The Water Crisis

Kunigami stood in the empty laundry room, staring at the useless taps. The silence stretched like a bruised ligament. He sighed, rolling his sleeves up past his elbows. No water meant no clean clothes. No clean clothes meant wearing yesterday’s sweat-stiff jersey to tomorrow’s drills. Unacceptable. He stepped into the corridor and nearly tripped over Isagi, who was sprawled on the floor, phone held aloft like a fallen warrior. “Water?” Isagi asked. “Exactly,” Kunigami said. “You know anything?” “Maintenance said the storage tank’s valve is closed. Ego’s the only one with the key, and he’s gone for the day.” Isagi’s voice dripped with resigned humor. “The entire facility is dry. Showers, sinks, toilets—all dead.” Kunigami’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll find another way.” He pushed through the second-floor common room. Half the building’s strikers were doing precisely nothing: some napping in piles of beanbags, others playing card games with a level of intensity that suggested the loser would be executed. Bachira and Chigiri were there, sitting cross-legged on a table, both panting, jerseys torn at the shoulders. Bachira held up a two-liter bottle of water like a trophy. “Kunigami! Look!” Bachira grinned. “I found emergency rations in the staff fridge. Want some?” “That’s not for drinking,” Chigiri said flatly, but didn’t stop him. Kunigami grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and poured half into a cupped hand. He splashed it on his face, then examined the empty taps nearby as if willing them to gush. “This isn’t enough for laundry. I need a whole tank.” Bachira’s eyes lit up. “A tank? Ooh, there’s a rain collection barrel on the roof! I saw it when I was chasing my shoe.” “Your shoe?” “Long story. But yeah, it’s full of rainwater. No one’s used it because Ego said it's ‘non-potable.’ But for laundry?” Kunigami considered it. “Probably full of algae and dead bugs.” “Good! Adds flavor to your socks.” Bachira hopped off the table. “I’ll show you. Consider it repayment for stealing your water bottle.” Chigiri stood, stretching his leg with a wince. “I’ll supervise. Make sure you don’t fall off and get us sued.” The three of them climbed the emergency stairs to the roof, the metal steps groaning underfoot. The rooftop opened into a gray sky that threatened rain but never delivered. There, in the corner, sat a large plastic barrel, its surface slick with moisture. Kunigami lifted the lid. Dark water, leaves floating on top, but it was clear enough. He dipped a finger in, sniffed. “It smells like wet concrete.” “Fine by me,” Kunigami said. He grabbed the barrel’s rim, tipped it, and began pouring a slow, brownish stream through the roof drain that connected to the facility’s pipes. “Now the laundry room will have pressure.” Bachira clapped. “You’re a genius. A water-bandit genius.” “But you’ll still have to boil it to kill anything,” Chigiri said. “Otherwise your whites will turn green.” “Green is the new white,” Kunigami replied, and for the first time that day, he smiled. They stood there, three strikers on a rainless rooftop, water dripping down into the heart of Blue Lock, and for a moment the competition paused. Then Bachira whispered, “Race you back down.” Chigiri snorted. “No.” “Coward.” “I’m conserving energy for the next real match.” Kunigami was already halfway down the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “I’m taking the first load of laundry. Don’t mess with my whites.”