Chapter Text
The Blue Locks had cemented their reputation and left a mark that promised much for Japanese football and its future, especially a certain blue-eyed, easy-going striker. Ego was humane enough to give them some time off, which, after experiencing the fiery pressure of the blue lock, felt like a new life and liberation.
Isagi couldn’t have been more satisfied. Not just because he’d taken another step toward his goal of becoming the best in the world, but also because he’d found something like friends, people he could actually call teammates. The Isagi from a few years ago would’ve stopped right there, thinking it was enough. But not the current one, he wanted more. He was hungry.
“Yoochan? Heading out already? You just got home.” His mother’s gentle voice broke his concentration just as he was tying his shoelaces, lost in his own thoughts.
“I’ll be back soon. Just going out with some friends.” His cheeks flushed, just a little. His mother nodded, like she always did, not without first telling him to be careful.
Isagi walked calmly through the streets of his hometown. He’d have to catch a train to the meetup spot, but it was no big deal. Just a routine he already knew by heart.
Even so something felt off, a discreet but persistent discomfort. A strange warmth at the back of his neck, a faint burn, as if something had been branded there. He ignored it. Perhaps I'd become so accustomed to the pressure of the blue lock that getting out of it is a strange feeling.
His phone buzzed. A message from Bachira: “Don’t be late!” He smiled from the corner of his mouth. It was enough to shake off that weird feeling, at least for now.
He boarded the train headed for Shibuya, but something still didn’t sit right.
‘Weird I’m tired, even though I barely did anything.’ A silly weight on his back, the beginning of a headache, and then his stomach, completely empty. His face flushed again in mild embarrassment: he’d forgotten to eat before leaving.
Maybe a quick stop at a convenience store would fix it.
As soon as the arrival chime sounded, he grabbed his side bag and got off. The day was far too ordinary, which only made that creeping discomfort feel even more out of place. He just needed to grab a bite and move on.
“Ah—!” Lost in thought, head down, it was inevitable, he bumped into someone. “I’m so sorry!” The words slipped out on instinct. Immediate embarrassment, the urge to dig a hole and bury himself in it. He looked up, trying to see who he’d run into.
“Watch where you’re going, Isagi.”
The voice cut like a blade. Strange, high-pitched, too sharp for his sensitive ears. And before he could say anything, the man was already walking away, disappearing into the living shadows of the crowd. Cap pulled low, face hidden. No chance of recognizing him.
That shiver came back, like something misplaced inside his body. The voice still echoed in his ears. And now, an irritating itch on the back of his neck too.
He brushed it off, deciding not to feed that kind of thought. He was hungry, and still had to meet the others.
He spotted a store with a bright red neon sign, glowing like bait. Walked in, passing through the familiar aisles. Perfectly shaped Onigiri, immaculate Bentō boxes, iced teas, matcha sweets. Everything was eye-catching. But none of it appealed to him.
He was looking for something specific. Something with red bean paste. Kintsuba, maybe. Or a forgotten daifuku buried in the back of the fridge. Then a strange scent hit his nose, not bad, just different. His eyes scanned the shelves until they landed on the source.
“Whoa…” A small pouch filled with a dark, wine-colored liquid. The packaging resembled that of strawberry milk, but the scent was definitely coming from it. His body seemed to respond on its own, the burn on his neck intensified.
“Blood Mary? Like the drink?” He read the label, letting out a small, amused puff of air. People’s creativity never failed. He scratched the back of his neck, maybe a mosquito, the insect season seemed to be getting closer and closer.
At the register, it cost next to nothing. He didn’t even remember seeing a barcode, but he didn’t care. His stomach growled, his throat felt parched.
He pulled the straw from the side of the pouch and pierced it, drinking deeply, and it was like magic.
The hunger vanished. The fatigue dissolved. A strange relief spread through him, as if he’d found something he hadn’t even known he needed. And then, an intrusive thought barged in, like someone kicking down the door:
“…Did I tell him my name?” He muttered quietly, momentarily recalling the earlier collision, the straw still between his lips. A shiver crawled up his spine. The burn on his neck flared up again. Irritating.
But before he could dwell on it, a familiar voice cut through like a beam of sunlight at the end of a tunnel:
“Ah! You made it, Isagi!”
“Yo!”
He looked up. Bachira and Chigiri were standing in front of a cozy little café, a gentle breeze brushing past them. Isagi smiled and walked over.
“Hey, guys.” He sat down without ceremony, soaking in the moment.
“This caramel honey milk is amazing. Want some?” Chigiri offered, excited. It smelled good, but the pouch had already filled him. He declined with a polite wave.
“So? Just us?”
“I invited Raichi and Niko, but they said no.” Chigiri seemed unbothered. He was only there because his older sister lived in Tokyo. He didn’t even have Kunigami’s number, though he wished he did.
“Gagamaru went up to the mountains. Igaguri’s at the family temple. What about you, invite anyone?” Bachira played with his dessert like it was a toy.
“I asked Nagi, not sure if he even saw it.”
He checked his phone and opened the chat. Frustration: the lazy genius had just woken up, and it was almost three in the afternoon. What kind of creature slept that much?
“Did you guys see? We’re famous now!” Chigiri lit up, showing them a news article with their celebration photo front and center.
“Cool!” Bachira tried to snatch the phone and got cursed at in response.
Famous, huh? So that’s it maybe that guy recognized me. That’s funny. Isagi thought, unsure if he should feel flattered or disturbed half expected someone to ask for a picture. But even then he didn’t really know how to handle that sort of thing.
“Hm?” His head turned before his brain could catch up. Familiar voices across the street, familiar faces at another table.
“Aren’t those—?” But Bachira had already crossed over.
“Yo! You guys hanging out here too?”
“What are you talking about?”
Isagi joined the new group without thinking too much. He checked his phone again, nagi had replied, he was at an arcade.
“Let’s go get the traitor!”Bachira suggested, cheerful. No one disagreed.
And honestly, it wasn’t hard. A six-foot-tall white bear in an arcade tends to stand out.
The outing was fun. Light. And something Isagi hadn’t even realized he needed. For a brief moment of clarity, he even considered giving Ego some credit: maybe putting teenagers under absurd psychological pressure really had taught him to recognize and appreciate the little things.
Exceptsomehow, Isagi still felt a little off. His legs were heavy. His body dragged like it was carrying more than just itself. A constant internal burn, hot and hidden, a misplaced heat, and the itching at the back of his neck, he scratched it subtly, but it felt like his skin wanted to split open. To burn.
“—What do you say, poster boy?”
“…What?” He blinked. Lost in his thoughts again? Shit. These daydreams were becoming too frequent, like his mind kept slipping out of gear. "Sorry, I was distracted. Could you repeat that?" His usual calm smile was on his face, but something made his eyes seem too bright to look away.
“Pay attention when people talk to you." His tone wasn't at all harsh, as Chirigi would have liked to sound, something that internally made him maintain a gentle tone around Isagi. “We were asking if you’re down for a round of bowling. Us against them.” He nodded toward the U-20 team on the other side, still signing in at the counter.
“Sure. Sounds fun.”
They had run into their rivals by chance at a karaoke bar, and honestly, who would’ve guessed Aiku would end up with two women nearly punching him?
Chigiri gave the table where Isagi sat a long, searching glance, inwardly lamenting that he no longer sees those eyes that drew him in like a moth to a flame.
The blue-haired boy felt his mouth dry, and although he wasn't actively thirsty, his lips were craving something to drink. Perhaps some water or a soft drink would be good.
“Hey, Isagi.”
A sing-song tone pulled him back. He hadn’t even noticed Nagi approaching, This left him somewhat confused; his senses were so sharp that sometimes he wished he had an off switch, probably too lost in his own thoughts to notice external factors.
“What’s up, traitor?” he teased, Waving in the direction Nagi was coming from.
“I already paid for that. They threw darts at me.”Nagi replied in his usual sluggish drawl. “You smell good."
“Huh? Really? I hope I didn't put on too much perfume." He typically prefers mild, almost imperceptible scents. Since his sense of smell doesn't react well to extremely strong odors, it would be unpleasant if another sensitive person found his scent too strong.
"It's not exactly perfume, it seems more like your own body." Nagi couldn't describe it, but something was drawing him closer to the one who was approaching paradise.
A literal question mark could’ve appeared above Isagi’s head. My body odor? Like the soap? But my soap is unscented.
Before he could even try to ask what Nagi really meant, the latter moved even closer, almost burying his head in the crook of the shorter man's neck.
Isagi was warm. Those were the only words Nagi would use to describe it verbally, but her mind spoke much more than three words. Him skin was warm, but in a comfortable way, like a soft, warm pillow on a winter night. Its scent was something like red herbs, cinnamon and something spicy that made her tongue swirl in him mouth.
"Nagi?" Her voice sounded like a sigh, hesitant before the sudden action.
Besides the strange sensation of a deep breath on his neck, Isagi felt a piercing gaze from a certain attacker with purple eyes, which showed some displeasure at the scene that was taking place a little far from him.
Alright. That was enough.
Isagi stood up suddenly, drawing glances from the table. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
He thanked the heavens he managed to say it normally. Then walked off with brisk steps, maybe too brisk.
All of Nagi's senses returned to gray, his nose in particular twisting millimeters in his neutral face to demonstrate the loss of the comfort he had before.
But of course, bad luck stuck to him like gum: he’d forgotten to ask where the bathroom was. No obvious signs. No help in sight.
‘What the fuck is happening to me?’
Perhaps a little water would help with whatever was happening.
He walked to the vending machine, selected a bottle of still water, opened it carefully, and took the first few sips.
"Huh?"
Nothing.
Bought another.
Same result.
The water was too cold, uncomfortably so on his teeth, like they’d gone sensitive. But the dryness, if it was even thirst, persisted, an endless dryness.
And deep in his stomach, that same burning, like something inside him was waking up, Silent and hungry in its own way.
Maybe it was a fever. His skin tingled like the air was too hot, like invisible layers of fabric had been stitched too tightly onto his muscles. His neck burned. His chest felt heavy, but he didn’t want to bail on the others, not now. These were the first real friends he’d had in a long time. He couldn’t throw that away over some stupid discomfort.
Thankfully, he spotted the restroom sign at the end of the hallway. The light above it flickered slightly, but it looked like salvation. A little hot water would soothe your internal burning.
He walked toward it, ignoring his reflection in the mirrored displays he passed. He didn’t want to see himself like this. His fingertips were cold, and yet sweat beaded on his forehead. It was heat, a fever, that was all.
The door shut behind him with the sound of tired metal. The yellowish light above flickered like it was debating whether it wanted to stay on. He headed to the sink furthest from the door, turned on the tap, and let the water run for a few seconds before touching it.
He bent down, cupped his hands, and splashed his face.
He closed his eyes, letting the drops slide down as if they could wash the discomfort away. But instead of relief, he felt something expand inside. A dull throbbing climbing the back of his neck, into his temples, like his skull was under pressure. A jolt in his jaw made him stop for a second. He squeezed his eyes shut, steadying himself against the sink.
It was just stress, He knew that being under constant pressure would eventually harm him, and stress was very irritating. How did Barou and Raichi make it seem like a personality trait?
He looked at the mirror.
The first thing he noticed was how his eyes looked hazy, as if the room had been swallowed by an invisible vapor. His body seemed pliable in the mirror, yet somehow still beautiful. Not that Isagi thought of himself as ugly, but something was calling to him beyond the strange sensation. He tilted his head slightly, then carefully wiped the mirror with the sleeve of his jacket, but nothing changed in his reflection.
His skin felt more sensitive than usual, and even through the cotton fabric, there was a tingling beneath his shirt.
But then he tasted it.
In the back of his throat, faint, like a memory, iron, warm. As if he’d bitten the inside of his cheek without noticing. It was subtle, but present enough to bother him. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, checking for any sign of blood. Nothing.
And yet, the taste remained.
He brought water to his mouth again, gargled, spat. Still nothing, the taste wouldn’t leave.
He rested his forehead against the mirror, it felt warm to the touch. Or was that him?
“It must just be a cold. ” he muttered, like someone trying to convince his own body it was nothing. But even his voice didn’t sound normal. It was hoarse, too deep.
He straightened slowly. The mirror still showed his face. His own. Just tired. Drained. Too alive in some places, too faded in others. As if someone had messed with the contrast of reality.
She took a deep breath before deciding to leave the bathroom, which felt like a sauna it was so hot.
Even if something deep inside had started to disagree.
He walked through the corridors slowly, as if his body still needed time to recover from the sudden unease. His footsteps were muffled against the polished floor, and every movement seemed to take more effort than it should. When the harsh light of the main hall hit his eyes, it felt like searing metal against his eyelids, blinding, cruel. He blinked, wincing, forcing himself to face what lay ahead.
His friends were there, already mid-game at the bowling lanes. Laughter echoed, light music filled the air, completely at odds with the growing pressure pounding in his temples.
The plan was simple: enjoy the outing, keep himself in check, hide the discomfort, go home, take something for the fever. Tomorrow he’d be back to normal, or at least that’s what he tried to believe.
“You took your time,” Chigiri said the moment their eyes met.
“Couldn’t find the bathroom. Forgot to ask where it was.” He replied without hesitation. No need to lie, that was almost the truth.
That earned a few chuckles from those nearby. He raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Not my fault though! There were barely any signs” He pouted, earning another laugh or two, and quickly perked up at the invitation to join the next round.
He ignored the brief, slightly scrutinizing look Nagi gave him. He also kept some distance from the others, almost on instinct. He was too hot. His body radiated warmth like a quiet furnace, and the fear of being found out was real. No one could notice.
The sudden buzz in his pocket pulled him from the conversation. He answered on reflex, silently thankful for the excuse.
“Sendou, Otoya! Stop flirting and get back here, for fuck’s sake!” Aiku shouted from the far end of the lane, watching the two trying to get phone numbers from a couple of girls who’d recognized them from TV.
“Sorry, Aiku! I’ve got a date with another friend!” Isagi said with a casual hand gesture of apology. His voice still sounded steady, but inside, his legs were trembling more than they should. They were close to giving out.
“Hm? Leaving already?” Bachira’s voice carried a tinge of disappointment. Chigiri next to him just furrowed his brow slightly.
“See you guys later. Have fun!” He waved quickly, already turning away, his steps slightly dragging.
He reached the subway late. His slow pace had cost him time, but asking more from his body then would’ve been cruel, his legs still felt heavy, his muscles tight, and the heat inside him grew more incoherent with the outside weather. Finally seated in the train car, he pressed his palm to his forehead.
Warm. It felt like it was boiling. Perhaps this would explain her discomfort and how sensitive her body seemed.
He picked up his phone to cancel plans with Tada, but the notification told him Tada had beaten him to it. Claimed something unexpected had come up. Isagi should’ve been annoyed, but instead, relief escaped in a quiet exhale, like something tight in his chest had just loosened.
“I’m home!” he called as he stepped in, removing his shoes with robotic movements.
His mother’s figure appeared in the hallway, wearing that same soft, timeless smile.
“Yoo-chan,” she said with the kind of tenderness that warmed more than any blanket. His heart reacted instantly, he’d missed that voice, that place, that sense of belonging. “Are you coming to eat?” she asked, already turning toward the kitchen.
“Not hungry.” He replied, climbing the stairs slowly, like each step was a reminder that something was off. “Do we have any fever meds?”
“Are you feeling sick, sweetheart?” His father’s calm, low voice came from the living room, where he was reading the paper with a cup of tea beside him.
“Not really. Just running hot. Nothing to worry about.” He didn't want to worry his parents; a good night's sleep and some painkillers would do a good job of calming his body down.
He kept going, the stairs steeper than usual. The world sounded strange, muffled, distant.
“I’ll bring you some rice porridge and painkillers to your room. Get some rest, okay?” his mother said in that same warm tone that seemed to cleanse the very air around him. He didn’t answer, but the gratitude was clear in the way his body slowed for just a second.
As he entered his room, the world tilted slightly. The air felt heavier. He lay down, curled up, wrapped in the sheets. His shoulders ached, the heat and cold mixed like they were fighting for space on his skin.
He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath.
But the air didn’t feel like enough.
There was a strange sensation in the back of his throat, like something was creeping in from the inside. His thoughts were tangled. The fatigue was no longer normal. It was something else. Something growing under his skin. He turned onto his side, pulling the blanket up to his chin, trying to find relief anywhere.
The fever seemed to have a will of its own now.
And he just wanted to sleep before it decided to wake him in some other way, The night dragged on, slow and stifling.
Outside, the world seemed suspended, stuck somewhere between a summer that refused to end and a dawn that offered no relief. Inside the room, the lights were off, yet Isagi still couldn’t find rest.
He kept turning from side to side in short intervals, always searching for a new position that his body stubbornly refused to accept. The sheets clung to his sweaty skin, and the pillow, once soft, now felt like something worn-out and lumpy. His stomach churned, not with nausea, but with that strange, internal tugging, like something inside him was shifting out of place.
And his teeth ached. Not like a normal toothache, not like that fleeting sensitivity to cold or sugar. It was something more insidious. A pressure, deep and dull, as if the bones in his jaw were being forcibly realigned.
He raised a hand to his jaw and gently massaged it. His mandible felt slightly stiff, like after too much strain. That brought back a memory from when he was a child, maybe six or seven years old.
He remembered the exact sensation of baby teeth wiggling before they fell out. The gums throbbing for days, those small discomforts that grew enormous because he was far too sensitive. Everything hurt more for him. Fevers lingered longer, colds knocked him down easily, and his new teeth, ah, those made him cry quietly through many long nights.
Lying there now, a young man with a tall frame, defined muscles, and the endurance of an athlete, he felt absurdly close to that fragile boy he’d once been. As if this discomfort was peeling away layers of him, exposing what was underneath, not just in flesh, but in memory.
A faint sound pulled him from the daze.
Tap. Tap.
“Yoochan,” came his mother’s voice, soft and comforting even through the door. “I left the porridge and your medicine here by the door, okay?”
For a moment, he didn’t move, just listened to the gentle sound of her steps fading down the hallway. Isagi truly appreciated the way his mother cared for him. Even back when he was small and burned with fever every time the seasons changed, even when he couldn’t swallow a spoonful of soup, she never lost her patience. She was gentle without being weak, present without suffocating. And she still was.
He took a deep breath, trying to muster the strength to leave the bed. His body felt heavy, like it was submerged in something warm and viscous. His joints ached in scattered places, as if they’d been compressed while he slept. Still, he pushed the covers away, first with his feet, then with his arms, until he finally sat on the edge of the bed.
There he stayed for a moment, staring at the floor. The room was quiet, dimly lit only by a sliver of hallway light spilling through the gap under the door. Even in the dark, his eyes seemed to have no trouble making out the furniture around him. Isagi didn’t think much of it, too tired to care, just relieved he hadn’t bumped into anything on the way. The world felt distant.
At last, he dragged his feet across the cold floor toward the door. He turned the knob with some difficulty, not because of pain, but from a strange lack of grip. Then he opened it.
The tray was exactly where his mother had said. A deep bowl of freshly made rice porridge, the soft, salty aroma drifted into the room. Two pills sat neatly on a small porcelain dish beside a bottle of water that still held the warmth of the house.
Isagi crouched slowly to pick up the tray, careful not to drop it. As he straightened up, he felt that same inner tugging again, not quite pain, but a deep-rooted discomfort, like his body was trying to adapt to something new.
He returned to bed with the tray in hand. Sat down slowly, resting everything on his legs. First, he picked up the water and took a small sip, it felt like before, like drinking didn’t truly quench anything. Then, without much thought, he swallowed the pills all at once.
After that, his eyes settled on the porridge.
The scent stirred an old memory, although his nose wrinkled slightly, almost involuntarily. But the memory was clear, something involving thick blankets, thermometers in his mouth, and cartoons on TV while he sweated out a fever on a cloudy afternoon.
He picked up the spoon, even without any appetite. Brought a portion to his mouth, chewing slowly. The taste was mild, familiar. Warm enough to soothe his throat, though not his stomach, which still felt like it was turning inside out.
His jaw throbbed more now. He touched it again.This time, he noticed something, his canines felt larger? No. He had to be imagining it.
He had to be.
Once he finished the bowl, he pushed the tray onto the nightstand and lay on his side, eyes fixed on the dark wall.
The fever didn’t seem to subside. On the contrary, the room, once cool, now felt suffocating. And yet he was shivering, a constant chill ran through his arms, down his legs, up his spine like invisible fingers.
He closed his eyes, trying to sleep. But thoughts came in slow whirlwinds. Every time he blinked, black spots flickered across his vision. Every breath he took felt thicker, heavier, as if something inside was changing. Something invisible. Irreversible.
He didn’t want to think about it. It was just a fever. A bad night. Sometimes the body invented illnesses just to force rest. That had to be it.
Isagi clung to that thought.
As his body finally surrendered to the idea of rest, that kind of exhaustion that doesn’t warn, just invades, his eyes began to close, sinking into thick darkness. The room ceased to be a space and became only shadow. Then, suddenly, like a whip cracking inside him, his stomach convulsed with inhuman force.
This wasn’t the same discomfort as before. It wasn’t the kind you bear with grimaces and deep breaths. It was something primitive, ancestral. A brutal spasm that bent his body mid-lie, as if something was about to erupt, not by choice, but by cellular terror.
The metallic, acidic taste came before the real nausea, his tongue drenched in the first wave of stomach acid climbing, burning his throat, corroding the back of his mouth. It felt like his own body was rejecting what he was inside.
Isagi’s eyes flew open. The shock hit him instantly, and he panicked. He tried to leap out of bed like someone escaping a fire, but his body didn’t respond. His legs buckled under him like rotting branches snapping beneath their own weight.
The impact against the floor was dry and devastating. His left knee twisted oddly, the right slammed into the hard wood. The dull thud of his body hitting the ground was followed by a hiss of pain, but he didn’t even have time to catch his breath, let alone curse, his stomach turned again, this time with more fury.
His body wanted to empty itself. Every cell fought to expel something invisible, something that might not even be there, but had to come out.
With his fingers clawing at the floor, Isagi dragged himself forward. His hands trembled, but he forced his muscles like a cornered animal. Every second he held back was a battle.
He tripped over his own feet trying to stand again, hit his shoulder on the bathroom doorframe, but didn’t stop. He threw himself at the toilet with a dull thump, knees crashing onto the cold tile, hands gripping the rim with inhuman strength.
And then hell began.
The vomit came out violently, dry and corrosive, like it was trying to rip out something beyond what his body could give. The acid scorched his throat like molten coals, and the sound that left him wasn’t human, a muffled scream, broken by the grotesque splash of fluid hitting porcelain.
But it wasn’t food, not just gastric juice. Isagi blinked, gasping, and saw dark blotches in the vomit, something thick, almost black, like used motor oil. The smell hit him, dense and foul, metallic and rotten, like spoiled meat left in the sun, or old blood.
His body shook. His face was pale and drenched in sweat, his breathing shallow and ragged, as if the air in the bathroom had turned toxic. He clung to the toilet, dizzy, a string of bile-laced saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth. And still, his body wasn’t done.
Another wave came. Then another. His stomach seized and ached, as if its inner walls were tearing.
Slowly, the world began to spin. The bathroom lights, even off, pulsed in his skull. The silence made noise. His ears rang. Shadows on the floor seemed to move with a will he didn’t want to acknowledge.
And he knew, he knew, this wasn’t just a fever. It wasn’t a virus, it wasn’t a bad night, this was an expulsion. Something had been growing inside him, and now it demanded passage, twisting nerves, displacing organs, rearranging what was once his.
Panting, slumped on the floor, he didn’t know whether he was crying or just sweating. His chest heaved with effort, and for a second, a full second, he didn’t recognize the sound of his own breathing.
It was deeper, rougher. As if something inside him was breathing too.
The taste still lingered. A flavor he had never known before, and somehow, knew he’d never forget.
“What the fuck is this?” he gasped, each word rasping through a throat torn raw. His voice came out hoarse, cracked, as if it didn’t belong to a human at that moment.
He crawled back into the hallway. Sweat still clung to his skin, cold and sticky, and his heart pounded like mismatched drums in his chest. His body trembled like it was withdrawing from something, fever, maybe. But fevers don’t kill hunger like this. Don’t make water burn your lips like fire.
Isagi leaned against the wall, breathing hard, eyes scanning the void as if searching for logic. Nothing in his routine could explain what he was going through.
“But I drank that juice box, I was fine—!”
It clicked. A spark in the fog, a light bulb in a damp basement. The memory hit whole: Isagi at the convenience store after his stomach growled on the train to meet some friends. A vivid taste, almost too vivid. Warm, but it tasted better because it was warm. Strange, acidic, metallic, and it had made his mouth water.
Now, that juice box seemed like the only thread in a shredded tapestry of symptoms, nausea, and dread.
He stumbled back to his room, using furniture as support, like his body had forgotten how bones and muscles worked. He reached his computer and turned on the monitor with a trembling hand. His eyes could barely focus on the screen as the system booted, painfully slow, as always when urgency took over.
The plan was simple: search the brand, the ingredients, any recall, any fucking contaminated batch alert.
But there was no brand.
He typed the name he remembered from the box. Nothing.
He tried keywords, slogans, flavor combinations. Nothing.
He scrolled through search pages, looked at images, blogs, complaint forums, tnothing matched. There wasn’t a single trace of what he drank. It was as if the package had been created for a single moment in time, just for him, and then erased from reality.
Frustrated, he pushed away from the desk too hard, his head spinning like gravity had shifted. He staggered to the kitchen. He needed the box. Needed that fucking thing in hand. Maybe he had thrown it in the recycling. Maybe he had left it somewhere out of laziness.
He dug through the trash. Nothing.
Opened the bathroom bin. Nothing.
Checked under the bed, behind the door, inside his backpack, even in his closet. Nothing.
Not the packaging. Not a trace of the metallic smell. Not even a drop of the red liquid in the sink or on the floor. What he drank simply didn’t exist anymore.
His stomach turned again, not from nausea now, but from a slimy chill running up his spine.
That bump.
He remembered now a brief, cold, almost surgical touch on the back of his neck. He had felt a shiver then, but ignored it, thought it was the wind, or a sudden chill from the summer heat. But now, with his body burning, his senses scrambled, and nausea still hanging in his mouth, that touch felt different. It had weight. A presence.
And now the same spot burned. A persistent, throbbing sting, as if something was alive inside. As if his skin was trying to expel it, or absorb it.
“That son of a bitch!” the voice came out as a rough growl, like a sick dog trying to bark one last time. But he screamed anyway. Because there was nothing else to hold on to.
Isagi reached up to the back of his neck. The touch was shaky, almost pleading, like he was begging not to feel anything. Part of him just wanted to find smooth skin, warm with sweat, and laugh at himself. Tell himself it was just a strong flu. Hypochondriac nonsense.
But his fingers found something that didn’t belong to his body. Something new. Something that hadn’t been there before.
A spot, no larger than a coin, but with a strange texture. Too hot. Almost pulsing. Firm like an internal scar, but alive like open flesh. Right at the base of the neck, near the spine.
And as soon as he touched it, it reacted.
It wasn’t just pain. It was an inner chill, not from skin, but from muscles and nerves, as if something was directly wired into his spine, feeling with him. His knees buckled instantly. He pressed his other hand against the wall, panting.
He felt an echo of that pain climb his back and slam into his skull with a silent pressure. Not a headache. Something else. A faint hum, distant, almost musical, like a deep note vibrating inside his brain.
“What the fuck…?” the whisper slipped out, more a lost prayer than a real question.
None of it made sense. Contaminated juice? Poison? That’s what he’d believed minutes ago. But poisons kill. Poisons burn, stop your heart, dry you out. They don’t do this. They don’t replace hunger with revulsion. Don’t turn thirst into fire in your throat. Don’t make light itself feel like an assault.
Isagi’s body was rejecting not just food, but the idea of being human.
There was hunger. But not for rice. Not for meat. Not for sweets. A strange hunger, pressing deep in his belly and spreading through his veins. A void no food in the fridge could fill.
The questions boiled inside him:
Who would do this?
Why him?
Why in such a roundabout way?
He didn’t remember anyone hating him. No familiar faces in the crowds he passed daily. Just that hooded man and the touch on the neck.
That he had been chosen, not for something he did, but for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
His stomach twisted again, not from nausea, but something colder. Dryer, as if his body had finally realized what it needed.
And it was blood.
The following days were worse than any physical or mental torture Ego had ever put him through. At least in Blue Lock he could rest, not much, sure, but it was still rest. At least there, the nights weren’t reduced to hunger and uncontrollable nausea from trying to ingest anything at all.
In the second week, the fever finally left his body. That could have been good news , if it weren’t for the fact that now he was too cold, even for the Japanese summer.
Isagi did everything. He researched urban legends, Japanese folklore, scientific articles, even devoured online books about non-human beings. But no matter how many tabs he opened, how many forums he read, nothing explained the persistent discomfort of sharpened canines, skin as cold as porcelain, or the growing aversion to any kind of food.
He refused to accept the word.
Vampire.
“It’s just sunlight, just a bit of light.” He told himself, as if training courage. But being afraid of the sun? What the hell was that? How old was he, ten?
He sighed, irritated by his own hesitation. He did not want to open the bedroom curtain and turn to dust under the morning sun, like in those cliché legends he read in secret. But he also needed to know. He needed an answer, even if it was the worst one.
With tense shoulders, Isagi reluctantly pulled the blinds open. The light flooded the room like a wave crashing in, shattering the gloom into a thousand shards of brightness. He squeezed his eyes shut, waited, one second, two, three.
Nothing.
He opened one eye, then the other.
Only warmth. That good, comforting sensation of skin being warmed after days of chills. No spontaneous combustion, neither pain nor the black smoke that should emanate according to the website Https//Draculaisalie.com.reddit.
“Hm. So all those forums were wrong.” He smirked like someone who had just aced a chemistry seminar. “So this is all in my head. Just a weird virus, or chronic nausea, whatever”
Denial is always the first stage, isn’t it?
Before he could savor the newborn relief, he noticed something strange. The skin on his arm, resting under the beam of sunlight, was turning slightly red, like a weak, delayed, silent burn. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t look normal either.
“What the fuck” he muttered, yanking his arm away from the light. The area looked blotchy. Like a botched tan, faded. A strawberry-and-cream ice cream, swirled between natural pale and strange red.
“Do I need sunscreen indoors now?” he grumbled, annoyed, as he closed the blinds again. Light was warmth. But maybe too much warmth, even now.
Some soft, calm conversations moved up the stairs and towards the hallway where his room was.
Alert.
Normal footsteps, if they hadn’t been heard so clearly.
“Since when?” He caught himself frozen, listening as if each stair creaked inside his skull. It was his mother’s voice.
“Yoochan, lunch is ready, come on.” Iyo said, knocking lightly on the door before walking away. She didn’t even wait for a reply.
But he already knew she had walked away. Her breathing was still fresh in the air, as if his ears had been tuned to pick up what they shouldn’t.
“I’m so hungry…” The whisper left him, low and hoarse, like a cat locked out in the rain.
To avoid worrying his parents, he kept everything a secret. He ate the meals his mother lovingly prepared, and returned them hours later, silently, in the bathroom. Still, he hadn’t lost weight, no visible muscle loss, nothing out of place, not even dark circles to justify his sleepless nights.
By the time he got to the table, there wasn’t even expectation anymore. Eating had become a ritual. Chew, smile, pretend. His body rejected the food, but the hunger never left.
“You’re going back to Blue Lock in a few days, right?” The question came from his father’s firm voice, snapping him back to the table.
Shit. He had completely forgotten. How?
“Yeah. I think in two or three days.” He answered quickly, trying to sound natural. The silence that followed suggested it worked.
He finished eating and went straight back to his room. It had become routine: lunch, then existential crisis. He muttered quietly, questioned the ceiling, searched for meaning where there were only guesses.
“Why always me?” he said, His voice was heavy with the absence of sarcasm, exhaustion weighing down his mind and body.
Accepting being different was one thing. Giving it a name, a whole different beast. He still couldn’t say it out loud. Vampire. It didn’t feel right. And so, he kept avoiding it.
He had ideas, too many. No real plan. But he was Isagi Yoichi. If there was one thing he was good at, it was adapting. On or off the field. What was the difference, really?
Plap!
A dry sound against the window. Like a slap.
Isagi turned immediately, body rigid. Reflex. Pupils narrowed. The tension returned like a punch, and he approached slowly, trying to see what was on the other side of the glass.
“A bird?”, he muttered, frowning as he got closer to the window. The sharp snap of something hitting the glass still echoed in his memory.
Looking closer, he saw the small, disoriented body of a sparrow. It had crashed hard, probably mid-flight. Still dizzy, it wobbled a few inches before tumbling inward, landing on the bedroom floor, right in front of the boy with sharp fangs.
Isagi crouched slowly. Not from care, from instinct. Hesitant fingers reached toward the tiny body. He didn’t even need to touch it: he felt the weak pulse vibrating against his skin like a thread ready to snap.
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” he whispered, relieved for a moment. Then he felt it, something warm, almost too inviting for the intense red color.
Blood.
It dripped from the dirty feathers, staining Isagi’s palms, tapping the floor in rhythmic droplets. The sound was tiny, and unbearable.
He froze.
His hands began to tremble. In his chest, something pulsed, thick, muffled. His mouth watered, and his eyes locked onto the scene with an animalistic focus. His jaw slightly parted, revealing canines longer than before, as if they’d just grown in that very moment.
“No"
The word came out violently. His head snapped to the side, his neck cracking with a grotesque click.
“No!” he repeated, louder, as if screaming against something already inside him. The desire was there, it stayed.
Even after a whole week without touching food. The wrong food. Human food. Food that made him gag, and yet, he wasn’t weak, not yet. But something inside was starting to give way. The hunger it existed. It just changed names.
He tried to think of anything else. Numbers. Tactics. Last week’s training. But the smell of blood was there, and the wings trembled in his cold hand, on the brink of stopping. He knew, he knew what he had to do to end the suffering.
His hand didn’t let go.
His body shook. Saliva gathered. And when a thread trickled down his chin, thick and instinctive, he understood.
Hunger wasn’t the worst part, it was wanting to give in so badly. Isagi tried to be rational. He always had.
The sparrow was on the brink of death, it wouldn’t last long. Even if he shut his eyes and pretended not to see, the end was already there, throbbing weakly between his fingers. He thought of it like an equation, the result was given, only the process was missing.
But devouring it
Devouring meant admitting, accepting what he’d become, singning, with his own saliva, the pact he’d been denying day after day. His stomach growled.
His mind resisted, but his body didn’t.
The war was silent, internal, and more exhausting than any training, any match, any pain he could remember. A kind of fatigue that came from the soul, not the muscles.
He took a deep breath. Once. Twice.
And then closed his eyes.
Something inside him stirred with satisfaction, instinct. Nothing compared to the primal, unrestrained feeling of giving in to thirst that arose within him.
And when he did it, when his lips touched the wounded flesh, when the taste filled his mouth, something changed. It wasn’t the metallic flavor he imagined. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t dirty.
It was perfect.
Dense. Warm. Alive.
An explosion coursing through his entire body like an electric current.
The meals from the last few weeks felt like dust compared to that. For the first time, he didn’t feel disgust. No gagging. No urge to spit or pull away. He wanted more.
He nearly cried.
Even being just a sparrow, a fragile creature, with barely 10% of its weight in blood, it was enough. Enough to calm the hunger, to silence the tremors, to bring a damned peace no sip of cold water could match.
His body relaxed, or the first time in days, he felt complete, and that was the worst part, the hunger was gone, and somehow, the guilt too. He barely realized when it was over, only noticed he’d gone too far when he opened his eyes and looked at the floor.
Nothing was left.
Just a few scattered feathers, light, almost mocking, like they were laughing at him.
No flesh, no bones, not even a drop left.
“Don’t tell me even the bones?”
He laughed. Dry, strained, awkward. Not even he knew if it was despair, irony, or simple denial. Maybe all three. He placed a hand over his stomach.
Full. Absurdly and dangerously full.
“Fuck"
He closed his eyes again, trying to pretend it hadn’t happened. That it was just another bizarre dream, like so many that week. But the taste was still there, his mouth still vibrated with the memory of warm blood, He had liked it, liked it too much. Apnd in the middle of the mental storm forming, a sudden sound made him jump.
A notification. Loud as hell, why the fuck had he left the volume all the way up? He staggered to the bed, still dazed, and grabbed his phone.
FROM: TEIERI ANRI BLUE LOCK
" BLUE LOCK PROJECT.
Notification of resumption of activities.
Day and time. "
Month X day Y, at 13:00 everyone must be in "blue lock"
× Confidential details. We will not answer any questions.
He blinked, once, twice, read it again, just to be sure, and the realization dropped like a stone in his gut.
“Go back to Blue Lock… like this?” He laughed, this time with more panic than before. “No fucking way. What kind of nightmare is this?” He slumped against the wall, letting the phone fall onto the bed.
The sparrow’s blood was gone from his hands. But he still felt dirty, like every cell in his body was screaming that something had changed, going back to the field, pretending to be normal, sharing space with other humans hungry for goals.He didn’t know if he could do it, but he had no choice, and that, perhaps, was the real horror.