Chapter 2: The Laundry Gambit

The chaos erupted like a bomb had gone off in Blue Lock’s central atrium. Within the first ten seconds of Bachira’s proposed race, seventy-three strikers had already mapped three different routes, thirty-one had started arguing about the definition of “fair start,” and sixteen had simply sprinted off in random directions, hoping to brute-force their way to victory. Kunigami watched the stampede from the doorway of the laundry room, a half-full basket of whites balanced on his hip. He had planned this day meticulously: wash at 9:00, dry by 10:30, fold by 11:00, and then maybe, just maybe, read a book until dinner. But now, two players crashed through the laundry room doors, sliding across the tile like they were chasing a ball rather than a nebulous concept of “winning.” “Out,” Kunigami said, his voice flat as a blade. “Kunigami! Perfect legs for the short corridor route!” one of them yelled, pointing at him like he was a missing puzzle piece. “I’m doing laundry.” “You can do laundry — after we win!” Kunigami set down his basket. He cracked his neck. “No.” He stepped forward, and a hero’s posture made the two intruders instinctively backpedal. They fled, shouting about “the muscular monster guarding the back passage.” Across the facility, Chigiri had found a quiet corner on the second-floor observation deck. He was leaning against the railing, watching the chaos unfold below like a nature documentary about particularly aggressive ants. Bachira appeared beside him, grinning. “You’re not participating,” Bachira said. “I said I’d race one person. Not three hundred.” “Perfect! Race me.” Chigiri raised an eyebrow. “To where?” “To the end of the building and back. Winner gets the rest of the day’s quiet.” “Deal.” Chigiri pushed off the railing, and his lazy posture dissolved into coiled readiness. “When?” “Now.” They took off down the empty hallway. For a fleeting moment, it was just speed and wind and the memory of untouched grass fields. Chigiri’s legs burned in a way he had forgotten he loved. Then a stray striker burst from a side door, collided with Bachira, and the three of them went tumbling in a heap. Kunigami, meanwhile, had successfully loaded his first wash. He pressed the start button, and a deep, satisfying hum filled the small room. For five seconds, there was peace. Then the machine shuddered violently and stopped. Red lights flashed. A mechanical voice announced: “WATER RESERVOIR EMPTY. CONTACT FACILITY MANAGEMENT.” “You have got to be kidding me,” Kunigami whispered. He found management’s office locked, with a note taped to the door: “Taking a rest day. Good luck. — Ego.” The race between Bachira and Chigiri ended in a draw when they both refused to consider the tangled heap of limbs at the finish line as “winning.” They sat on the floor, catching their breath, surrounded by groaning, defeated strikers. Bachira laughed, bright and unhinged. Chigiri smiled, small but real. “Same time next month?” Bachira asked. “If you don’t crash into me again.” “No promises.” And somewhere in the depths of the facility, Kunigami began fashioning a bucket to fetch water from the toilets. Rest day, he decided, was a lie.