Why Does My Teen Soccer Comedy Involve Plots and Penguins?

[Ave Dominus Nox]

Family gatherings are the worst. They're basically school wearing a different skin—same suffocating atmosphere, same forced smiles—except this one smells like soy sauce and old people perfume, and you're allowed to eat without pretending you're having fun.

The moment I step inside, I'm already a target. Auntie Zero-One swoops in like it's her daily quest, fingers clamping onto my cheeks. It actually hurts, but if I say that, I'm the rude kid.
"Ooh, Hachiman, you've gotten so tall!" she says, like height is some kind of achievement I worked hard for. Then comes the follow-up attack. "How's school? Made lots of friends?"

Friends.

The word just hangs there, shiny and fake, like something from a commercial.

At the word I have the urge to hurl.

I don't say anything. I just stand there while my face gets stretched into some stupid shape, staring at the wall and wondering when exactly lying became a required survival skill. If I say no, I'm pitiful. If I say yes, I'm lying. Either way, I lose.

In my head, though, I already know the answer. Friends are just people who laugh too loud at jokes that aren't funny and suddenly forget your name the second someone more popular shows up. They're experts at smiling while measuring where you rank. I don't need that. I'm not that desperate.

I swear, my classmates have some kind of secret rulebook I never got. They bunch up in tight little circles, heads pressed together like they're guarding national secrets, when it's just gossip about who's dating who or whatever dumb thing is in this week. Their voices drop the moment someone walks by, and then—click—those smiles snap on. Same smiles they'll peel off the second your back's turned. It's almost impressive. Almost.

That's why I don't get why people act like being alone is some kind of disease. Standing by yourself is way better than nodding along to conversations that feel like homework you didn't sign up for. At least when I'm alone, I don't have to pretend I care.

Across the room, Uncle's still going on about some ancient story to Dad, both of them laughing like its brand new. Mom catches my eye and jerks her chin toward the table.

Translation: You. Work.

So, I'm lining up plates like a restaurant robot while Komachi's already disappeared into a pack of cousins, her laughter popping up everywhere at once. She doesn't even try. People just orbit her.

I end up stationed near the snacks, half-guarding them, half-hiding behind them. Everyone else looks busy being normal, and I'm just there, pretending I'm deeply interested in a bag of crackers. If I stay quiet and don't move too much, maybe I'll blend into the background. And honestly? That's kind of the goal.

Of course it doesn't last. Grandma's eyes lock onto me like she's found a rare Pokémon.
"Hachi, why are you so quiet? Come on, smile a little."

Smile. Yeah, sure. Let me just flip the switch. I tug at my mouth for half a second, then give up. My face isn't built for that setting. Talking would just make it worse anyway, and explaining myself sounds like way too much effort.

School flashes through my head without asking. Same faces, same habits. People bending over backward for whoever sits at the top, laughing a beat too late, agreeing a little too hard. Watching it feels like chewing on something rotten. You don't even want to swallow, but you can't spit it out either.

I grab a fistful of chips and cram them into my mouth before anyone can say anything else. Crunching is useful—it fills the silence and gives me an excuse not to talk. Then I drop onto the couch, sinking into the cushions like maybe they'll absorb me if I stay still long enough.

Between this place and school, it's like I never get a break. Different building, same pressure to act normal. I stare at the ceiling and think that if disappearing was an option—just temporarily—I'd sign up without even reading the terms.

I sink deeper into the couch, shoulders curling in, like if I make myself small enough, I might slip between the cushions and disappear. Chips keep going into my mouth one after another. Crunch, swallow, repeat. As long as I'm eating, no one expects me to talk. It's a pretty solid strategy.

The room's full of overlapping voices. An auntie's still stuck on school stuff, tossing words like "future" around like she knows what she's talking about. Grandma's hovering near the table, rearranging desserts that were already fine. Komachi's laugh keeps popping up from the cousin cluster, light and easy, like she belongs there without trying. Figures.

Dad's by the stove, flipping food with that quiet, serious look he gets, like grilling is a mission that requires full concentration. Mom drifts around the room, smiling at everyone, collecting small talk like it's her job. None of it's new. Same people, same sounds. Normally I can tune it out.

Not today.

My brain won't shut up. That scene at school keeps replaying on loop, every awkward second stretched out until it hurts. Orimoto's voice, the way she looked all embarrassed—but not for me. More like for herself. By now, everyone's probably had a good laugh about it. Maybe she even got sympathy points out of it. Lucky her.

I crunch another chip a little harder than necessary and stare at the floor. Family noise, school noise—it all blends together until it feels like there's nowhere to hide. I don't want advice. I don't want pity. I just want everyone to stop looking, stop talking, and leave me alone.

Then a shadow drops over me.

I look up, and—of course—it's him. Uncle Reiji. Or "Aniki," if you're Mom. One second I'm minding my own business, the next he's just there, like he spawned in without footsteps or sound effects. Is that a grown-up skill? Because it's terrifying.

He must've been around for a while. Earlier, I saw him talking to Mom in that quiet voice adults use when they want to look important, all gentle and focused like the rest of the room didn't exist. When Komachi ran over, he even bent down and messed up her hair, not smiling, I don't think he could, but behaving like that was normal behaviour. Meanwhile, Dad might as well have been furniture. No eye contact, no greeting. Dad returned the favour perfectly. Watching them was like seeing two magnets flipped the wrong way—close but never touching.

Up close, Uncle Reiji's even worse. He's stupid tall, and his grey ponytail sways a little when he moves, like it's mocking me. Those black glasses cover his eyes, but I can feel the stare anyway. His face is stuck in this serious, don't-mess-with-me mode, and suddenly I'm pretty sure I've done something wrong.

The problem is… I have no idea what.

I'm just sitting here. Eating chips. Existing.
But the way he's looking at me, it's like I got caught red-handed.

"Looking at everyone and everything here with angry eyes is a poor look," he says, adjusting his glasses, that serious frown digging in a little deeper. "Especially since they are not the source of your frustrations, Hachiman."

…Okay, no. That's not normal. That's way too accurate.

My stomach tightens, and I scoot a few inches down the couch without thinking, like distance might help. How does he even know that? Did my face seriously give me away that badly? I avoid his eyes, because when I do look, it feels like he's staring straight through my skull, poking around like he's checking what's broken. It's creepy. Super creepy.

"Uh… what? I'm not angry or anything," I mumble. My hand freezes halfway to my mouth, then I awkwardly drop the chip back into the bowl like it betrayed me. I glance around the room, scanning for literally anyone who might interrupt. Anyone. Please. Right now, I feel like I accidentally locked eyes with a predator at the zoo, except there's no glass.

Inside my head, alarms are going off. Back off. Stop looking at me like that. I didn't do anything. I think.

"Lies have their use," Uncle Reiji replies, not raising his voice, not smiling, just saying it like it's obvious. "Though the trick is knowing when and where to tell them, along with who to tell them to."

Great. So, he knows I'm lying too.

I shrink into myself, shoulders stiff, wishing I could crawl behind the couch and live there forever. Seriously, can someone spill a drink? Start an argument? Set something on fire? Anything that gets this guy to stop staring at me like I'm some kind of problem he's already solved and just hasn't explained yet.

"I take it no one has bothered to ask, or if they have, bothered to listen." Uncle Reiji says it flat and bored, like he's commenting on the weather. Even with those sunglasses hiding his eyes, I can tell he looks off to the side—toward Mom and her parents. Then he scoffs. "I don't think I could have been more disappointed with her over this."

My chest tightens before I can stop it. Words jump out on their own, tripping over each other. "What's it to you?" I blurt, then immediately realize how bad that sounded. My throat goes dry. "…What's it to you, Uncle Reiji?"

"At this moment, nothing," he answers without missing a beat. "I need to hear it first."

I swallow. My fingers dig into the couch cushion like it might keep everything from spilling out. "It's just something childish," I say, forcing the words through, even though calling it that makes my stomach twist. Saying it out loud makes it sound small. Like it shouldn't matter.

But it does.

It hurts in that dumb, lingering way that doesn't go away just because you tell yourself you're being stupid. I keep my eyes down, staring at a stain on the carpet, pretending it's suddenly fascinating. Childish or not, the stuff they said stuck. It crawled under my skin and stayed there.

"Childish only means it lacks maturity," Uncle Reiji says, like he's correcting a mistake on a worksheet. "It does not describe the consequences, nor how far-reaching they can be."

…Great. He landed on the exact thought I was trying to avoid. I don't know why that bothers me so much, but it does. It feels like he skipped a few steps and ended up right where I didn't want anyone standing.

"Like I said," I mutter, staring at my hands, "it's childish." Saying it again doesn't make it feel any smaller. "But it started with a rejection."

"Do not insult my intelligence by attempting to play it off as merely a rejection that is the cause of your anger, Hachiman." His voice sharpens, not louder, just heavier. "I doubt you are so immature that you believe it is the end of the world and lash out over a girl not returning your feelings."

…Crap.

My shoulders stiffen. He didn't hesitate. Didn't guess. He just went straight for it, like he already knew the answer and was waiting for me to catch up. I bite the inside of my cheek, heat creeping up my neck.

So yeah. He saw through it.
Every dumb excuse. Every shortcut I tried to take around it.

"Which means it is less her rejection that stings," Uncle Reiji says, voice steady, "and more the manner in which she conducted herself afterwards."

I hate how easily he says it. Like he just picked the lock on something I've been jamming shut this whole time. He's way too good at getting to the centre of it, and I don't like being there.

"She let the whole school know about it," I say after a second. The words scrape on the way out. "Something they mocked me for."

Uncle Reiji lets out a short chuckle. It doesn't reach his face—he still looks bored, serious, like this is just another thing he expected. "You're right, boy," he says. "It is childish. Though she likely did it to gather sympathy from both your peers and hers."

Yeah. Sympathy. That stupid, warm spotlight everyone crowds around. She gets comforted, gets told it's not her fault, while I turn into the punchline. My fingers curl into the couch fabric, twisting it tight. People call it a mistake. Say it's just kids being kids.

From where I'm sitting, that sounds like a lie.

"So," Uncle Reiji drawls, sounding almost bored, "what have you done about it?"

The question slams into me.

I open my mouth, then close it again. My brain scrambles, like it's flipping through empty pages, hoping an answer will magically appear. What have I done?

Besides being mad?

Nothing.

The realization sits heavy in my chest. I've spent weeks replaying everything, sulking like the world ended that day. A whole month of staring at ceilings, clenching my teeth, pretending I didn't care when I obviously did. And for all that time, nothing changed.

If anything, it got worse.

The whispers at school didn't stop. The looks didn't either. They're still there, sticking to me like gum on a shoe. I sink back into the couch, fingers tightening in my sleeves, wishing I could rewind time—or at least fast-forward past this part.

"Given your reaction, I can guess you have wasted this opportunity," Uncle Reiji says.

…Opportunity?

I blink at him, my thoughts tripping over the word. Opportunity for what? Getting embarrassed? Becoming the class joke? If that's an opportunity, then yeah, I nailed it.

He shifts, and suddenly his shadow stretches over me. He doesn't actually step closer, but it still feels like the space shrinks anyway. I stiffen without meaning to.

"You have all that anger and frustration, and you just let it simmer," he continues, like he's pointing out something obvious. "And from what you have admitted without even saying it, you have done nothing with it."

My foot slides back on instinct. I don't even know why—I just want space. He stays where he is, but the shadow doesn't let me go. It clings to me, heavy and annoying, like it knows I can't argue back.

"If you are not using it, why keep it?" he asks.

My throat tightens. I don't answer. I don't have one.

I have been carrying it around, though. Every stupid comment, every laugh behind my back, all of it packed inside me like junk I don't know where to throw away. I thought holding onto it was normal. Like if I let it go, then it really meant none of it mattered.

"Use it?" I repeat, blinking at him. Is he seriously saying I should do something with this mess in my chest? Like turn it into a hobby or whatever? That kind of thing only works in manga. Real life doesn't come with training arcs.

"An outlet," Uncle Reiji says. "Not a means to cope, but something to use to excel in."

I frown. That doesn't clear it up. "I can use my anger to excel?" The words sound fake even to me. Like something a cool mentor says right before the opening theme kicks in. I've watched enough anime to know how this goes—and how it usually doesn't.

"Of course you can," he replies calmly. "I have been rather successful."

…Wow. Okay.

For a second I almost laugh. Is this a sales pitch? Because it really sounds like one. I'm a middle schooler, not some burned-out office worker looking for motivation posters. Still, something about how sure he sounds makes me straighten up a little.

I take a breath, feeling weirdly braver, and look up at him. "Then what did you make of yourself, Uncle Reiji?"

The question slips out sharper than I expect. But if he's going to talk like that, I kind of want to see the proof.

"Aniki was one of the Legendary Inazuma 11," Mom suddenly says, approaching us from the table, like she's dropping some huge reveal.

…Inazuma 11?
That sounds less like a sports thing and more like a secret attack name. Or a sentai squad. I glance at Uncle Reiji again, trying to see the glow or dramatic aura that's supposed to come with a title like that. Nothing. Just tall, serious, and scary.

Uncle Reiji clicks his tongue, clearly annoyed. "I was only a bench player, slotting as forward or midfield."

Only? He says that like it's nothing, but Mom looked way too proud a second ago for that to be normal. I squint at him, running a quick inspection. He is tall. Really tall. And skinny too. Not bulky like you'd expect from, you know, whatever a "legendary" athlete is supposed to look like.

"Did you play basketball, Oji-san?" I ask, making sure my tone's polite now that Mom's watching. Tall people usually play basketball. That's just common sense. Plus, if this was from a long time ago, Japan's sports scene was probably even messier than it is now.

The look Mom shoots me could probably end civilizations.

"Basketball?" Uncle Reiji repeats slowly, like he's testing the word to see if it offends him. Mom, on the other hand, just laughs.

"Soccer," she corrects. "Though it is also called football."

Oh.
That actually makes sense. You use your feet. Not your hands. Calling it football is way more logical, but I most people I think call it soccer, at least here. I nod to myself like I've solved something important, filing it away while trying not to think too hard about the fact that the scary guy looming over me used to be some kind of sports legend.

Figures.

"Yes," Uncle Reiji says, agreeing, but his voice has that clear let's-drop-this edge to it. "I was more going to talk about how I am the head coach and one of the primary board members at Teikoku Gakuen."

…Head coach? Board member?
Those sound like words adults use to win arguments. I don't totally get what they mean, but they definitely sound important. I glance at him again, trying to line that up with the scary uncle currently standing in front of me. Yeah, that checks out. Of course he's some big deal.

"I liked you in Raimon colors," Mom cuts in, completely ignoring the warning tone. She looks way too pleased with herself. "You were much fiercer back then."

"I wasn't," Uncle Reiji says immediately, flat and annoyed.

Mom doesn't even hesitate as she counters, "you and the rest of the team, after your bus crashed, dragged yourselves to the finals while battered and bleeding."

…Wait.
Bus crash?

I freeze.

My brain latches onto the image whether I want it to or not. A wrecked bus. Injured players. And this guy—this guy—as a teen still standing up and going to a finals match like it's no big deal. That's not normal. That's not even sports anime normal. That's full-on shounen protagonist nonsense.

"I wasn't on the bus, and the match was forfeited," Uncle Reiji says, voice flat, like he's closing a door.

Just like that, the air snaps back into place. No explosions. No dramatic flashback music. Reality, apparently.

"You were, on that bus," Mom pushes back immediately. "You have scars along your arms and legs from where the glass and metal cut you. That's why you wear long sleeves even in summer."

…Scars?

My eyes flick down to his arms before I can stop myself. Long sleeves. Even now. Even indoors. I'd noticed it before, but I never really thought about it. Adults wear weird stuff all the time. But now my brain starts filling in the blanks on its own, and I kind of hate it. Twisted metal. Shattered glass. Blood. The whole thing plays out like a panel ripped straight from a manga.

"I am the head coach of Teikoku Gakuen," Uncle Reiji says again, firmer this time. That's it. Final answer. He's clearly done with this topic, like he's shoving that whole story into a box and taping it shut.

I don't say anything. I just sit there, staring at him, feeling this strange mix of disbelief and annoyance. He talks about anger like its fuel, like something you're supposed to use. And meanwhile, he's apparently walking around with proof carved into his skin, pretending none of it matters anymore.

Adults are seriously unfair. They act like stuff just stops hurting one day.

"So, you coach a sport?" I ask, mostly because my brains still stuck on what he said earlier about using anger. If he's serious about that, then this is probably where the explanation starts… right?

"And am a senior board member," Uncle Reiji adds, like he's correcting a detail on a resume. Then his attention shifts to Mom. "Say, my most precious imouto—"

He really drags out precious. Mom shoots him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

"I hear Hachiman here is dealing with a lot of bullying from his peers."

My shoulders tense immediately. Great. Just say it out loud. Why not. I keep my eyes on the floor, already regretting existing in this exact spot.

"Ah," Mom says, sounding more bothered than concerned. "Is he still going on about that?" She waves it off like I complained about the weather.

My fingers curl into my sleeves. Still going on about it. Right. Like it's a phase. Or a bad habit.

"If it is still happening, I don't see why not?" Uncle Reiji replies calmly. "But perhaps a change of scenery and venue might be helpful?"

I blink. Change of scenery? Venue? Are they talking about redecorating? Moving? Exiling me?

"I'm not certain, aniki," Mom says after a second. "Teikoku is really expensive and elite."

Teikoku.

The word hangs there, heavy. I don't fully get what's being discussed, but I can tell it's big. Adult-big. The kind of conversation that decides stuff without asking the person it's about.

"The former is easy to handle," Uncle Reiji says, calm like this is some simple math problem, "and the latter—are you telling me you didn't raise your son to want to excel and be better than his peers?"

Mom's face tightens. Not angry exactly. More like she just stepped on something she forgot was there. I don't know what history they're tripping over, but it's obvious this isn't a new argument. Just an old one dragged back into the light.

"Hachiman isn't really one to stand out," she says, glancing my way.

Ouch.
I mean, she's not wrong, but hearing it said like that still stings. I sink a little into myself, like maybe I can prove her point by vanishing on the spot.

Uncle Reiji lets out a scoff. "He is sticking out like a sore thumb here, quite fine," he says. Then his voice dips, colder. "I expected more from you."

The room feels tighter after that. Mom straightens, her expression turning serious in a way I don't see often. It's the kind she uses when something actually matters.

"What are you suggesting, Aniki?" she asks.

I hold my breath without meaning to. My name's been bouncing around this conversation like a ball, and I really don't like where it seems to be heading.

"Transfer him to Teikoku," Uncle Reiji says. No hesitation. "I'll see to it that he gets a fresh environment, one conducive to helping him excel."

…Transfer?

My brain lags for a second, then starts racing. New school. New people. New place where nobody knows me—or where everyone might. My hands clench at my sides. I don't say anything. I'm not even sure I'm allowed to.

They're talking about my life like it's a piece on a board.

"You know I hated that place," Mom says, and the way she says it makes it sound personal, like the building itself did something to her. "They're obsessed with perfection, the lot of them. Why did you ever transfer there in the first place?"

So, she's been there.
That explains a lot. I glance between them, trying to keep up. Teikoku isn't just some school name anymore—it's a place with history, and apparently bad memories.

"To increase yours and the others' standard of living, last I checked," Uncle Reiji replies, sounding mildly annoyed. Like the answer should've been obvious. "I am far from pleased with how content you are with your life as it is."

That sentence feels heavier than it should. I don't fully get it, but it sounds like one of those adult arguments where both sides are right and also mad about it.

"I'd rather not have to rely on you for everything," Mom says. She tries to keep it calm, but there's an edge there, a warning that they have had this argument over dozen times already. "Least of all for a promotion."

…Hold on.

Promotion?

I stiffen. Did he just casually offer to help Mom move up at work? My eyes flick back to Uncle Reiji, reevaluating him again. Coach. Board member. Apparently, someone who can just do that, this is starting to feel unreal.

My chest tightens a little. If he has that much pull, then this whole transfer thing suddenly feels way more serious. Like it's not just talk anymore.

And that's… kind of terrifying.

"You're good at your job," Uncle Reiji says, not bothering to soften it, "but unless someone puts in a good word for you to the right ears, you and your husband are never going anywhere in that company."

The words land hard.

I feel it before I really understand it—this sharp edge under his voice when he mentions Dad. Like Dad's just an extra detail, something inconvenient. It makes my stomach twist. I don't like it. But… I kind of get it too, which is worse.

I sneak a glance at Dad across the room. Same calm posture, same quiet focus. He looks solid. Steady. But standing next to Uncle Reiji's confidence, it's like they exist in totally different worlds.

And that's when it clicks.

If Uncle Reiji can talk about promotions like they're favours you hand out—and he doesn't even work in the same field as Mom—then he's not just important. He's connected. The kind of person who doesn't knock on doors because they're already open for him.

Mom and Uncle Reiji keep going at it, voices rising and falling like I'm not even there. I can see their mouths moving, the tension in their faces, but the words stop sticking. It all fades into background noise.

Because something else is way louder in my head.

It starts as one thought, then stretches out, looping over itself. I keep looking at Uncle Reiji—at how sure he is, how easily he talks about people and places like pieces on a board—and my chest feels tight in a weird way.

I want that.

Not the yelling. Not the arguments.
That power.

The kind that doesn't need fists or shouting. The kind that reaches people without touching them. The kind that makes laughter die before it even starts.

If I had that, no one at school would look at me the same way. No whispers. No jokes. No turning me into a story they pass around for fun. I wouldn't have to pretend it doesn't hurt anymore.

And yeah… a small, ugly part of me wants payback. Wants them to feel just as small and stupid as they made me feel. Maybe worse.

The thought scares me a little.
But it also won't leave.

And the worst part?
Power like that doesn't just happen. You learn it. From someone who already has it.

My eyes drift back to Uncle Reiji without me meaning to.

"Those are some nice hateful eyes there," Uncle Reiji says, almost like he's giving me a compliment.

I flinch. I hadn't even noticed they stopped arguing. My chest tightens, like I got caught doing something illegal without knowing what it was.

He reaches up and takes off his sunglasses.

I stare before I can stop myself. No eyebrows. At all. That alone is weird enough, but it's his eyes that pin me in place. They're sharp and narrow, pupils tiny, packed full of something hot and ugly. Anger, probably. The kind that's been sitting there a long time.

The worst part is… it looks familiar.

Way too familiar.

"They look a lot like mine did at your age," Uncle Reiji says, and this time, he smiles.

I don't like it.

It stretches across his thin face, sharp and wrong, like it doesn't belong there. There's no warmth in it, no kindness—just satisfaction. Like he's found what he was looking for. The smile crawls under my skin, and I suddenly wish he'd put the sunglasses back on.

Because whatever he's seeing in me right now?

He likes it.

 

[The Hero Without a Name]

So we are probably getting Villain Arc Hachiman.

 

[Setsura]

This means Hachiman is also related to Kageyama Hikaru.

 

[ArcanaVitae]

This is an interesting story concept.

 

[Hollbawn]

Very nice idea! And fitting to make Reiji and 8man related. I wonder if he'll get worse in the new academy? At the start, at the very least, until he gets his development arc.

Also, can't wait to see how his usual skills, like Stealth Hikki, and maybe the other sports he's good at, translate to the field.

If you don't mind me asking, btw, will other Oregairu characters be plot relevant? Maybe Hayama? Or is that a spoiler?

 

[Ave Dominus Nox]

If you don't mind me asking, btw, will other Oregairu characters be plot relevant? Maybe Hayama? Or is that a spoiler?

Click to shrink...

Komachi for certain, others well depends on the arc

 

[Hollbawn]

Komachi for certain, others well depends on the arc

Click to shrink...

Yeah, honestly, I thought she's was kind of a given. Can't have Hachiman without Komachi, or someone that can somewhat fill the same niche. After all, who else is going to get Komachi points?

And thanks for the answer! The match against Hayama will be fun, I can already imagine it!

 

[The Hero Without a Name]

And thanks for the answer! The match against Hayama will be fun, I can already imagine it!

Click to shrink...

Fun until the Death zone is deployed or fun because it is deployed.

 

[Tera Forma]

Yeah, honestly, I thought she's was kind of a given. Can't have Hachiman without Komachi, or someone that can somewhat fill the same niche. After all, who else is going to get Komachi points?

And thanks for the answer! The match against Hayama will be fun, I can already imagine it!

Click to shrink...

Honestly, I can imagine Hayama starting to see Hikigaya as both a friend and a rival. That would be funnier than the typical antagonist story.

 

[Ave Dominus Nox]

"…Okaa-san. That guy earlier—Uncle Reiji—who is he, really?"

The question comes out before I can stop it, which is annoying, because I'd spent the last five minutes telling myself not to ask. The car keeps moving like nothing important just happened, the engine making that boring, steady sound that feels way too calm for what's going on in my head. I try to sound polite. Normal. Like this is just casual curiosity and not me poking at something I'm not supposed to care about.

But I do care. That's the problem.

Uncle Reiji didn't feel like one of those adults who talks just to hear themselves sound wise. He said things like they were obvious, like he was pointing out cracks in a wall everyone else pretends aren't there. And somehow that made it worse.

A new school, he said.
Like it was nothing. Like switching your entire life was the same as changing TV channels.

The idea won't leave me alone. No more familiar faces pretending they know who I am. No more classmates who already decided what role I'm supposed to play, even though I never agreed to audition. It sounds good. Too good. Like one of those choices that looks amazing until you actually pick it and realize you still have to be yourself wherever you go.

My chest feels weird—tight, but not painful. Like I'm standing at the edge of something I didn't plan to find. I tell myself it's stupid to think about it this much. Adults say things all the time without meaning them.

Still…
If starting over is possible, then maybe all the stuff that already went wrong doesn't have to follow me forever.

…And yet, the word new keeps bouncing around in my head, like it's testing the space, seeing if it's allowed to stay.

That said, Uncle Reiji was weird. Not loud-weird or creepy-weird—just… off. The way he looked at me, especially when I didn't bother hiding how annoyed I was, felt wrong somehow. Like he wasn't seeing a problem. Like he was evaluating it.

He looked at my anger and frustration the way adults look at things they think might be useful later. That alone made me uncomfortable. Emotions aren't tools. You don't just grab them and start swinging them around like weapons. That kind of logic only works in shounen manga, where yelling louder magically fixes everything.

And it wasn't like he meant "deal with it" or "calm down," either. What he said sounded more like… using it. Letting anger push you forward, turning it into some kind of engine that keeps you moving until things work out. It felt overblown. Dramatic. I kept picturing those full-page spreads with exploding backgrounds and giant sound effects screaming across the page.

I've grown past that.
…At least, I think I have.

I don't really read weekly shounen magazines anymore. They're for kids who still believe trying hard automatically means you win in the end. I know better than that. Effort doesn't guarantee anything. Sometimes all it does is make the loss hurt more.

So yeah. Turning anger into "fuel" sounds nice on paper. But real life isn't a manga.
And people who say things like that usually aren't the ones who have to deal with the fallout.

Still, Uncle Reiji didn't act like a normal adult. He carried himself like someone important. Like someone who'd actually done something with all that anger he kept talking about, instead of just letting it sit there and rot. If he wasn't exaggerating—and that's a big if—then his life sounded suspiciously like one of those dramatic backstories publishers drool over. Honestly, if even half of it was real, he could probably sell the rights and retire early.

At a red light, the car slows to a stop.

"He's a very evil man," my father says.

No buildup. No explanation. Just the word, dropped there like it's enough on its own. He keeps his eyes on the road, then glances at me through the rearview mirror. "The less you have to do with him, the better."

Evil

The word hits harder than I expected.

Not because it's scary, but because it sounds wrong coming from him. My father spends his life buried in spreadsheets and deadlines, moving from one blinking cell to the next like that's all there is. Good and bad don't really exist in his world—just what 'works' and what 'doesn't'. Morality isn't part of his job. Neither is paying attention to what his kid is thinking.

So, hearing him say something like evil feels misplaced. Like a term copied from someone else's vocabulary and dropped here by mistake.

The fact that my mom calls Uncle Reiji Aniki keeps bothering me. It's not a normal word. It's the kind you only use if someone's close enough that you don't have to pretend politeness anymore. Older brother. Someone you choose, not someone you're stuck with.

As far as I know, they're not even closely related. Which just makes it weirder. You don't use a word like that by accident. It means there's history there. The kind that sticks around even when people move on and pretend they've changed.

She listens to him differently, too. Not like she's being polite. Not like she's humouring him. There's a rhythm to it, like they've done this before and already know how it's supposed to go. Close enough that he can talk about pulling strings without lowering his voice. Close enough that offering a promotion doesn't sound like a favour, just… an option. Like it's sitting there waiting for her to decide.

He says it casually. Like it wouldn't cost anything. Like all she has to do is want it.

The academy he works at is the same one he helped her get into years ago. She's mentioned it before, usually when she's tired or annoyed. How much she hated it. How it never felt like the right place, no matter how long she stayed.

Somewhere in the middle of their back-and-forth, Uncle Reiji lets something slip. Not directly. He never says it like he's bragging. Just a comment here, a detail there. His time there raised her standard of living. Not just hers, either. My grandparents benefited too.

He doesn't spell it out, but he doesn't have to. Opportunities opened. Money followed. Things changed. Lives shifted because he was involved.

That's the part that won't settle.

It's not that helping people is bad. That's what everyone says, anyway. But this doesn't feel like help. It feels… transactional. Like pushing on the right places and watching things move the way they're supposed to. Like knowing which doors open if you knock hard enough—or if you already have the key.

Maybe that's why my father uses words like evil. Or maybe that's giving him too much credit. It could be simpler than that.

Unlike my father, Uncle Reiji it seems knows how to climb. He understands influence. He knows where to apply pressure, and he doesn't look uncomfortable doing it. Not once. Offering my mom a promotion sounds less like generosity and more like proof. Like evidence that this is normal for him. That this is how he operates.

How often he's done it.
How far it goes.

And how easily he says it out loud.

I could seem my father hating such a man easily. I could see myself as an adult hating such a man too.

"Aniki… he, well—" my mom starts, then slows down, like she's stepping onto uneven ground and doesn't want to slip. She doesn't argue with my father, but she doesn't agree with him either. "He didn't grow up under simple circumstances. Regrettably, his otōsan wasn't entirely blameless in his okāsan's passing… so my family ended up taking him in."

She says it carefully. Like the words themselves might break if she presses too hard.

My father lets out a short scoff. He doesn't look away from the road. "I never said he was ungrateful," he says. "I said he's an evil man. I'm not deaf to the rumors, unlike you."

Rumors.

The word catches, snagging on something in my head. The way they talk about him, it doesn't sound like they're discussing a relative. It sounds like a character from one of those late-night dramas my mom flips past—someone with a past people whisper about instead of explaining.

"Not in front of the children," my mom says. Her voice is firmer this time, like that's the end of it.

If anything, that just makes it harder not to listen.

Children feels like an exaggeration. Komachi is fast asleep, her head tipped against my shoulder, breathing slow and steady. A thin line of drool slips out of the corner of her mouth and soaks into my sleeve. She doesn't notice. She never does.

So really, that just leaves me as the only 'child' awake to hear this.

"Is it really that bad?" I ask.

My father doesn't answer right away. The car rolls forward a few meters before he speaks. "It worked out for me," he says. "I got the promotion I wanted." He pauses, like he's deciding how much more is worth saying, then adds, quieter, "I don't spend much time thinking about the person who lost their job because of it."

The words don't fit together.

A promotion means someone else gets pushed out. That part is obvious. Simple. But I can't see where Uncle Reiji belongs in that picture, and still his name keeps hovering there, filling in the space my father leaves empty.

"Not in front of them," my mom cuts in again. Her voice is tighter now.

My father lets out a quiet chuckle. Short. Like he found something mildly amusing, or at least predictable. He doesn't look at her, and he doesn't look at me. He keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. The sound isn't really laughter. It's more like acknowledgment. He heard the warning. He just decided how seriously to take it.

He doesn't say anything after that.

He waits.

The car keeps moving.

At home, there would be options. I could step outside. Lock myself in my room. Let the tension burn itself out without me in the middle of it. The car doesn't have any of that. There's nowhere to go. No way to disappear. And no safe way to test how far my mom's patience can stretch once it's already been pulled this tight.

My father doesn't have an exit either. He's stuck behind the wheel, boxed in by traffic and responsibility. Part of me wants to push him anyway, just to see what he'd do. Under different circumstances, I probably would.

But with him driving, it's not worth turning a quiet ride into something actually tragic.

I tell myself I can ask him later. When my mom isn't around. When she's busy with something else and not listening to every word like it matters. It sounds reasonable for about five seconds.

In the morning, even on a school day, by the time I wake up, they're already gone to work.

When they come back, it's late. Late enough that dinner is the only time we're all in the same room, and even then, it's mostly plates and noise and people being tired in different ways. Then the day just… resets. Like none of it happened.

Yeah, I will have to be the one putting in most of the effort to find the 'right time' if there is ever such a thing as that.

The seat creaks when I shift, the vinyl sticking slightly before giving way. Something buzzes against my leg, sharp enough to cut through the hum of the engine. For a second, I pretend it didn't happen.

It buzzes again.

I slide my phone out just enough to look, already annoyed. No name. Just numbers. Of course.

One line.

Think on what I have proposed, Hachiman.

That's it. No explanation. No follow-up. Like I'm supposed to already know what to do with it.

Uncle Reiji doesn't add anything else.

I stare at the screen longer than I should, then lock it without replying.

I'll think about it.
Yeah. I'll think about it.

The kind of thinking that doesn't shut up when you want it to.
The kind that keeps going even after you close your eyes.

---

Sleep doesn't come. It's like it takes one look at me and decides it has better places to be.

The room gets quiet, and that's worse. Quiet leaves space. Space lets things crawl back in.

Uncle Reiji's voice shows up again, like it never left. It's not loud. It doesn't need to be. It just slides in, calm and flat, the same way it was earlier, like he was reading instructions off a piece of paper.

Given your reaction, I can guess you have wasted this opportunity.

My back presses harder into the mattress. It creaks when I move, way too loud, like it's tattling. I stop. Stare at the ceiling instead. There's a crack that looks like it's splitting in two. I count how far it goes, then lose track.

Opportunity.

The word sticks. I roll it around in my head and it still sounds dumb. If it was something important, it didn't feel important. It felt like being told to nod and smile and say the right thing fast enough.

My hand grips the blanket without me meaning to. My chest feels tight, like I ran too hard and forgot to stop. He said it like I dropped something valuable, like I didn't even notice it fall.

I notices. I know I did.

The ceiling doesn't say anything back. The room stays dark. And his voice doesn't leave, just waits, sitting there like it expects me to admit something first.

If you're not using it, why keep it?

The sentence pops back up without warning. Same words. Same order. It sounds clearer now than it did then, which is annoying, because it didn't sound clear at all when he said it. He didn't raise his voice. He never does. If he had, I could've ignored it easier.

I turn onto my side and the blanket bunches up wrong. I shove it down.

I was using it. That's the thing. I don't know how, exactly, but it was there. Every time someone laughed a little too late. Every time a voice dropped when I walked past. It followed me home, stuck to my shoes, slipped into my pockets without asking. Stuff like that doesn't disappear just because you stop looking at it.

It stacked up. Quietly. Like junk in the corner of a room, you don't go into much. You tell yourself you'll clean it someday. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. Just… later.

Back then, holding onto it made sense. If I dropped it, then what was it? Just noise? Just nothing? That didn't sit right. If it hurt, then it had to mean something. Things that mean something don't get thrown away.

People always say 'let it go' like they're talking about opening your hand. Like you can just stop clenching without noticing how tight your fingers are.

Summer break just started, but it already feels thinner somehow. Like it's leaking out when I'm not looking. The days blur together, and every time I check the calendar, the numbers look closer than they should.

I can already picture the school building. The lockers that don't close right. The hallway that smells weird even in the morning. Same faces, same voices. I don't need to imagine what they'll say—I already know the tone. The kind that sounds normal if you pretend not to hear it properly.

Something in my chest tightens at the thought, like a scab getting peeled off before it's done being a scab.

If I could just get away from it. Not just skip a day, not just hide for a bit, but actually be somewhere else. Somewhere it can't reach. Somewhere it doesn't follow me home and sit there, waiting.

I turn over on the bed and stare at the other wall. It doesn't have any answers either.

Getting out sounds easy when you think about it fast.
When you think about it longer, there's nowhere obvious to go.

The question just sits there.
And it doesn't care that I don't have anything to say back yet.

My parents don't hear it the way I do. I can tell because it slips out of their hands the moment I say it. I start in one place, and by the time it comes back to me, it's bent into something else. My mom talks for a while without stopping, words stacking on top of each other until there's no room left. Near the end her voice settles, like she's finished sorting it out.

The word overreacting never comes out straight. It doesn't need to. It just sits there between us, smug and quiet, like it already won.

I stop trying after that. Anything I say next just gets folded into the same shape. Might as well save my breath.

The last month before summer break doesn't care. It keeps showing up when I don't ask for it. While I'm brushing my teeth, staring at myself too long. When the TV's on and I'm pretending to watch. It never plays the whole thing—just the parts that sting, like it knows which ones to pick.

School made sure it stayed fresh. Every class had its own version. A glance that didn't look away fast enough. Someone leaning close, whispering badly on purpose. Laughter that waited until I moved, then started again like it had been holding its breath.

I figured out which desks made it worse.
I figured out when to keep my eyes down.
I figured out that silence didn't help, because even when no one said my name, it still felt aimed.

They got to laugh and remind me.
I got to remember.

And it didn't stop.

That was the worst part. Not the looks, not the whispers—those at least made sense. What didn't make sense was how everyone else acted like it was already over.

Teachers kept talking like normal. My parents kept telling me to ignore it. Even the people laughing looked bored, like they were just killing time. Like this was nothing. Like I was supposed to catch up to that somehow.

I started noticing how easy it was for them. They said something, laughed, and moved on. I was the only one still carrying it around, like an idiot who forgot to put something down. Every time I thought it was gone, it showed up again, right when I wasn't ready.

I got tired of hearing that it would pass. Tired of being told it wasn't a big deal by people who didn't have to walk through the halls with their head half-turned, waiting for it.

If it really didn't matter, then why was I the one stuck with it?

That thought wouldn't leave. It sat there, sharp and ugly, and every time someone smiled at me like everything was normal, it dug in deeper.

What was I even thinking?

It only took a few normal words. A smile that didn't look annoyed. That was enough for my brain to start filling things in on its own, like it was bored and needed something to do. I didn't stop it. I didn't want to. I let it run ahead, pretending it knew where it was going.

Someone being nice to me felt… rare. Rare enough that I grabbed onto it without checking. Like if I looked too closely, it might disappear. So, I didn't look. I ignored how she talked to everyone the same way. Ignored how nothing about it was actually special.

I tell myself I should've known better. That's the worst part—I probably did. I just didn't want to.

Now school feels smaller somehow. Like every hallway got narrower just to make sure I couldn't avoid it. Every day turns into another quiet reminder, stacked on top of the last one. Nothing big. Nothing anyone could point at and say that's it. Just enough to keep it from healing.

And when I think back on it now, that kindness doesn't look kind anymore. It looks careless. Like something handed out without checking who might take it seriously.

Orimoto looks different too.

The memory keeps shifting when I look at it, and every time it does, something hot and tight twists in my chest. I grind my teeth and wish I could rewind it, or smash it, or at least stop thinking about how stupid it made me feel.

My parents still aren't listening. I can tell because they keep circling around everything except school, like if they don't say it out loud, it'll stop being the problem. But it is. It's always there, sitting on my chest, buzzing in my head when I'm supposed to be asleep.

All that anger just stays stuck here. There's nowhere for it to go. The walls don't care. The room doesn't change no matter how long I stare at it. If it's going to do anything other than keep me awake, it needs somewhere else to sit. Different walls. Different people.

The name pops up before I mean to think it.

Teikoku Gakuen.

It sounds heavy. Like it wouldn't bend just because someone didn't like you.

I remember my mom's voice right after, careful in that way she uses when she already knew the answer. She talked about money. Tuition. The word expensive was dropped like it's supposed to end the conversation by itself.

Uncle Reiji wasn't fazed at all, he said he just informed her he can handle it, like he was talking about picking up groceries or fixing a door that won't close.

That part still feels wrong. Board member. Head football coach. Those sound like things that belong to different people.

My mom had mentioned before that he played there once. Somewhere else too, before that. She had said it like it's obvious, like everyone already knew and I'm late to the conversation again.

Maybe that's enough.
Maybe it doesn't have to make sense if everyone else already accepts it.

The thought sits there, not helpful, not comforting—just there, like everything else lately.

I roll onto my side and fumble for the bedside table. My fingers knock into the edge before I find the phone. It's cold when I pick it up, colder than I expect, and when I unplug it the screen lights up the room just enough to make me squint.

The message is still there.

Think on what I have proposed, Hachiman.

I read it once. Then again. Then one more time, slower, like the words might change if I stare at them long enough.

Moving schools. That part's obvious. New place, new uniforms, halls I don't know yet. Teikoku Academy. Just the name feels stiff, like it wouldn't care whether I liked it or not.

But the message doesn't feel that simple. It sits heavier than it should for something that short. Like there's something tucked behind it that didn't get typed out.

I tilt the phone, like that'll help. It doesn't.

If it was only about switching schools, he could've just said that. Adults always say things straight when they want to. This doesn't feel straight. It feels like I'm supposed to notice something on my own.

I lock the screen and the room goes dark again.

The words don't go with it.

What was I actually supposed to be thinking about?

I keep staring at the screen until the light starts to hurt. My grip tightens without me noticing, like the phone's done something wrong. Everyone's faces drift through my head—my mom's, Uncle Reiji's—people who already sound sure, like they've finished thinking and I'm late again.

My thumbs move before I decide anything.

And what exactly is this proposal?

The words look worse the moment they're there. Too sharp. Like I'm talking back. I hover over the screen, wondering if I should erase it before anyone sees.

I don't.

The phone stays lit in my hand.
I keep watching it.

Then to my surprise I received a reply. Almost immediately.

"Transfer to Teikoku Gakuen. Channel that seething frustration and anger of yours into something useful—under my direct guidance. Waste it no longer. Success demands discipline, not childish brooding."

The words sit there on the screen. The room feels quieter, like something got turned down without asking. I realize I'm holding my breath and let it out slow.

I glance at the clock glowing at the top of my phone.

2:00 a.m.

That doesn't make sense. Adults aren't usually awake at this hour unless something's wrong. I picture him wherever he is, phone already in hand, like he was waiting.

The thought doesn't go away. It sharpens.

He didn't ask why I was awake.

Not even once. No 'are you okay,' no 'shouldn't you be asleep,' nothing that sounds surprised at all.

My thumb presses harder into the side of the phone.

That part sticks.

I stop with my thumb hovering for a second. Then I type anyway.

My dad can't stand you, and my mom already hates the idea of Teikoku Gakuen.

They won't agree to this.

The reply from Uncle Reiji comes back almost right away. No waiting. No dots hanging there.

I am not asking for their permission, am I?

I stare at it longer than I should. The words don't move, but they feel like they're pushing back at me. I read it again, slower this time, like maybe I missed something the first time.

I didn't.

My fingers curl tighter around the phone. There's no arguing in it. No explanation. Just a line drawn somewhere I didn't know was there.

It doesn't sound like he's guessing.
It doesn't sound like he's checking.

The idea creeps in on its own—him stepping past my parents like they're not part of this at all. Like it's already decided, and I'm just finding out late.

My stomach twists, and the feeling doesn't leave.

Sleep on it. Weigh the path I've offered against the one you're currently rotting on. If tomorrow you still have the spine to choose success over wallowing in self-pity, meet me at lunch. I will be waiting. Hesitation is beneath you now

That's the next message. Just like that. It feels like a line drawn under everything we were talking about.

Lunch.

The word pops up questions right away—where, when, how am I even supposed to explain that—but my thumbs don't get the chance to move.

Another message comes in. An address. One of the restaurants near Masagodai 2 Park.

I don't mean to think about it, but my head does it anyway. The road there. The turns. The stretch where you can go faster if no one's around. Ten minutes if I hurry. Fifteen if I don't.

The screen goes dim while I'm still holding it.

Sleep on it.

It sounds nice on the surface. Like advice. Like something adults say when they're being reasonable. But it also sounds like he's done talking. Like this is where I'm supposed to stop pushing and do what I'm told.

It feels like Uncle Reiji is somehow just sitting there, waiting to see what I do next.

 

[ArcanaVitae]

So the parents know Reiji's deal but don't really want to think about it. Meanwhile Hachiman is like this is a respectable male role model who's given some good advice to me and I'm interested.

 

[Ave Dominus Nox]

So the parents know Reiji's deal but don't really want to think about it.

Click to shrink...

they think they do, the Dad knows that Kageyama is influential and knows enough to call him evil. But that is in the context of hachiman's dad being acoproate wage slave/Salaryman.

The Dad is aware that Kageyama is a behind the scenes fixer and immensely influential. Essentially a Power Broker. Someone who secretly manipulates events or people from behind the scenes. But thati s as far as his knwoeldge goes, he doesn't want to know more.

The Hachimom knows more, but as you can tell she is not talking.

Meanwhile Hachiman is like this is a respectable male role model who's given some good advice to me and I'm interested.

Click to shrink...

Less that and more that this is Hachiman at one of his more vulnerable points, and lowest points. He is able to tell Kageyama is shady, and that his parents aren't exactly too keen on interacting with Kageyama, but given his relationship with them, that works in Kageyama's favour here.

THe first update had him notice Kageyama had inlfuence and power, and was like 'I want that.'