talent to get through to him.

---

Later That Day:

Kaito returned to the small, dilapidated apartment he called home. The smell of alcohol was thick in the air. His mother was passed out on the couch as usual. The place was a mess—broken furniture, cluttered rooms, and the faint hum of a TV in the background, though it wasn't even on.

Kaito didn't care. He had learned long ago that no one was going to take care of him. His mother never asked where he went or what he did. And even if she did, he wouldn't have had an answer. His life was about surviving, about finding ways to keep pushing forward on his own. He had no coach, no teammates—only himself.

As he walked into his small room, he grabbed the worn ball he had been using for practice. It was frayed, the leather surface peeling, with a few small tears near the seams. It didn't matter. He couldn't afford new equipment. And yet, even with all his limitations, he knew one thing—he was stronger than the world that had been built around him.

Kaito sat down on the edge of his worn mattress, staring out of the cracked window into the dimly lit street outside. The words Tsubasa had spoken earlier echoed in his mind: "You could probably join a team and go far with that kind of shot."

A team. He clenched his jaw at the thought. Teams meant trust, and trust meant vulnerability. He had spent so long building walls around himself that the very idea felt foreign, almost foolish. Yet, as much as he wanted to dismiss it, the memory of Tsubasa's sincerity stuck with him. Unlike others, Tsubasa hadn't seemed like he was trying to take something from him or prove a point. He had simply extended an offer, and for the first time in years, Kaito didn't feel judged.

His gaze dropped to the ball in his hands. The grooves felt familiar under his fingers, grounding him as they always did. No one had been there for him, not his mother, not anyone. Soccer had been his only companion, his only escape. But the idea of sharing it with others... Was that even possible?

He sighed and stood up, placing the ball carefully in the corner of the room. Just before turning off the light, his eyes lingered on it again, his mind churning with thoughts he couldn't quite put into words.

Maybe, just maybe, there was something more out there. Something beyond this cramped room and the weight of solitude he had carried for so long.

For the first time in a long time, the thought didn't feel impossible.