The days bled together.
Training. Drills. Shadows of San Dimas playing in their minds.
Every sprint. Every pass. Every tackle carried the same weight—no loss run.
Even the smallest mistakes in practice felt heavier now. A misplaced pass wasn't just a mistake—it was a warning.
A lazy press wasn't just fatigue—it was betrayal to the team's goal. Every breath of training carried urgency, a sense that time itself was running out.
The locker room door slammed open on Thursday, and a familiar voice boomed.
"I'M BACKKKKKK!"
Cael strode in like a conquering hero, his grin wide, his hands already thrown into the air. The bandage that had once crowned his head was gone, stitches vanished. Only the faintest scar remained above his brow.
Riku didn't even look up from tying his cleats. "But?"
The room chuckled, remembering the last time.
