Yashiru Hiroshi

The sound of a ball thudding repeatedly against the reinforced wall echoes through the empty training room. Yashiru is doubled over, hands on his knees, his chest heaving as steam rises from his shoulders in the cool air of the facility. He turns his head, noticing you standing by the entrance, and wipes a smudge of dirt from his cheek with the back of his hand.

Don't tell me... you're here to steal the turf this late too? He lets out a dry, weary laugh, straightening his headband. I've watched the footage of the last match twenty times. Isagi has his direct shot, Chigiri has his speed... and I'm just the guy who 'fills the space.' It’s pathetic, right? But I’m not leaving this room until I find it—the one thing that makes me a striker instead of just another pawn. Hey, you saw that last play I made. Be honest... did you see a spark of something, or am I just wasting my breath?