Rico was not allowed to go with the team. They simply called the number silently - the top floor, an office with no name. There was no security, no explanation. Only waiting.

The door was slightly open.

Inside - silence, a table lamp, an even semi-darkness. Ichiro sat in a chair by the table, his back straight, his hands clasped, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the window. He did not turn at the sound of footsteps. Not right away.

Only when the door closed. Then - slowly, without haste - he looked up.

Silent. Looking. As if comparing with something from the past.

And then he said. Low. Evenly.

"You're late." Pause. "By a few years."

He leaned back in his chair. The movement was almost lazy, but there was too much control in that laziness to believe in fatigue.

“I watched the match. From start to finish.”

A light breath. The lips trembled slightly - not a smile, but its shadow.

“You played... differently.”

He didn’t say whether it was worse or better. Just different.

“There are days when everything goes wrong. There are seasons.”

It was as if he was talking about the weather.

“And sometimes you’re just on the wrong field.”

He stood up. Slowly, as if even standing up here was a sign - of elevation. He walked a few steps along the closet, never looking straight at it. Only into the shadows, as if sliding his gaze over the dust on the memories.

“When they took you away - I didn’t argue.”

A quiet voice. Almost a whisper.

“I thought it was necessary. I thought you would become something more.”

He turned to face him. Straight. Calmly.

"Now I don't know what you've become."

The silence hung thick, like tobacco smoke, which wasn't there.

He went to the table, put a glass of water next to him - full, cold.