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To the God of Soccer, would they be mad if Isagi punched someone right now? Would they rain down fires of fury if he were to accidentally kill all of his Blue Lock teammates? He could spare Hiori and Kurona, sure, but the rest?
Well, fuck them.
He tried to calm his nerves, desperately distracting himself with anything else. Deep down, he knew they weren't at fault. Some matches were just impossible to win. Some outcomes resulted in total, absolute loss.
But gosh-fucking-damn it, Isagi had been this close to beating Hugo. He was so close to shoving that nonsensical, philosophical bullshit right back down his French throat.
Ego had called a meeting, and the man had been rambling for what felt like hours. Only this time, he hadn't called them unpolished lumps of gems. He had called them diamonds.
"Diamonds," Isagi muttered under his breath, the word tasting like ash. How could they be diamonds when Vivian Hugo had just systematically dismantled their entire formation like a robot tearing a human from the soles of its foot?
Isagi’s fists clenched in his lap until his knuckles turned white. His eyes sting, he's very, very frustrated.
His brain was burned with the memory of Hugo's smirk on the field, the way the French prodigy had leaned close, breath hot against Isagi's ear, whispering some pretentious poetry about aptitudes. About how unsuitable Isagi’s dreams are, about how he's not suited to become the world's greatest striker.
Predictable. Him.
"Isagi," Hiori murmured from the seat next to him, his voice low with genuine concern.
"Your breathing is getting really loud. Are ya okay?"
"I'm fine," Isagi bit out, though his pulse was practically hammering in his throat.
He wasn't fine. He was mutating. The puzzle pieces in his brain weren't fitting together this time; they were sharp, jagged, and cutting him from the inside out.
He didn't want Ego's praise, and he didn't want to be a diamond. He just wanted to tear Hugo off his high horse, rip that pristine jersey, and force those smug, French eyes to look at him not as a curiosity, but as a threat.
Because the worst part of it all wasn't just that Hugo had won. It was that during those ninety minutes plus overtime of absolute chaos, when their eyes had locked across the grass, Isagi had felt a terrifying— no, electrifying spark.
And he knew, with absolute certainty, that Hugo had felt it too.
Suddenly his phone vibrates with a notification from his Instagram (the one where Blue Lock’s PR team convinced him to open, he barely uses it anyway).
Isagi’s eyes widened, Vivian Hugo, the account with a blue checkmark, his obnoxious profile picture of him wearing his Arsenaly jersey and the flag of France on his bio— and thirty-eight million followers, just mentioned him in a story.
Isagi’s knuckles turned white against the back of his phone.
Hugo hadn’t posted a picture of France’s post-match celebration, nor a shot of his own winning goal. Instead, he had shared a photo originally posted by PIFA’s official account. It was a close-up of Isagi on the field. His hair was damp with sweat, his eyes wide and glowing with that intense, hyper-focused Metavision light (to the people, it looks as if he is highly focused) his lips parted slightly in absolute concentration. It was Isagi’s signature 'thinking face'.
A raw and surprisingly striking shot that captured him at his most vulnerable and lethal form.
Hugo hadn’t added a single word of text. He had just dropped Isagi’s handle right over his face like a mark of ownership.
Before his brain could even filter his anger, Isagi’s thumbs flew across the keyboard, tapping directly into Hugo's DMs.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard. If he answered in English, he wouldn't be able to spit out the words fast enough to match how furious he was. Instead, he typed in his native Japanese, raw and blunt, letting the translation feature do the work for Hugo.
Isagi Yoichi: ふざけんな。
(See Translation: Stop messing with me.)
Isagi Yoichi: 画面越しじゃなくて、直接ケリつけてやる。今どこにいる？
(See Translation: We're settling this face-to-face, not behind a screen. Where the hell are you right now?)
A few seconds passed. The typing bubbles on Hugo's end appeared almost instantly, moving with a calm rhythm that only made Isagi's blood boil hotter.
Vivian Hugo: Ah, quelle charmante fureur...
(See Translation: Ah, what charming fury...)
Vivian Hugo: Tu as perdu contre moi, Isagi Yoichi. Mais si tu veux tellement me dévorer, viens me trouver.
(See Translation: You lost to me, Isagi Yoichi. But if you want to devour me that badly, come find me.)
Vivian Hugo: Le café à trois rues du stade. Entrée arrière. Ne me fais pas attendre, mon cher.
(See Translation: The café three blocks from the stadium. Back entrance. Don't keep me waiting, my dear.)
Isagi gripped his phone so tightly the plastic casing creaked. He didn't reply. He does not even know what to say anymore.
Isagi has been around assholes all his life, he proved that he can work out his anger and frustration in a healthy manner.
So why does Hugo irritate him so much? Is it because he finally tasted defeat after being declared as number one in Blue Lock, alongside Rin?
Rin. He doesn’t even know what to feel about him, he’s not inherently wrong in trying to score for himself but Isagi just didn’t expect that the younger Itoshi will try to sabotage his own teammate.
Fuck, whatever.
Isagi didn’t even bother putting his official Blue Lock tracksuit back on. He was too pissed off to care about looking like a representative of Japan's elite striker program.
Instead, he yanked a plain, oversized black shirt over his head, not caring that it was slightly wrinkled from being shoved at the bottom of his gym bag. He grabbed his dark jacket, throwing it over his shoulders as he zipped it up halfway with a sharp clack.
He stuffed his phone into his pocket, checked that his keycard was secure, and didn't look back at the mirror once. He didn't need to see his reflection to know exactly how he looked right now. He shouted a ‘bye’ to his teammates, now doing different things to cope up with the loss, he gently nudged Hiori and Kurona, who are both munching on a protein bar.
He saw Rin and Ego from a room talking, Karasu, Barou, Otoya and Aiku putting on their shirts. While Reo is talking to someone over the phone too— he sounds frustrated and when Isagi heard Reo said the word ‘father’, he knew it wasn’t his business to eavesdrop anymore.
Slipping past the heavy security doors of the stadium, Isagi blended into the cool night air, heading straight toward the coordinates of the café.
The aggressive adrenaline that had carried Isagi all the way from the locker room suddenly bottomed out, leaving him hollow and completely exhausted.
Maybe it was the atmosphere of the café Hugo had picked. The vibes were overwhelmingly luxurious. All polished marble, dim amber lighting, and plush velvet booths. Looking around, Isagi realized it would be an absolute shame (and a massive legal nightmare) if he were to actually punch Hugo in a place this nice. Or maybe it was the mouth-watering spread of traditional French sweets laid out on the table, casting a rich aroma of rich chocolate, buttery pastry, and melted sugar into the air.
Off the field, Isagi wasn't a ruthless monster. He was just a tired football player in a wrinkled, oversized black shirt. And right now, staring at the person sitting across from him, Isagi was completely and hopelessly stupefied.
Because off the field, Vivian Hugo is a perfect gentleman. And for some fucking reason, he looks so handsome it actually made Isagi's head hurt.
Worse, his eyes finally adjusted to the dim and expensive lighting of the café, and he noticed how impossibly attractive Vivian Hugo actually looked. It is deeply unfair. He looked like he had stepped off a Parisian runway rather than a brutal football match, naturally exuding flawless elegance.
Hugo was sitting there with a sleek, high-end earpiece already resting in his left ear. A translation bud that glowed with a faint, expensive blue light. He didn't have a single hair out of place, maroon strands framing his face perfectly. The faint scent of expensive cologne and premium chocolate drifted across the short distance between them, completely dizzying Isagi's senses.
Gosh, if Isagi is drooling because of sweets, then he’s really pathetic.
Isagi silently slid into the chair in front of Hugo, his aggressive posture completely collapsing as he slumped against the velvet seat. He felt incredibly small in his jacket or maybe it’s because Hugo is just big, he’s not sure anymore, his brain short-circuiting as his eyes darted from Hugo’s sharp and perfect jawline to the beautiful spread on the table.
Laid out on delicate porcelain plates were rows of glossy, golden-brown éclairs, a vibrant assortment of pastel macarons, and freshly baked pain au chocolat. But right in the center sat two identical porcelain cups, alongside a small silver pitcher of thick, decadent chocolat chaud.
The famous Parisian hot chocolate that Isagi saw in one of the videos about France’s best cuisine that he watched before.
Isagi stared at the second cup. Hugo had ordered a double portion of everything before Isagi had even replied to his text. He hadn't even asked if Isagi was coming; he had just quietly, confidently prepared a place for him. A strange, unexpected warmth bloomed in Isagi's chest, touching him so deeply it made him feel completely vulnerable. Hugo wasn't treating him like an afterthought or a nuisance.
He was treating him like an honored guest.
"You look like you've just seen a ghost, Isagi Yoichi," Hugo observed softly, leaning his chin on the back of his fingers. Through his translation bud, his voice came through smooth and low, the French cadence dripping with a maddeningly gentle tone.
"Or perhaps you've finally realized how much energy you waste on unsuitable theories you have."
Isagi’s stomach gave a traitorous, incredibly loud growl, cutting right through the quiet jazz playing in the background.
… Shit.
Isagi froze, his face flushing a deep, vivid red. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
But Hugo didn't laugh. He didn't tease him or use it as ammunition. Instead, his eyes softened with genuine warmth, and he elegantly picked up the silver pitcher, pouring a smooth stream of the hot chocolate into Isagi’s cup.
"Eat, Isagi Yoichi. I ordered the éclairs specifically," Hugo said, his manners impeccable as he set the pitcher down and pushed a small cup of fresh chantilly cream toward him. "You fought like a demon today; your body needs the sugar. Don't let your pride starve you."
Isagi bit his inner cheek, entirely defenseless against how striking, how thoughtful, and how magnetic this man was off the football match. Defiantly ignoring the elegant silver fork just to keep some semblance of his pride, Isagi aggressively grabbed an éclair with his bare fingers (his hands are clean, thank you) and took a massive, frustrated bite.
The explosion of premium French chocolate and yummy cream hit his tongue, and Isagi almost whimpered.
Isagi almost has tears in his eyes.
It was unbelievably good, far better than any bland, calorie-coded meal bar Ego forced them to eat.
"Delicious, Isagi Yoichi?" Hugo chuckled, watching Isagi chew with a look of quiet fascination. He reached over, picked up a linen napkin, and gently tapped the corner of his own mouth, silently indicating that Isagi had a bit of chocolate on his lip. "I like seeing you satisfied. It makes me wonder what else it takes to make that mind of yours go completely quiet."
Isagi nearly choked on the pastry, the blush on his cheeks instantly burning all the way down to his neck. He swallowed hard, taking a quick, desperate sip of the thick hot chocolate just to hide his face.
He was totally dismantled by how badly attracted he was to this French gentleman, completely trapped by a table full of sweets and a pair of dark, mesmerizing eyes and long lower lashes.
Shit, Isagi didn’t need to embarrass himself any further.
Once he swallowed the last bite of the delicious éclair and macarons, actively fighting his own muscles so he wouldn't exhale in pure pleasure, Isagi focused his eyes back on Hugo. He needed to flip the script. He needed to stop being the breathless victim of Hugo’s overwhelming charm and get back to a territory he actually understood: football.
“Your philosophy,” Isagi said, leaning his elbows on the marble table. “Tell me more about it.”
A small, triumphant noise almost made its way out of Isagi’s mouth when he saw the way Hugo paused. The French prodigy’s dark eyes blinked at him, completely caught by surprise.
For a split second, the unbothered gentleman mask slipped.
Yes, Isagi thought, a spark of satisfaction lighting up his chest. Caught you.
Capitalizing on his momentum, Isagi pressed further, a small, challenging smirk tugging at the corner of his own lips. “I know what you said before. You see me as a natural number two. Tell me, how exactly did you come to that conclusion?”
Isagi's brow furrowed slightly, “Is it because I don’t have the physical abilities of Julian Loki? Is that your grand metric? Since you clearly base all your philosophical observations on raw physical characteristics.”
Hugo kept his posture, entirely unfazed by the bite in Isagi’s tone. He elegantly picked up a perfectly cut piece of his éclair, placed it into his mouth, and chewed with an infuriatingly calm grace.
Only after he swallowed did he let the translation bud carry his low voice across the table, his eyes shining with a competitive amusement.
"Aptitude is destiny. Live your destiny. Then, life will shine," Hugo quoted softly, tilting his head with a lazy smile. "You think I am insulting you by comparing you to Loki, Isagi Yoichi? How painfully narrow-minded of you."
Isagi raised an eyebrow, “Just pick any of my name.”
“Yoichi it is then.”
Isagi resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"Also, you’re calling me narrow-minded?!" Isagi laughed out loud as he swirled the rich hot chocolate in his cup. "You're the one putting a ceiling on my potential just because I can't sprint at the speed of sound. That sounds pretty limited to me, Mr. Philosopher."
"Because you are looking at the wrong angle, mon cher," Hugo countered easily, leaning forward. The lazy posture was gone, replaced by a lively, animated energy. He is clearly loving the pushback.
"Loki is a force of nature. He is a storm. You do not debate a storm; you simply watch it pass. It requires no thought. But you, Yoichi... your aptitude isn't in brainless muscles. It is in those god-fearing eyes of yours."
Isagi raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer too, completely sucked into the rhythm of the debate. Gosh, he can smell Hugo’s cologne. Freshwood. Smells clean, it suits him. "Oh? So now my eyes are god-fearing? Make up your mind, Hugo. Am I a number two or a god?"
"You are a number two because you try to play the role of the beast," Hugo explained, his hands moving in slight, elegant gestures as he spoke.
"A natural number two doesn't mean a servant. In a grand tragedy, the king is always blinded by his own power and dies first. It is the shadow behind the throne, the one who manipulates the pieces, the one who truly understands the game, who wins.”
Hugo leaned in closer, “You see the future of the field, Yoichi. You are the heart of Blue Lock. But a team full of strikers is not enough to win the World Cup."
"And a team full of number twos will never become number one." Isagi shot back instantly, a fierce grin breaking across his face. He felt alive in a completely different way now, the exhaustion forgotten as he matched Hugo wit for wit. "I'm the protagonist of my own story, Hugo. I don't play roles in your little tragedy. I smash the stage."
Hugo’s eyes flashed with delight. "An admirable delusion. But a stage cannot be smashed by desire alone. Football is governed by a higher law, Yoichi.”
Hugo smirks.
“Machiavelli wrote that fortune is an unbridled river, destroying everything in its wake unless men build dams to contain it. Loki is the river. I am the architect of the dam. And you? You are merely caught in the current, praying for a lucky break."
"Machiavelli? Please. If you're going to use The Prince to lecture me about luck, at least get it right," Isagi snorted, crossing his arm. Gosh, the look of surprise on Hugo’s face is delightful to look at. "He also suggested that fortune is like a woman; she’s fickle, and she only allows herself to be conquered by the daring. She favors the bold, aggressive, and impetuous men over the ones who sit back and act cautious."
Isagi leaned in, his blue eyes burning with absolute certainty. "Loki just happened to be born fast. That's not a philosophy, that's just a genetic lottery. It's what John Rawls called the 'natural lottery'.”
Isagi continues, “Loki didn't earn that speed, he just won the biological jackpot. But Machiavelli’s actual point was about adaptability. He said that if a leader’s inherent nature aligns with the current times, they succeed, but when the times change, the ones who fail to alter their methods will fall. Loki can't alter his methods; he only has one thing going for him: His speed. But me?”
Isagi points to himself. A finger on his chest.
“I adapt. I rewrite my entire system to match the current times if I have to."
Isagi leaned back, a smug satisfaction radiating from him. Hugo’s ears are on him. He felt a shiver from his spine as he saw Hugo licked the cream on his lips, full attention on him.
Good.
"Ego taught us that real luck isn't random. It’s a piece of the puzzle that only falls to the person who positioned themselves to receive it. It’s an exact science. I don't pray for luck, Hugo. I am the aggressive force that forces fortune to submit."
Hugo smiles.
He didn't take a sip of his drink. He just blinked at Isagi, his mouth slightly parted in astonishment. The fact that this tired Japanese in an oversized shirt was casually throwing Machiavelli's concepts of Fortuna and Rawlsian political philosophy back in his face— and weaving them perfectly into Blue Lock's clinical definition of 'Luck', completely caught him off guard.
A slow, breathless chuckle escaped Hugo’s lips. "You…” Hugo laughs. He actually laughs, and Isagi can’t believe his ears at how beautiful he sounds.
“You actually know Rawls. And you understand Machiavelli's nuances on adaptability."
"Of course I do," Isagi muttered, his cheeks flushing slightly at the intense attention Hugo was giving him. "I do read things other than football strategies, you know."
“Hmm,” Hugo muses, as he elegantly wipes his mouth with the cloth provided at the table. His dark eyes never leave Isagi's face, tracking the faint pink creeping up Isagi's neck with a look of fascination.
Before Isagi can fire back another philosophical counterargument to break the spell, the irritating buzz of his phone on the marble table cuts through the quiet jazz of the café.
Isagi blinks, the intellectual high halting as he looks down at the screen. It’s a direct message from Ego, telling him to rest because tomorrow will be their strategy meeting for their match against England.
Isagi stares at the screen, letting out a heavy sigh. The aggressive adrenaline completely leaves him in an instant, leaving his limbs feeling like lead. "Well... Ego's asking me to get some rest before our match for England. I have to go back to the facility and sleep."
He starts to slide out of the plush velvet booth, stretching his aching shoulders. "Thanks for the sweet dinner. You can send me a message on Instagram where I can pay my share of the meal. I'm just gonna walk back to—"
"Walk?" Hugo interrupts, his voice dropping into a smooth, commanding tone as he effortlessly slides out of his side of the booth. "Absolutely not. You can barely keep your eyes open, Yoichi. A gentleman does not let his favorite rival wander the streets of Paris half-dead from exhaustion."
Hugo then raised an eyebrow, “I don’t do the ‘sharing the bill’ crap. You don’t need to pay me anything Yoichi.”
Isagi nods. “Thank you then, and I can walk fine, Hugo, it's just a few blocks—"
"I am driving you," Hugo says, leaving no room for argument.
When they step outside the café, the cool night air hits Isagi's face, but his attention is immediately stolen by the sleek sports car waiting right by the curb. It is a custom Bugatti Chiron, and it is a deep, dark wine-red color— Destiny Bordeaux. The paint shifts to almost black under the streetlights
Isagi's jaw lowkey drops. Wah...? Was this guy seriously flexing his insanely expensive car just to drop him off at a training facility? The casual extravagance of it makes him feel entirely out of his depth.
"Get in," Hugo murmurs, unlocking the doors with a soft beep.
The inside is just as ridiculous. The seats are leather that stands out against the dark red outside, and the gear shift has a butterfly symbol built right into it.
As the engine roars to life with a deep rumble that Isagi can feel vibrating right through his chest, the car suddenly feels incredibly small. The expensive scent of Hugo’s cologne; like fresh wood and a hint of floral, fills the air, making Isagi's head spin a little.
They drive in silence for a few minutes, the car moving so fast that the Paris streets blur outside the window.
But the silence isn't peaceful; it is thick, heavy, and full of an awkward and tense energy.
Isagi keeps his eyes glued to the window, but in the reflection of the glass, he can see Hugo’s dark eyes darting over to him every few seconds, watching his expression closely.
Every time the car speeds up and Hugo shifts gears, Isagi feels his own pulse jump. The heat coming off Hugo in the cramped front seats is overwhelming. Isagi grips his own knees, his skin tingling, hyper-aware of how close Hugo’s shoulder is to his.
Fuck, maybe Isagi is losing his mind.
When the car finally pulls up to the gates of the training facility, Hugo turns off the engine. The sudden silence is deafening, heavy enough to choke on. Neither of them moves. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over Hugo’s face.
Isagi clears his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs so loudly he is terrified Hugo can hear it. He reaches a trembling hand toward the door handle. "Right. Thanks for the ride, Hugo. See you on the—"
"Yoichi."
The voice isn't playful anymore.
It is deep, and completely serious.
Before Isagi’s fingers can even touch the handle, Hugo moves. He detaches his big hands from the steering wheel, his index finger tracing firmly around the side of Isagi’s neck while his thumb catches his jawline, forcing him to turn around.
The heat of his hand is intense, sending a shock of adrenaline straight down Isagi’s spine.
Isagi’s breath hitches, his entire body going rigid. Up close, Hugo’s eyes aren't amused anymore. And wow, his lashes are really long. His eyes are dark, wide, and heavy with a serious intensity that makes Isagi's lungs squeeze tight. All those smart arguments and philosophers completely vanish from his brain.
"You are alluring Yoichi," Hugo murmurs, his hot breath brushing against Isagi's cheek.
And then Vivian leans, crowding Isagi back into his seat until there is no space left between them. His gaze drops, locking directly onto Isagi's parted, trembling lips.
"Enchanté, Isagi Yoichi."
"Hugo—" Isagi starts, his voice cracking a little as he tries to snap out of it, but the name is completely cut off.
Fuck, fuck, Hugo is making his head spin—
Isagi gasped when he felt Hugo’s lips above his own.
It isn't a gentle nor a polite kiss. It is sudden, hard, and full of the exact same aggressive energy that they both had on the football match just hours ago.
Hugo’s fingers tangle tightly into the short hair at the back of Isagi's neck, holding him in place as his mouth moves against his with desperation.
Isagi's brain short-circuits entirely. For a split second, his hands hover helplessly in the air, shocked by the sudden sensation of Hugo’s lips against his, tasting a faint yet sweet hint of the hot chocolate they just drank.
But then, that stubborn Blue Lock instinct takes over.
“Ah, haaa…” Isagi mewls. He can feel Hugo’s lips turning up to smile against his own.
Damn it.
Isagi doesn't pull away. He refuses to lose. His eyes snap shut, and his fingers grab a tight handful of Hugo's expensive coat, yanking the Frenchman closer. He opens his mouth with a sharp, breathless gasp and kisses him back just as hard, refusing to let Hugo win this argument either.
And suddenly there were hands sliding onto Yoichi's waist, a groan coming from Hugo as his hands gave a squeeze against his skin.
Hugo loves it. The lean build of the striker's waist, completely yielding yet taut under his touch.
Hugo squeezed harder, anchoring Isagi closer until Isagi’s back was pressed flat against the passenger door, his head tilted back against the leather headrest, completely breathless.
The kiss broke with a wet gasp, and Hugo immediately buried his face into the crook of Isagi’s neck.
Isagi moans, “Ah, ughhh. Wait, ah.”
His hot breath hit Isagi's sensitive skin, making a violent shiver run straight down Isagi’s spine. Hugo’s lips trailed down his jawline, his teeth lightly grazing the skin just under Isagi's ear as he prepared to press down hard and leave a dark, undeniable mark of his claim.
"Wait—" Isagi gasped out, his hands instantly moving up to rest against Hugo's broad shoulders. He pushed back slightly, his breath coming in short, uneven pants. "Don't... don't leave a mark. I still have to practice for the England match."
Hugo froze. Feeling a sudden irritation at himself as to what the fuck he’s doing to Yoichi, followed by an intense irritation that Isagi Yoichi denied his claim.
For a second, his grip on Isagi's waist tightened, his dark eyes clouded with hunger as he stared down at the flushed skin of Isagi’s throat. But then, the perfect gentleman mask smoothly slipped back into place. He took a slow breath, relaxed his fingers, and leaned back just enough to give Isagi some space.
Hugo nodded, a faint, breathless smile returning to his lips. "Ah. Forgive me, Yoichi. I got caught in the moment. I’m sorry."
Isagi looked up at him, his own chest heaving, his lips swollen and red. Seeing the sophisticated, unbothered Vivian Hugo looking so thoroughly disheveled and out of breath gave Isagi a sudden, wicked surge of confidence. That cheeky, competitive Blue Lock ego flared up.
Instead of moving away, Isagi reached up, caught the lapel of Hugo’s coat, and pulled him down just an inch— only to press a soft and completely innocent peck right against Hugo’s lips.
It is a total tease, entirely devoid of the biting friction from a moment ago, but it left Hugo blinking. Absolutely stunned.
Isagi pulled back completely, a small, triumphant smirk playing on his lips as he opened the car door.
"Thanks for the ride, Hugo. See you in our rematch."
Hugo didn't move.
He just sat there inside his Bugatti, a helpless, captivated smile spreading across his face as he watched Isagi slide out of the car, shut the door, and jog up the steps of the facility without looking back.
Hugo’s chest felt tight, his mind already spinning with anticipation, wondering how the hell he was going to wait until the next match to see those pretty eyes again.
Hugo shifted back into the driver's seat, his eyes dropping down to his own tailored trousers.
Merde.
Vivian Hugo is hard.
Hugo stared out the windshield, letting out a rough, self-deprecating laugh as he rubbed a hand over his face. His cock straining against his trousers.
Isagi Yoichi had completely ruined his composure, denied him the final word, and left him aching in the front seat of his own car.
"Fascinating," Hugo muttered to the empty car, turning Le Muguet's engine back on with a smirk on his lips.
“Je me languis de te revoir, Isagi Yoichi.”