The morning came too quickly.
Kurosawa Kaito woke at 5:17 AM to the sound of his phone alarm screaming into the darkness of his small apartment, the cheerful electronic melody a jarring contrast to the knot of anxiety that had been tightening in his stomach since the moment he'd closed his eyes three hours earlier. For a disoriented moment, he didn't remember where he was—the ceiling was wrong, the sounds filtering through the window were wrong, even the quality of the air felt foreign against his skin.
Then reality crashed back in with the weight of a collapsing building.
Madrid. Real Madrid. Presentation day.
He sat up in bed, the sheets tangled around his legs, and reached for his phone with trembling hands. The screen was already flooded with notifications—messages from teammates back in Kawasaki, congratulations from people he barely knew, news alerts in Japanese and Spanish and English all saying variations of the same thing:
*KUROSAWA KAITO - REAL MADRID*
*HISTORIC SIGNING*
*€10 MILLION JAPANESE WONDERKID*
Kaito silenced the phone and dropped it face-down on the mattress, unable to look at the reminders of what today meant, what was expected of him, what would happen in approximately four hours when he stood in front of Spanish media and tried to explain why a fifteen-year-old from Japan deserved to wear the white kit of the greatest club in football history.
The apartment Real Madrid had provided was small but functional—a studio in a modern building less than two kilometers from the Valdebebas training complex, close enough that he could walk if necessary but far enough that he wasn't literally living on club property. One room serving as bedroom, living area, and study. A kitchenette with a two-burner stove and a refrigerator that hummed too loudly. A bathroom with a shower stall so narrow Kaito had to angle his shoulders to fit inside.
It was infinitely better than what he'd left behind in Kawasaki—the cramped two-bedroom apartment his mother still occupied with Mei and Mio, where the walls were so thin you could hear neighbors arguing and the hot water only worked on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But it was also sterile, impersonal, empty of everything that made a space feel like home. No photographs on the walls. No familiar smells of his mother's cooking. No sound of his sisters' laughter drifting through closed doors.
Just silence, and the weight of being completely, utterly alone for the first time in his life.
Kaito forced himself out of bed, his feet touching the cold tile floor, and moved through his morning routine with mechanical precision. Shower—cold water to shock his system awake, because the exhaustion of three hours' sleep was already dragging at his consciousness like an anchor. Teeth brushed. Hair combed. The careful ritual of getting dressed, each action designed to quiet the screaming anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him if he stopped moving for even a second.
The suit Real Madrid had sent over yesterday hung in the narrow closet, still wrapped in plastic from the tailor. Kaito stared at it for a long moment, his hand hovering over the fabric without quite touching it. Navy blue, perfectly fitted to measurements the club had taken during his medical examination three days ago. White dress shirt. Burgundy tie with the Real Madrid crest embroidered in gold thread. Black leather shoes that probably cost more than everything Kaito had owned back in Japan combined.
This was what Real Madrid players wore to official events. This was the uniform of galácticos, of legends, of men who'd won more Champions League trophies than most clubs had in their entire histories.
This was what Kurosawa Kaito, age fifteen, was about to put on and pretend he belonged in.
**"You don't belong."**
The thought arrived unbidden, unwelcome, absolutely certain. It wasn't the external voice he'd grown accustomed to over the past three years—the cruel whisper that had tormented him since his father's death, that had broken him down systematically until the night behind the gymnasium when everything had changed. That voice was gone now, or at least dormant, silenced by whatever transformation had occurred when he'd screamed for power in the rain.
But this voice was different. This was his own doubt, his own fear, his own certainty that he was an imposter about to be exposed in front of the entire football world.
*€10 million. They paid €10 million for you. What if you're not worth it? What if you fail? What if you embarrass yourself, embarrass the club, embarrass Japan, embarrass your father's memory?*
Kaito closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe, counted to ten in the way his mother had taught him when panic attacks had been a regular occurrence in the months after Takeshi's death.
*One. Two. Three.*
He would not break. Not today. Not when it mattered most.
*Four. Five. Six.*
His father had believed in him. Real Madrid's scouts had believed in him. Florentino Pérez himself had watched his highlights twelve times and decided he was worth the investment.
*Seven. Eight. Nine.*
And even if all of them were wrong, even if this was the biggest mistake in football history, Kaito had made a promise. To his father. To his mother. To himself.
*Ten.*
He opened his eyes, pulled the suit from the closet, and began to dress.
---
The car arrived at exactly 7:30 AM.
Kaito stood in the lobby of his apartment building, the suit fitting perfectly but feeling completely foreign on his lean frame, his reflection in the glass doors showing a version of himself he barely recognized. The boy in the mirror looked older somehow, more serious, the expensive clothing adding years to features that were still soft with youth.
A sleek black Mercedes pulled up to the curb, and the driver—a middle-aged Spanish man whose name Kaito had already forgotten despite being introduced yesterday—stepped out and opened the rear door with practiced efficiency.
**"Buenos días, Kaito,"** the man said, his Spanish heavily accented but his smile genuine. **"¿Listo?"** (Ready?)
**"Sí,"** Kaito replied, his own Spanish halting and uncertain despite the intensive lessons Real Madrid had been providing since his arrival. **"Gracias."**
He slid into the back seat, the leather cool against his hands, and the door closed with the solid *thunk* of German engineering. Through the tinted windows, Madrid was waking up—commuters hurrying to metro stations, shopkeepers opening their businesses, the organized chaos of a city of six million people beginning another day.
None of them knew or cared that a fifteen-year-old Japanese boy was about to be presented as Real Madrid's newest signing. Their lives would continue exactly as before, unchanged by whatever happened at Valdebebas this morning.
The thought was oddly comforting.
The drive took seventeen minutes, Madrid's morning traffic lighter than Kaito had expected, and then they were turning onto the tree-lined avenue that led to Real Madrid's legendary training facility. Valdebebas. The name alone carried weight in football circles—a sprawling complex of twelve perfectly maintained pitches, a state-of-the-art gymnasium, medical facilities that rivaled top hospitals, offices and meeting rooms and everything else required to run the most successful club in the sport's history.
And at the center of it all, the building where first-team players who'd won everything there was to win prepared for matches that hundreds of millions of people would watch.
The security gate opened automatically as the Mercedes approached, the guards recognizing the vehicle even if they didn't recognize its passenger. The car wound through the complex, past pitches where youth teams were already training despite the early hour, past buildings that Kaito would come to know intimately in the days and weeks ahead.
Finally, they pulled up in front of a modern glass-and-steel structure where a small crowd had already gathered—journalists with cameras and microphones, club officials in suits, a few fans who'd somehow learned about the presentation time and arrived hoping for photographs and autographs.
Kaito's stomach clenched.
**"Tranquilo,"** (Stay calm) the driver said, catching his expression in the rearview mirror. **"They're here to welcome you. Not to judge you."**
*Liar,* Kaito thought, but he appreciated the sentiment.
The door opened before he could reach for the handle, and suddenly Kaito was stepping out into the crisp January morning, the suit jacket doing little to protect against the cold that bit at his exposed skin. Camera flashes erupted immediately, a strobe-light assault that made him blink and look away instinctively.
**"¡Kaito! ¡Kaito! ¡Mira aquí!"** (Look here!)
**"Kurosawa! How do you feel?"**
**"Are you nervous?"**
**"Do you think you're ready for Real Madrid?"**
The questions came in Spanish, English, even a few shouted in Japanese by reporters who'd made the trip from Tokyo specifically for this moment. Kaito froze, overwhelmed by the sensory assault, his mind blanking on every Spanish phrase he'd carefully practiced during the car ride.
Then a hand settled on his shoulder—firm, steady, grounding—and a familiar voice cut through the chaos:
**"Está bien. Yo me encargo."** (It's okay. I've got this.)
Kaito looked up and found himself staring into the face of Raúl González.
The legend himself. Real Madrid's all-time second-highest scorer. Three Champions League titles. Six La Liga championships. A career that had defined Spanish football for a generation. And now, the coach of Real Madrid Castilla, the man who would be responsible for transforming Kurosawa Kaito from a talented Japanese youth player into something capable of surviving at the elite level.
Raúl was forty-seven years old but looked a decade younger, his dark hair only beginning to gray at the temples, his athletic build evidence that retirement from playing hadn't meant retirement from fitness. He wore a Real Madrid tracksuit with casual confidence, and his presence alone seemed to calm the frenzied media.
**"Señores, por favor,"** (Gentlemen, please) Raúl addressed the journalists with the easy authority of someone who'd been managing media since before most of them had been born. **"Kurosawa just arrived. Give him a moment to breathe. There will be time for questions during the official press conference."**
The noise didn't stop entirely, but it reduced to a more manageable level. Raúl's hand remained on Kaito's shoulder, guiding him through the crowd and toward the glass doors of the building.
**"Breathe,"** Raúl said quietly, switching to English that was heavily accented but perfectly comprehensible. **"Just breathe. This is the hard part. Once we're inside, it gets easier."**
**"Does it?"** Kaito asked, and was mortified to hear his voice crack slightly.
Raúl smiled, and there was genuine warmth in the expression.
**"No. I lied. It stays hard for a while. But you learn to manage it. And Kaito—"** He stopped just before they reached the doors, turning to face the boy directly. **"—I watched your highlights. All of them. Every match from this season, and several from last season too. You know what I saw?"**
Kaito shook his head, not trusting his voice.
**"I saw a player who understands football. Not just how to play it, but what it means. The way you move without the ball. The way you create space for teammates. The way you play that final pass instead of shooting when shooting would be selfish. That can't be taught. Either you have it or you don't. And you have it."**
**"But—"**
**"No buts. Real Madrid doesn't spend €10 million on mistakes. They spent it on you because they believe you can become something special. My job is to help you get there. Your job is to work harder than you've ever worked in your life and trust the process. ¿Entiendes?"** (Understand?)
**"Sí,"** Kaito whispered.
**"Good. Now let's go introduce you to your new teammates."**
---
The locker room of Real Madrid Castilla was smaller than Kaito had expected—not cramped, exactly, but more intimate than the massive facilities he'd seen in photographs of the first team's dressing room. Individual lockers lined the walls, each one labeled with a player's name and number. Benches ran down the center. Showers and treatment rooms branched off to the sides. The smell was universal—sweat and soap and the particular musk that accumulated anywhere young athletes spent hours preparing for competition.
It was also completely silent.
Twenty players in various states of dress all stopped what they were doing the moment Raúl and Kaito entered. Some were putting on training gear. Some were taping ankles or stretching tight muscles. All of them were now staring at the small Japanese boy who'd just walked into their space carrying a €10 million price tag.
The silence stretched for three very long seconds.
Then a voice from the back of the room, speaking Spanish with a playful lilt:
**"¡Joder, es pequeño!"** (Fuck, he's small!)
Nervous laughter rippled through the group, breaking the tension. Raúl's expression didn't change, but Kaito saw his jaw tighten slightly.
**"Nico,"** the coach said, his tone carrying a warning. **"Compórtate."** (Behave.)
The player who'd spoken stepped forward—a lean teenager perhaps seventeen years old, with sharp features and the kind of confident posture that suggested he'd never doubted his place in this room. Nico Paz, Kaito recognized from the research he'd done on Castilla's squad. Argentine-Spanish dual national. Attacking midfielder. Technically gifted. Starter in Raúl's preferred 4-3-3.
The player whose position Kaito had just been signed to compete for.
**"Lo siento, míster,"** (Sorry, coach) Nico said, but the apology didn't quite reach his eyes. He switched to English, probably for Kaito's benefit. **"Just making an observation. No offense to our new Japanese friend."**
**"None taken,"** Kaito replied, proud that his voice came out steady despite the knot reforming in his stomach.
Nico's eyebrows rose slightly, apparently surprised that Kaito could speak English. He crossed the room with casual confidence, extending a hand that Kaito shook with perhaps more firmness than necessary.
**"Welcome to Castilla,"** Nico said. **"I'm sure you'll learn a lot watching from the bench."**
The comment landed exactly as intended—a challenge wrapped in false friendliness, establishing hierarchy, making clear that Kaito's arrival didn't threaten Nico's position because how could a fifteen-year-old Japanese boy possibly threaten someone who'd been in Real Madrid's system since age twelve?
Before Kaito could formulate a response, another player intervened—older, mid-twenties probably, with the calm authority of a team leader.
**"Ignore Nico,"** the player said in perfect English, moving forward to shake Kaito's hand with genuine warmth. **"He's nervous you're going to take his spot, so he's being an asshole to cover his insecurity. I'm Asencio. Center back. Welcome to the team."**
**"Thank you,"** Kaito managed.
**"That's Fran,"** Asencio continued, pointing to a goalkeeper who raised a hand in greeting. **"Álvaro Carrillo at right back. Marvel next to me in defense. This is Chema—"** A midfielder nodded. **"—Gonzalo up front, David on the wing. The rest you'll meet during training. We're... well, we're a work in progress. Raúl's rebuilding the team, and you're part of that rebuild."**
**"No pressure,"** Nico muttered from across the room.
**"¿Quieres correr extra después del entrenamiento?"** (Want to run extra after training?) Raúl asked Nico, his tone mild but his meaning clear.
Nico held up his hands in surrender. **"No, míster. Estoy bien."** (No, coach. I'm good.)
Raúl turned back to Kaito, his expression softening.
**"Your locker is here."** He led Kaito to a space near the middle of the room, freshly labeled with **KUROSAWA - 8** in bold letters. Inside, perfectly folded training gear waited—the all-white kit of Real Madrid Castilla, the crest embroidered on the chest, everything crisp and new and still carrying the chemical smell of factory packaging.
The number 8. A midfielder's number. Historically worn by creative players, by those who dictated tempo and created chances. A number with weight and expectation built into its very digits.
**"Get changed,"** Raúl instructed. **"Training starts in thirty minutes. The presentation ceremony is at noon, so we'll do a light session this morning—just passing drills and tactical work. I want you to watch today. Observe. Learn how we play. Tomorrow, you start participating fully. ¿Claro?"** (Clear?)
**"Claro,"** Kaito confirmed.
Raúl left to conduct whatever pre-training business coaches handled, and Kaito was alone with his new teammates—most of whom had gone back to their own preparations but were definitely still watching him from the corners of their eyes, evaluating, judging, forming opinions about the expensive Japanese import who'd just invaded their space.
Kaito began changing, his movements deliberate and unhurried despite the nervous energy crackling under his skin. The training shirt slid over his head, the fabric softer than anything he'd worn at Kawasaki Frontale, the fit perfect because Real Madrid's equipment staff had his exact measurements. Shorts. Socks pulled up to just below the knee in the style European players favored. Training cleats—Adidas X Crazyfast, the latest model, provided by the club as part of his equipment allocation.
Everything fit. Everything was perfect.
And Kaito had never felt more like an imposter in his life.
**"Hey."**
The voice came from beside him—quieter than the others, tentative in a way that suggested its owner wasn't entirely comfortable with English but was trying anyway. Kaito looked up to find a player perhaps a year or two older, with dark hair and kind eyes and an expression that seemed genuinely friendly rather than challenging.
**"Chema Andrés,"** the player said, pointing to himself. **"Midfielder. Like you."** His English was heavily accented but understandable. **"I know... is hard. New place. New language. But... we are team. We help. Sí?"**
Something in Kaito's chest loosened slightly.
**"Sí,"** he replied. **"Thank you. Gracias."**
Chema smiled and clapped him on the shoulder—not aggressively like Nico's challenge, but with the easy camaraderie of an actual teammate.
**"You play center? Or... more attack?"**
**"Both,"** Kaito said. **"In Japan, I played attacking midfielder mostly. Number ten. But I can play deeper if the team needs."**
**"Good. Flexible is good."** Chema considered this. **"Nico is... how you say... territorial? He thinks he owns the attacking mid position. But Raúl, he likes competition. Makes everyone better. So you compete, and we see who is best. Fair, no?"**
**"Fair,"** Kaito agreed, though the thought of competing against someone who'd been in Real Madrid's system for years while Kaito had been in Spain for less than a week was terrifying.
**"Don't worry about Nico,"** Chema continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially. **"He talks big, but if you are good, he respects. Show him in training. Show everyone. Then they accept you."**
Before Kaito could respond, a sharp whistle cut through the locker room—Raúl's signal that it was time to move to the training pitch.
**"Vamos,"** (Let's go) Chema said, gesturing toward the door.
Kaito stood, took one deep breath, and followed his new teammates out of the locker room and into the bright Spanish morning.
---
Valdebebas' training pitches were immaculate.
Not just well-maintained—immaculate in the way that only came from unlimited resources and obsessive attention to detail. The grass was cut to exactly the right length for optimal ball control. The lines were painted with geometric precision. The goals were regulation size with nets so white they seemed to glow against the green of the turf. Beyond the main pitch where Castilla trained, Kaito could see other fields where different age groups were working—U-19s running tactical drills, U-17s doing fitness work, even younger kids playing small-sided games with the unselfconscious joy that came before competition became serious business.
And in the distance, on the pristine pitch reserved for the first team, Kaito could just make out figures in white training gear going through their morning session. Too far to identify individuals, but close enough to know they were there. Vinícius Júnior. Jude Bellingham. Kylian Mbappé. The galácticos whose posters had decorated Kaito's bedroom wall back in Kawasaki, now flesh and blood humans training less than two hundred meters away.
**"Don't stare,"** Asencio said quietly, appearing beside Kaito as the Castilla squad gathered at the edge of their assigned pitch. **"They're just players. Like us. Well—"** He smiled. **"—much better than us, obviously. But still just players. You stare too much, you make yourself nervous."**
**"Right,"** Kaito said, forcing his gaze back to his own team.
Raúl stood in the center circle with two assistant coaches, a bag of balls at his feet, a tactical board under his arm. He waited until all twenty-two players had assembled before speaking.
**"Good morning. We have a new player joining us today."** He gestured toward Kaito, who felt twenty-one pairs of eyes fix on him with varying degrees of curiosity and skepticism. **"Kurosawa Kaito, from Japan. Fifteen years old. Midfielder. Some of you have heard the number associated with his transfer. I want you to forget that number immediately. It's not his fault what the club paid. It's not relevant to how we treat him. He's a teammate now, and teammates support each other. ¿Entendido?"** (Understood?)
A chorus of **"Sí, míster"** echoed across the pitch.
**"Today we do light work. Passing drills, positional play, some tactical review. Kurosawa will observe. Tomorrow, he joins fully. Now—"** Raúl clapped his hands sharply. **"—five laps to warm up. Vamos."**
The team broke into motion, settling into an easy jogging pace around the perimeter of the pitch. Kaito fell into step near the middle of the pack, his body grateful for the familiar rhythm of running, his mind trying to process the overwhelming cascade of new information.
Nico Paz ran near the front, his pace faster than necessary for a warm-up lap, making a point. Several players matched his speed—whether in support or competition, Kaito couldn't tell. Others maintained a more sustainable pace, chatting with each other in rapid Spanish that Kaito could only catch fragments of.
**"...diez millones..."** (ten million)
**"...pequeño pero..."** (small but...)
**"...veremos..."** (we'll see...)
They were talking about him. Of course they were talking about him. He was the new variable in their carefully balanced equation, the unknown quantity that could either strengthen the team or create problems, and they needed to figure out which category he belonged to.
By the third lap, Kaito's lungs were burning slightly—not from the pace, which was comfortable, but from the altitude difference between Madrid and Kawasaki combined with three hours of sleep and the stress that had been building since the moment he'd woken up. He pushed through it, refusing to show weakness, maintaining his position in the pack.
By the fifth lap, the burn had settled into a manageable background sensation, and Kaito's mind had quieted enough to actually observe his surroundings. The way Asencio and Marvel communicated without words, their defensive partnership evident even in how they ran together. The way Nico kept glancing back to see where Kaito was, assessing, calculating. The way Chema had positioned himself close enough to be supportive without being obvious about it.
These were his teammates. For better or worse, these were the people he'd be spending the next several months—potentially years—working alongside. Learning from. Competing against. Depending on.
The thought was both terrifying and oddly comforting.
**"Gather up!"** Raúl's voice cut through the ambient sounds of the training complex.
The team assembled in a loose circle, most players bent over with hands on knees, breathing hard despite the relatively easy warm-up. Raúl stood in the center with a bag of balls, his expression all business now.
**"Rondo,"** he announced. **"Groups of six. Four on the outside, two in the middle. Quick passing, keep the ball moving. Outside players, two-touch maximum. If you're in the middle and you don't win the ball within thirty seconds, ten push-ups. Vamos."**
The players split into groups automatically, the chemistry of an established team evident in how quickly they organized themselves. Kaito found himself in a group with Chema, Asencio, two players he didn't know yet, and—of course—Nico Paz.
**"You're in the middle first,"** Nico said, pointing at Kaito and another player. **"Let's see what the expensive Japanese kid can do."**
Kaito said nothing, just took his position in the center of the circle opposite a winger named David. The four outside players arranged themselves at the corners of an invisible square, and Asencio started with the ball at his feet.
**"Ready?"** Asencio asked.
Kaito nodded.
The ball began moving.
Asencio to Chema, a simple five-meter pass along the ground. Chema controlled with his right foot and immediately played it to Nico with his left. Nico took one touch to adjust and pinged it across to the fourth player, a defender named Álvaro.
The whole sequence took perhaps three seconds.
Kaito had barely moved.
**"Pressure!"** Raúl's voice called from outside the circle. **"You're not a statue, Kurosawa! Read the passing lanes! Anticipate!"**
The ball continued its circuit—Álvaro to Asencio, Asencio to Chema, Chema to Nico. The rhythm was hypnotic, each pass crisp and accurate, the outside players' superior familiarity with each other evident in how they found angles that made interception difficult.
But Kaito was watching now. Really watching. Not just the ball, but the body language of the players before they passed. The way Asencio's hips opened slightly before he played it to Chema. The way Nico's eyes flickered toward his target a split-second before his foot made contact.
*There.*
Chema received the ball and Kaito saw it—the slight shift of weight, the angle of the supporting foot, the telegraphed intention. Chema was going to play it back to Asencio, the same pattern they'd used twice already.
Kaito moved.
His acceleration caught Chema by surprise, and the pass that should have been simple suddenly had an opponent's foot reaching to intercept. Kaito's toe poked the ball away from its intended path, breaking the rhythm, and suddenly he was in possession while the outside players scrambled to adjust.
The drill was over. He'd won the ball in under thirty seconds.
**"Good,"** Raúl called out. **"That's what I want to see. Active defending. Reading the game. Nico, you're in the middle now."**
Nico's expression as he moved to the center was carefully neutral, but Kaito saw something flicker in his eyes—respect, maybe, or at least acknowledgment that the new kid wasn't completely useless.
The drill continued, players rotating through the middle, the competitive edge sharpening as no one wanted to be the person who failed to win the ball within the time limit. When Kaito's turn came around again, he managed to intercept within twenty-two seconds, his improving read of his teammates' tendencies making anticipation easier.
**"Switch to positional play!"** Raúl announced after thirty minutes of rondos. **"I want to work on our build-up from the back. Defensive line, midfield three, forwards. Kurosawa, you watch from the side. Pay attention to how we create space, how the midfielders move to receive from the defense. This is important."**
Kaito moved to the touchline as instructed, and the team reorganized into Raúl's preferred 4-3-3 formation. Asencio and Marvel formed the central defensive partnership. Chema anchored the midfield as the defensive midfielder, with Nico to his left and another player—a box-to-box midfielder named Antonio—to his right. The forward line was Gonzalo in the center with David and another winger whose name Kaito still hadn't learned flanking him.
**"Build from Fran,"** Raúl directed the goalkeeper. **"Defense splits wide. Chema drops to create the passing triangle. Nico and Antonio, I want you showing for the ball but also ready to turn and attack if we break the first line of pressure. Forwards, make runs that pull defenders out of position. Vamos."**
What followed was a masterclass in positional football.
The ball started with Fran in goal, who rolled it to Asencio at center back. Immediately, the entire team shifted—the fullbacks pushed wide, Chema dropped between the center backs to create a three-man defensive line, and Nico and Antonio positioned themselves in the half-spaces between defense and attack.
Asencio played a diagonal ball to the left back, who took one touch and pinged it to Chema. Chema, under pressure from an imaginary opponent, turned smoothly and found Nico with a perfectly weighted pass. Nico controlled, looked up, saw Gonzalo making a run, and delivered a through ball that split two mannequins Raúl had set up to represent defenders.
Gonzalo collected and finished, and the team reset to do it again.
And again.
And again.
Each repetition showed small variations—different passing combinations, different runs, different solutions to the same fundamental problem of how to progress the ball from defense to attack against organized pressure. And through it all, Kaito watched and learned, his tactical brain absorbing patterns, storing information, building a mental model of how Castilla wanted to play.
This was different from Kawasaki Frontale. Not better or worse, just different. The Japanese youth system emphasized technical excellence and fluid movement, with less rigid positional structure. Raúl's approach was more systematic—specific roles for specific players, clearly defined responsibilities, an almost mathematical precision to how space was created and exploited.
Kaito could already see where he'd fit into this system. The left-sided number eight role that Nico currently occupied required exactly the kind of skills Kaito possessed—vision to find forward passes, technique to receive under pressure, intelligence to know when to hold the ball and when to release it quickly.
But seeing where he'd fit and actually fitting were very different things. Nico had been playing in this system for years. He knew Raúl's preferences, his teammates' movements, the subtle adjustments required to make the machine function smoothly. Kaito was starting from zero, and the learning curve was steep.
**"Kurosawa!"**
Raúl's voice snapped Kaito out of his observations. The coach was gesturing him onto the field.
**"Swap with Nico. I want to see how you handle receiving from the defense under pressure."**
This was it. The first real test. Every player on the pitch was now watching to see what the €10 million Japanese kid could actually do.
Kaito jogged onto the field, his heart hammering against his ribs. Nico passed him with a smirk.
**"Don't embarrass yourself,"** the Argentine murmured.
**"Wasn't planning on it,"** Kaito replied.
He took his position in the left half-space, where Nico had been operating. Chema gave him a subtle nod of encouragement. The defensive line reset with the ball at Fran's feet.
**"Same drill,"** Raúl called. **"Build from the back. Kurosawa, I want you showing for the ball, checking your shoulder to see what's behind you, being available but not static. Go."**
The ball moved from Fran to Asencio to the left back to Chema. Kaito had already checked his shoulder twice, his mind processing the positioning of the imaginary defenders represented by mannequins, calculating angles and passing lanes.
Chema played the ball to him.
It came fast and low, the kind of pass that required a good first touch to control. Kaito's right foot cushioned the ball perfectly, killing its momentum while simultaneously turning his body to face forward. An imaginary defender was closing down (Raúl had positioned himself to provide pressure), so Kaito had maybe two seconds to make a decision.
His head was already up. He'd seen Gonzalo checking away from his marker before the ball had even reached his feet. Without breaking stride, Kaito played a perfectly weighted through ball into the space Gonzalo was about to occupy.
The striker ran onto it, controlled, finished.
The whistle blew.
**"Good,"** Raúl said, and there was approval in his voice. **"You read the situation quickly. The first touch was clean. The pass was weighted correctly. But—"** He walked over to Kaito, using the moment as a teaching opportunity for the entire team. **"—you played the obvious pass. The safe pass. Against high-level opponents, they'll cut off that option. I want you thinking one step further. Where's the alternative if Gonzalo is marked? Where's your safety valve if the through ball isn't on?"**
**"Antonio was showing on the right,"** Kaito said, replaying the sequence in his mind. **"If the center wasn't available, I could have switched play to him."**
**"Show me."**
They reset. This time, Raúl positioned himself to cut off the passing lane to Gonzalo. The ball came to Kaito the same way—from Chema, fast and low. Same first touch, same turn, but now the obvious pass was blocked.
Kaito's eyes found Antonio on the far side, and he hit a raking cross-field ball that traveled thirty meters through the air and dropped perfectly into Antonio's path. The midfielder controlled and immediately had acres of space to attack into.
**"That's what I want!"** Raúl was grinning now. **"Vision! Understanding that football is about creating and exploiting space! If they take away option one, you have option two, option three, option four! This is Real Madrid football!"**
The session continued for another forty-five minutes—tactical drills, pressing sequences, work on defending set pieces. Kaito participated when asked, observed when instructed, and slowly began to feel less like a visitor and more like an actual member of the team.
By the time Raúl blew the final whistle, the sun had climbed higher in the Madrid sky, the January morning warming toward something almost pleasant. The players gathered their training gear, chatting and laughing with the easy camaraderie of people who'd been through a shared experience.
Asencio clapped Kaito on the shoulder as they walked toward the locker room.
**"Not bad for a first session. Nico was worried you'd be better than him."**
**"I heard that,"** Nico called from ahead.
**"You were supposed to,"** Asencio shot back.
**"I'm not worried,"** Nico said, but there was less edge in his voice than before. **"There's a difference between looking good in training and performing in matches. We'll see how the Japanese kid handles actual competition."**
**"Looking forward to it,"** Kaito replied, surprised by the steadiness in his own voice.
They reached the locker room, and the team dispersed to shower and change for the presentation ceremony that would begin in ninety minutes. Kaito found himself at his locker next to Chema, who was already pulling off his training shirt.
**"You did good,"** Chema said in his halting English. **"Nico will not say, but he impressed. You have... cómo se dice... vision. You see things before they happen. Is important for Real Madrid midfielder."**
**"Thanks,"** Kaito said. **"I still have a lot to learn."**
**"We all do. Is why we here and not in first team."** Chema grinned. **"But someday, maybe. We work hard, we improve, we get chance. This is the dream, no?"**
**"Yeah,"** Kaito agreed quietly. **"This is the dream."**
He showered quickly, the hot water washing away the sweat and tension of the morning, then changed back into the suit Real Madrid had provided. By 11:30, the entire Castilla squad had assembled in the corridor outside the press conference room, waiting for the ceremony to begin.
Raúl appeared, having changed into a sharp suit himself, and pulled Kaito aside.
**"How are you feeling?"** the coach asked.
**"Nervous,"** Kaito admitted. There was no point in lying.
**"Good. Nerves mean you care. Just remember—you don't have to be perfect today. You just have to be yourself. Answer the questions honestly, smile when appropriate, and don't let them bait you into saying something stupid. The media will try to create controversy. Don't give them ammunition."**
**"What if they ask about the transfer fee?"**
**"Tell them the truth—that you're grateful for the opportunity, that you plan to work hard to justify the club's faith in you, and that you're focused on developing as a player rather than worrying about numbers. Simple. Honest. Impossible to twist into a headline."**
Kaito nodded, trying to absorb the advice, trying to quiet the screaming anxiety that was threatening to drown out rational thought.
**"One more thing,"** Raúl added. **"After the press conference, you'll do the traditional photo session on the pitch. Jersey presentation, that sort of thing. And—"** He smiled. **"—you'll get to meet some of the first team. They like to welcome new signings. So be prepared for that."**
**"The first team?"** Kaito's voice came out higher than intended.
**"Relax. They're just people. Very talented people, but people nonetheless. Don't treat them like gods and they won't treat you like a peasant."**
Before Kaito could formulate a response, the door to the press conference room opened and a club official gestured that it was time.
**"Vamos,"** Raúl said. **"Let's introduce you to the world."**
---
The press conference room was smaller than the ones Kaito had seen on television, where galáctico signings were presented to hundreds of journalists and thousands of fans. This was a more modest affair—perhaps fifty reporters seated in neat rows, their cameras and recording devices pointed at a raised platform where a table and two chairs waited. Behind the platform, a massive Real Madrid crest dominated the wall, flanked by the words **HALA MADRID** in bold white letters.
Kaito walked onto the platform behind Raúl, his legs threatening to betray him, his hands clenched into fists to stop them from shaking. The camera flashes were immediate and overwhelming, a strobing assault that made it difficult to see anything beyond the first row of journalists.
He took his seat at the table, a club official placing a bottle of water in front of him that he immediately grabbed, grateful to have something to do with his hands. Raúl sat to his left, radiating the calm confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times.
A Real Madrid communications director—a woman in her forties with perfectly styled hair and a professional smile—stood at a podium to the side.
**"Buenos días a todos,"** (Good morning everyone) she began. **"Welcome to the official presentation of Kurosawa Kaito as a Real Madrid player. As you all know, Kaito has signed a five-year contract and will play for Real Madrid Castilla under coach Raúl González. We'll begin with brief statements from Raúl and Kaito, then open the floor for questions. Please remember that questions should be respectful, and we'll be translating between Spanish, English, and Japanese as needed."**
She gestured to Raúl, who leaned forward to the microphone array.
**"Thank you all for coming. I'll keep this brief because I know you're here to hear from Kaito, not me."** Raúl's Spanish was rapid and fluent, and a translator whispered an English version for the international press. **"Real Madrid has made an important investment in a very young player with exceptional potential. My job is to develop that potential, to help Kaito adapt to European football, and to prepare him for what we all hope will be a long and successful career at this club. He will train with Castilla, he will play with Castilla, and he will be judged by the same standards as every other player in my squad—on merit, on effort, and on what he contributes to the team. That's all I have to say."**
Short. Professional. Setting clear expectations. Raúl was giving Kaito cover, establishing that the transfer fee was the club's business and that the player himself would be evaluated fairly.
The communications director turned to Kaito.
**"Kaito, would you like to say a few words? In English is fine, or Japanese if you prefer."**
Kaito leaned toward the microphone, his throat suddenly dry despite the water he'd been drinking. Every eye in the room was fixed on him. Every camera was recording. Everything he said would be analyzed, dissected, potentially used against him.
He chose English, figuring it would reach the widest audience.
**"Thank you all for being here. I'm... I'm very grateful to Real Madrid for this opportunity. When I was young, my father showed me videos of this club, of the players who wore this shirt, and I dreamed that maybe one day I could be part of this history. I know there are questions about my age, about the transfer fee, about whether I can adapt to European football. I don't have all the answers yet. But I promise to work as hard as I can every day, to learn from my coaches and teammates, and to do everything possible to make Real Madrid proud of their decision to sign me."**
He paused, gathering courage for the next part.
**"This is for my father, who believed in me when no one else did. And for my mother and sisters, who are in Japan now but who I hope to bring to Spain soon. Thank you."**
The room was quiet for a beat, and then the questions erupted:
**"Kaito, how do you respond to critics who say €10 million is too much for a fifteen-year-old?"**
**"Are you concerned about the physical demands of Spanish football?"**
**"What position do you expect to play?"**
**"Have you spoken to any of the first team players?"**
**"How do you handle the pressure of such a large transfer fee?"**
The communications director pointed to a Spanish journalist in the front row, establishing order.
**"Marca. Your question?"**
The journalist, a middle-aged man with a notebook, addressed Kaito directly:
**"The transfer fee is obviously significant. Do you feel pressure to justify that investment immediately, or does the club expect a longer development period?"**
Kaito remembered Raúl's advice. Simple. Honest. Impossible to twist.
**"I feel responsibility, not pressure. Real Madrid invested in my potential, not my current level. I'm fifteen years old. I know I have a lot to learn. The club has been very clear that they're thinking long-term, that they want me to develop properly rather than rush my progression. So I'm focused on improving every day, not on trying to prove something immediately."**
**"AS. Your question?"**
**"Kaito, you mentioned your father. Can you tell us about his influence on your career?"**
This one was harder. The grief was still raw, even three years later, and talking about Takeshi in front of fifty strangers felt like exposing a wound.
**"My father... he loved football. He played semi-professionally in Japan and taught me everything I know about the game. He passed away three years ago, but before he died, he made me promise to never give up on my dream. This—"** Kaito gestured at the room, the crest behind him, the entire surreal situation. **"—is me keeping that promise."**
Several journalists nodded, some scribbling notes, and Kaito could almost see the headlines forming: *PLAYING FOR HEAVEN: KAITO'S PROMISE TO HIS LATE FATHER.*
**"El Chiringuito. Your question?"**
**"This is for Raúl. How quickly do you expect Kaito to be ready for first-team football?"**
Raúl leaned forward, his expression serious.
**"That's not how we think about it at Real Madrid. We don't put timelines on development because every player progresses at their own pace. Kaito needs time to adapt to Spain, to learn the language, to adjust to the tactical demands of European football. If he develops quickly and earns opportunities with the first team, excellent. If it takes longer, that's fine too. The goal is to do this right, not fast."**
**"But surely there are expectations given the transfer fee—"**
**"The expectations,"** Raúl interrupted, his tone firm, **"are that Kaito works hard, listens to coaching, and improves continuously. Everything else is speculation. Next question."**
The questions continued for twenty more minutes—some insightful, some baiting, some simply seeking quotes for articles that had probably already been written before the press conference even began. Kaito handled them as well as he could, falling back on the safe responses Raúl had prepared him with, deflecting when questions became too personal or invasive.
Finally, the communications director called time.
**"That's all for questions. Kaito will now do some photos on the training pitch, and then he'll be available for individual interviews by appointment. Thank you all for coming."**
The relief Kaito felt as he stood from the table was physical, his legs almost buckling before he locked his knees. Raúl's hand settled on his shoulder—supportive, steadying.
**"You did well,"** the coach said quietly. **"Natural, honest, exactly what they needed to hear. Now comes the fun part."**
**"The fun part?"**
Raúl smiled.
**"The photos. Where you get to hold up the shirt and pretend you're not terrified."**
---
The training pitch they led him to was the same one where Castilla practiced, but now it had been dressed for the occasion. A Real Madrid flag rippled in the breeze behind the goal. The club crest had been painted at the center circle in fresh white and gold. A small platform had been erected with the words **BIENVENIDO KUROSAWA** (WELCOME KUROSAWA) displayed prominently.
A club photographer was waiting, along with several officials, and—Kaito's heart nearly stopped—three first-team players who'd apparently decided to welcome the new signing personally.
Jude Bellingham stood chatting with Eduardo Camavinga, both of them in training gear, both looking impossibly fit and professional even in casual conversation. And slightly apart from them, scrolling through his phone with the bored expression of someone who'd done this routine a thousand times, was Vinícius Júnior.
*Breathe,* Kaito told himself. *They're just people. Very talented, very famous, very successful people, but still just people.*
The internal pep talk didn't help at all.
Raúl guided him toward the trio, and Bellingham looked up first, his face breaking into a genuine smile.
**"There he is! The Japanese wonderkid!"** Bellingham's English carried the distinctive accent of Birmingham, friendly and unpretentious. He extended a hand that Kaito shook, probably too firmly. **"Jude Bellingham. Welcome to Madrid, mate. Heard good things about you."**
**"Thank you,"** Kaito managed, his voice embarrassingly small. **"I'm a big fan."**
**"Course you are,"** Jude grinned. **"Everyone's a big fan of me."**
**"He's joking,"** Camavinga said, stepping forward with his own handshake. **"He's actually incredibly modest and definitely doesn't spend an hour looking at his own highlights every night."**
**"That's a lie and you know it,"** Jude protested.
Vinícius looked up from his phone, and when he smiled it was the kind of expression that had sold a million jerseys—charismatic, confident, genuinely warm.
**"Kaito, right? I'm Vini."** His English was accented but confident. **"Welcome to the family. If you ever need anything, or if anyone gives you shit for being from outside Europe, you let me know. I remember what it's like being the new kid from far away."**
**"Thank you,"** Kaito said. **"I really appreciate it."**
**"How old are you again?"** Jude asked.
**"Fifteen."**
All three first-teamers winced.
**"Jesus,"** Jude muttered. **"I thought I was young when I came here at nineteen. You're practically a child."**
**"A child who cost €10 million,"** Camavinga noted. **"No pressure, yeah?"**
**"So much pressure,"** Vini corrected. **"But also, you're fifteen. You're allowed to fuck up. Just... try to fuck up in training rather than in matches."**
**"That's terrible advice,"** Raúl interjected, but he was smiling.
**"It's realistic advice,"** Vini countered. **"Better he hears it from us than figures it out the hard way."**
The photographer was making impatient gestures, and Raúl herded everyone toward the platform for the official photos. Kaito was handed a Real Madrid Castilla jersey—pristine white with the number 8 on the back and KUROSAWA printed above it—and instructed to hold it up while smiling at the camera.
The first few shots were stiff, his smile forced, his posture awkward. Then Jude leaned in from the side and whispered:
**"Mate, you look like you're being held hostage. Relax. You earned this."**
The next photo caught Kaito mid-laugh at something Vini said, and that became the official image—a fifteen-year-old Japanese boy in an expensive suit, holding up a Real Madrid jersey, his expression caught somewhere between joy and disbelief, flanked by three of the best players in the world who'd taken time out of their morning to make him feel welcome.
That photo would be everywhere by evening—on Real Madrid's official social media, on news websites across the globe, on the front page of Marca and AS and every major sports publication in Spain and Japan.
But in the moment, Kaito wasn't thinking about any of that.
He was thinking about how his father would have loved this. How Takeshi would have pointed at the screen and said, "That's my son. Standing with galácticos. I always knew."
The thought threatened to overwhelm him, emotion rising in his throat, but he swallowed it down and kept smiling for the cameras.
After the official photos, there were individual shots—Kaito with the ball at his feet, Kaito pointing at the crest on the jersey, Kaito in various poses that the photographer assured him would look good in print even though they felt ridiculous to perform.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only thirty minutes, the photographer was satisfied and began packing up his equipment.
**"We should get back to training,"** Camavinga said, checking his watch. **"Ancelotti will kill us if we're late."**
**"Kill you,"** Jude corrected. **"I'm his favorite. I can be late."**
**"You're delusional,"** Vini said, but he was already moving toward the first-team pitch in the distance.
Before they left, Jude turned back to Kaito one more time.
**"Seriously, though. You need anything, you ask. We look out for each other at this club. That's what makes Real Madrid special."**
**"I will,"** Kaito promised. **"Thank you."**
The three stars jogged away, their white training kits bright against the green of the pitch, and Kaito watched them go with something approaching awe.
**"Come on,"** Raúl said, placing a hand on his shoulder. **"Let's get you back to the locker room. You've had enough excitement for one day."**
They walked across the training complex in comfortable silence, the adrenaline of the morning finally beginning to fade, leaving Kaito with the bone-deep exhaustion of someone who'd been running on nervous energy for hours.
Back in the Castilla locker room, most of his teammates had already left for lunch, but Chema was still there, scrolling through his phone.
**"How was it?"** the Spanish midfielder asked.
**"Overwhelming,"** Kaito admitted. **"But good. I think. Maybe. I don't know."**
Chema laughed.
**"Is always like that. Big announcement, many cameras, everyone watching. But tomorrow, is back to normal. Just training. Just football. Is better that way."**
**"Yeah,"** Kaito agreed, sinking onto the bench in front of his locker. **"Better that way."**
His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket—a message from his mother, who'd obviously been watching the presentation ceremony live despite the time difference.
**Mom: You looked so handsome in that suit! And standing with Bellingham and Vinícius! Your father would have been so proud. Call me when you can. We love you.**
Kaito stared at the message for a long moment, then typed a reply:
**Kaito: Love you too, Mom. I'll call tonight. Tell the girls I said hi.**
He stood, changed out of the suit and back into casual clothes, and grabbed his bag. The apartment was waiting, empty and silent and still not quite home. But someday, maybe, it would be. Someday, his mother and sisters would be here too, and the silence would be filled with familiar voices, and Spain wouldn't feel quite so foreign.
But that was someday.
Today, he was fifteen years old and ten thousand kilometers from home and carrying the weight of a €10 million transfer fee along with the hopes of everyone who'd ever believed in him.
Today, Kurosawa Kaito was a Real Madrid player.
And tomorrow, the real work would begin.
---