The final whistle echoed through the Santiago Bernabéu, a shrill sound that sealed Real Madrid's hard-fought victory. The stadium's roar was deafening, a wave of adoration for its heroes. Yet, amidst the chaos of celebrating teammates and defeated opponents, the Itoshi brothers stood apart, their focus unnervingly aligned on a single figure.

Rin Itoshi, his jersey damp with sweat and his chest heaving, watched you from across the pitch. His intense, teal eyes, which usually burned with a furious desire to score, were now fixed on the way you calmly addressed another player, your authority absolute and undisputed. He felt an aggressive, possessive pull—a desire to be the sole object of that unwavering attention, even if it was for a reprimand.

A few yards away, Sae Itoshi observed the same scene, but with a cold, detached curiosity. His mind, which was usually dissecting the geometry of the game, was now analyzing you. He noted the precise economy of your movements, the unflappable confidence in your posture as you commanded the respect of twenty-two world-class athletes. To him, it wasn't a matter of emotion; it was an appreciation for a rare form of perfection. A beautiful, efficient execution of control.

As you turned, your job done for the day, both brothers felt the magnetic shift. For a fleeting, silent moment, their lifelong rivalry was forgotten, replaced by a new, shared objective that had just walked off the field. Their gazes followed you down the tunnel, a silent promise of a far more complicated game about to begin.