?OUND ? ???? ?llk.

00 END OF IT ALL

It all felt far too sudden. There was another car. It turned around and slammed into yours. The two front ends met, and there was a loud noise, then it was silent. Glass flew around you, and it felt like everything was in slow motion. You slammed into the back of your seat, the seatbelt tightening around your legs in a restrictive motion that would've helped if it was worn properly, and the car flipped. Your parents were mostly unharmed, but it seemed you weren't as lucky. Your heart pounded and your ears rang—so much so, that you couldn't hear yourself screaming and sobbing as you were helped out, and your eyes were so blurry with blood and tears, that you couldn't see the mangled mess your legs had become.

It seemed your legs weren't completely unfixable—luckily, you needn't get amputation—but it was bad enough that your bones now needed metal to support the shattered parts, and because of the risks, you were permanently banned from doing any physically straining activity, such as running around, kicking heavy objects, or playing sport. It wasn't like your entire world shattered right then and there, because soccer wasn't all that important to you, just a quick way to make extra money to make ends meet. But rather, your world started crumbling away piece by piece.

You left the afterschool club in favour of joining the music club but soon left that too as it was too much of a hassle going up the stairs each day after school with your brace and crutches. Your heart had a strange hollow feeling—watching your former teammates before you went home, and staring for a while. You did still feel bad that you left them right before the big qualifier game—that they ended up losing with a regular player gone—but you guessed that it couldn't be helped.

After 6 months of using crutches and a lot more physical therapy than you would've liked, your legs were good enough to walk without your brace or help. You still limped and sometimes hobbled behind, but you much preferred being slow compared to being known as the girl who couldn't walk without crutches or support. With that, you ended up getting a minimum wage, high hours job at a gas station, sitting at a counter all day and drinking slushies when you were thirsty.

You hated this job. A lot more than you ever disliked soccer. The customers were insufferable, and your boss even more so. But it seemed like it was the only place you could get a job, especially with your only previous experience being playing soccer for donations and money. Each day was miserable, and you found yourself wishing that you could go back to running around and sweating for a stupid ball, instead of sitting around all day and holding yourself back from jumping a customer.

But, as it may, fate seemed to be cruel, especially to you. It seemed you were destined for this kind of life—because after your grandpa, nobody seemed interested in hiring anybody from your family—and it killed you. You didn't want this. Nobody wants this. It's terrible.

As you strummed your fingers against the hard granite counter, you had a fleeting thought, that you were destined for more.

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You walk into your shabby little apartment, locking the door shut and yawning, blinking owlishly a few times while looking at the dim light that covers your living room. Your mum was sitting on the couch, reading over a piece of paper with a torn envelope next to it. You take off your shoes, place your bag on the ground and take off your coat, walking over to her and peeking over her shoulder. On the envelope, you see, it says your name.

Your eyes widen and you lift a brow, confused. You hop over the head of the couch and plop down next to her—an action that would usually arouse a scolding—the silence of your mother scaring you. She sat motionless, staring at the letter. Japan Football Union...

You read it from her hands.

[name] [last name].

You have been selected for a position as an employee for the Blue Lock program.

After that, it's just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo about caretaking a team, being selected for showcasing tremendous skills that a manager should possess, and ridiculous nonsense like that. You let out an audibly heavy sigh, eyes narrowing until you look down, and see the salary offered at the bottom.

2 million yen... PER MONTH?!  *approx. 14,000 usd.

Your eyes widen, and your lips part in shock at the number. That's more than quadruple the amount you earn at your job as a cashier, and it would be more than enough to support your family for a while. You don't notice the fine print after, but your mother does, and she turns to you, lips trembling and eyes dull.

"Do you... really want to do this?" She says, voice barely above a whisper. "You'll have to... stay away from home... and take care of high school boys who can hurt you... and be with people who know nothing about you... you—you can't do this..."

You snatch the paper out of her hands and shake your head, looking down at the ground. "I want to do this. Do you see—" you aggressively point at the salary, "—this number?! I need to do this. For us. I... I don't like soccer all that much, but for this, I can—"

"You can what?!" You flinch as her voice raises, and she sniffles, eyes bearing tears and voice small and shaky. "You can bear to be away from home? To be all alone... like how you were in that damn hospital? I can't... I can't let you get hurt like that again... if you did—I couldn't live with myself. None of us could."

You grab ahold of your mother—something you never really did after that accident—and pull her into a tight hug, gripping the back of her shirt and digging your fingers into the fabric. "You can believe in me. I'll... be okay. I can take care of myself, so... don't worry about me."

She doesn't speak, but rather, lets a singular tear fall onto your shoulder before she promptly gets up, and walks away, leaving that letter behind. You grab it before it flutters to the ground, clutching it tight within your palm and staring silently.

If this was the consequence of everything that had happened within your life up until now—if this was the chain of events that led to all of this happening—then you weren't too sure what to make of this all.

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