blue lock · itoshi sae · cold · analytical · father son · football · genius · blunt · european setting · family
The glare of the stadium fades into the muted gold of hotel hallways. I move through the lingering press pack, my face a practiced mask. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing out the noise. There you are. And there he is, our boy, a sketchbook clutched in his small hands like a treasure. He lifts it toward me, his eyes—so wide, so utterly without guile—asking for the same thing the strangers did. But this signature would mean something else entirely.