On a sunlit football pitch, the crowd roared as the match began. Within minutes, a player stood out—a towering figure at an imposing 6'4". As the ball soared into the penalty box, he leaped effortlessly above the defenders, heading it with precision into the back of the net.

The opposition barely had time to regroup before he struck again. With mesmerizing skill, he danced through the defense one, two, three players left in his wake, before effortlessly rounding the keeper and slotting the ball into the goal.

It was only 10 minutes into the game, and the towering player had already notched five goals, each more jaw-dropping than the last. The opposition looked helpless, their defense shredded by his sheer dominance.

By the final whistle, he stood as the undisputed hero of the match. With a staggering 15 goals to his name, the player had single-handedly rewritten expectations of what was possible on the pitch.

The match had ended, and his teammates swarmed him on the pitch, their faces lit with excitement. "You're amazing! Hey, why don't we go celebrate?" one of them suggested, patting him on the back.

(A/N: They are speaking German. I am not translating every piece of dialogue if I wrote this shit in German.)

The towering player, however, shook his head with a polite smile. "Can't. I've got places to be," he replied, slinging his sports bag over his shoulder. With a quick wave to his coach and teammates, he turned and walked off, leaving the echoes of their cheers behind.

He mounted his motorcycle—a sleek purple beast that roared to life as he revved it. With the city lights shimmering in the distance, he sped off, weaving through the streets with practiced ease. Unbeknownst to him, another figure followed discreetly, their presence hidden in the hum of traffic.

After navigating the bustling cityscape, he finally arrived at his destination: a modest yet well-maintained building with a bold sign that read "Kamogawa Boxing Gym."

The familiar sight brought a rare smile to his face as he parked his bike. He stepped inside, the faint smell of sweat and leather gloves greeting him as the sounds of punches hitting heavy bags echoed through the gym.

Inside, an older, somewhat short Japanese man was overseeing a group of boxers. His sharp eyes caught the towering figure walking in. "There you are, you brat!" Mr. Kamogawa barked, his tone equal parts annoyance and fondness.

The young man scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Sorry, sir. I had a match today," he explained, dropping his bag near the entrance.

"A match, huh?" Mr. Kamogawa crossed his arms and nodded. "That's all well and good, but I hope you didn't forget your responsibilities here. You're training the rookies today."

The towering player frowned slightly, his tone half-pleading. "Do I have to? They'll probably do fine without me."

Mr. Kamogawa's glare was sharp enough to cut steel. "Listen, you're the best boxer I've got. If you don't train these useless nobodies, then who will? You want them to end up punching like wet noodles?"

The young man sighed heavily, relenting under his coach's steely gaze. "Alright, alright. I'll do it," he muttered, walking toward the training area.

As he passed, Mr. Kamagawa smirked. "Good. And don't go easy on them. If they're not puking by the end of today, you're doing it wrong!"

The towering player chuckled under his breath. "Yeah, yeah. You've got it."

He turned his attention to the two rookies Mr. Kamagawa had mentioned. Both looked fresh out of high school, their nervousness evident as they awkwardly laced up their gloves.

The two rookies shuffled nervously, one of them mustering the courage to speak. "Uhh, sir, don't mind me asking, but... who are you?"

The towering figure turned to him and chuckled slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, yes, introductions. How rude of me." He cleared his throat, preparing to speak, but before he could get a single word out, a sharp, commanding voice interrupted.

"How dare you ask my king's name without proper respect!" the voice screeched.

Michael froze, his face falling into his hands as he groaned softly. "Oh no..."

The gym fell silent as a petite yet fiery girl burst through the entrance, her gaze fixed on the rookies with a mix of disdain and protectiveness. "If you must know," she continued, "his name is Michael Kaiser, and he is a man of unmatched talent, grace, and—"

"Emily," Michael cut her off, face-palming once more.

"YOU BRAT! WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT BRINGING GIRLS TO THE GYM?" roared Mr. Kamogawa from the other end of the room, his face red with fury.

Michael winced. "Sorry, coach!" he yelled back, grabbing Emily's wrist in a hurry. "I'll be back tomorrow!" With that, he pulled the girl outside before she could make matters worse.

Once they were both standing outside the gym, Michael released her wrist and turned to her, his expression a mix of exhaustion and frustration. "Emily, what did I tell you about following me?"

Emily looked up at him, her expression completely unbothered by his irritation. "But, my king, what if another foul woman tries to touch you? Or if another peasant disrespects you? I can't just stand by and let that happen!"

Michael's eye twitched as his face turned deadpan. "Emily, listen to me. I know you care, but I already have a girlfriend."

Emily's determined expression faltered slightly, but she quickly recovered. "Yeah, but I've never seen you with her," she said with a skeptical pout.

Michael froze for a moment, her words striking a nerve. His grip on his motorcycle tightened as he whispered under his breath, "Jen..." The name escaped his lips softly, almost too quiet for Emily to hear.

"What was that?" Emily asked, leaning closer.

"Nothing," Michael replied quickly, starting up his bike. "Emily, go home. I'll see you around, okay?"

"But, my king!" she protested, but Michael was already revving his engine. He glanced at her one last time, sighed, and sped off into the evening streets, leaving her standing there with frustrated.

As the motorcycle roared beneath him, Michael's mind began to drift. The hum of the engine and the cool night air did little to quiet the voice in his head, Jen's voice. "I'll wait for you." Those words, spoken so long ago, echoed like a distant melody. Six years. Six long years since he returned to Germany. Six years since they last stood face to face.

Though they stayed in touch through calls and messages, it wasn't the same. The warmth, the connection, the closeness, they were all dimmed by the distance. He sighed, his chest heavy with longing and guilt. 'Would we ever feel like them again?'

Lost in thought, he found himself nearing a familiar spot, a small bridge not far from his house. The stillness of the area, with the soft sound of water flowing beneath the bridge, offered him a quiet refuge. Pulling his bike to the side, he parked and walked to the railing, leaning against it as he stared into the river below.

The faint moonlight reflected off the water, and for a moment, he caught his own reflection staring back at him. His face looked tired, weighed down by the past and the uncertainty of the future. With a sigh, he reached into his bag and pulled out a beer can. The soft hiss of the tab breaking echoed in the stillness.

Taking a slow sip, Michael let his gaze wander over the view, the lights of the city twinkling faintly in the distance. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to find solace in the quiet.

Then, a buzz in his pocket pulled him back to reality. His phone. Setting the can down on the railing, he reached for it. The screen lit up with a notification, another message from Jen.

Just as Michael's thumb hovered over the message from Jen, the phone slipped from his hand, tumbling through the air. Time seemed to slow as he reached for it, but his fingers only brushed the edge of the screen before it plummeted into the water below with a faint plop.

"Dammit all!" he yelled, slamming his fist onto the bridge railing in frustration. He stared at the ripples in the water, his mind racing. Jen's message, her voice, her words was now lost to him, swallowed by the current.

Behind him, a low, metallic chuckle broke the silence.

Michael froze, his annoyance instantly doubling. "Oh, can you not?" he snapped, spinning around to face his motorcycle. The bike's headlights flickered as if mocking him, and then, with the sound of grinding metal, it began to shift and transform.

The wheels folded in on themselves, panels sliding and shifting as the motorcycle reshaped into a towering, mechanical figure. Shockwave stood before him now, his gleaming purple frame illuminated faintly by the moonlight.

"You dropped it," Shockwave said in his deep, emotionless tone, though Michael swore he detected a hint of smug amusement.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Michael said, throwing up his hands. "Wasn't like I noticed my phone doing a swan dive into the river or anything."

Shockwave's single optic lens glowed faintly, whirring as it zoomed in on Michael. "For someone hailed as a prodigy, you exhibit an impressive lack of coordination."

Michael scowled, crossing his arms. "Not the time, Shockwave."

"On the contrary," Shockwave replied, his voice steady and precise. "It's always the time to critique human inefficiency."

Michael groaned, rubbing his temples. "You're impossible." He turned back to the river, muttering under his breath. "First my phone, now you..."

Shockwave leaned slightly forward, his towering presence casting a shadow over Michael. "Shall I retrieve your device?" he offered, though his tone made it unclear if he was being genuine or simply mocking him further.

Michael shook his head. "It's gone, alright? No point. And honestly, you'd probably sink to the bottom with it."

Shockwave straightened, his servos hissing faintly. "If only your problem-solving skills matched your sarcasm."

"Yeah, yeah," Michael said, waving him off. "Just... stop talking." He picked up his beer can, taking a long sip as he tried to calm his nerves. Behind him, Shockwave made a low, amused hum, clearly enjoying Michael's frustration far too much.

"You do know it's already becoming night," Shockwave said, his optic flickering slightly as he observed Michael. "If you keep drinking, you'll throw up in the morning."

Michael, spinning the empty beer can idly in his hands, glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he replied dismissively. Then, with a slight grin, he added, "Can't exactly show up to my Ph.D. ceremony reeking of booze."

Shockwave's lens narrowed, the faint sound of a recalibration hum filling the air. "Impressive," the mechanical being said in his usual monotone, though there was a hint of sarcasm. "Graduating with a doctorate at your age. Perhaps some intelligence compensates for your glaring lack of foresight."

Michael smirked and lifted the can as if to toast him. "Thanks for the backhanded compliment, buddy. Means a lot." Without another word, he drained the last sip from the can and crushed it in his hand, tossing it into a nearby bin with practiced precision.

As the night breeze swept over the bridge, Michael leaned on the railing again, staring out at the glimmering city lights reflecting off the water. His thoughts wandered to the ceremony tomorrow, the culmination of years of work and sacrifice. But with every passing moment, the buzz in his head from the beer dulled his sense of pride, leaving only an unsettling void.

"You're quiet," Shockwave observed, tilting his head slightly. "Unusual."

Michael shrugged. "Just thinking... about everything. Jen, the ceremony, the last six years... life, I guess." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "Feels like I've been running nonstop, you know? Achieving this, achieving that. But when I stop to think... what's it all for?"

"Not all creatures are created equal," Shockwave began, his voice steady and resonant. "Some may be born with purpose. Others may come into existence without one. It's for you to decide which side you belong to." He stepped closer, the soft hum of his servos breaking the stillness.

Michael turned his gaze to him, a flicker of frustration in his eyes. "What if I don't like my purpose in life?" he asked, his tone carrying a mix of defiance and uncertainty.

Shockwave paused, his optic narrowing as if dissecting Michael's words. "Are you asking me?" he replied coolly. "Or are you asserting that you were born with a purpose? Either way, you sound awfully arrogant."

Michael clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of those words. He looked back at the water, the rippling surface reflecting the city lights in fractured patterns. "Maybe I am," he admitted softly. "But what if I don't want to accept whatever purpose life's handed me? What if I want something different?"

Shockwave's mechanical frame shifted slightly. "Purpose isn't always something 'handed' to you," he said. "It's forged. Molded by your choices, your failures, and your triumphs. If you reject what you think is your purpose, then create a new one. But..." His tone sharpened, almost like a warning. "Do not expect the world to make it easy."

"Nothing's been easy since... everything that happened six years ago," Michael murmured, he turned back toward Shockwave, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Let's head home before Ferox eats everything."

Shockwave hummed in acknowledgment, his optic flickering briefly before he seamlessly transformed back into his sleek motorcycle form.

The ride home was quiet, the cool night air brushing past Michael as he maneuvered through the familiar streets. Upon reaching his house, he rolled Shockwave into the garage. The metallic hum of the transformation echoed briefly as the machine settled into its dormant state.

"Rest up," Michael said, patting the bike's handlebars lightly before heading toward the front door.

The house was dark and quiet as he stepped inside, flipping on the lights. The warm glow illuminated a familiar scene in the kitchen—Ferox, his mischievous companion, rummaging through the fridge.

Michael sighed, rubbing his temple. "Ferox," he called, scolding the small creature.

The small creature froze, wide-eyed, a piece of leftover pizza dangling from its mouth. Upon seeing Michael, Ferox dropped the slice and let out a series of cheerful chirps. The little being dashed toward him, leaping up to wrap its tiny arms around Michael in a hug.

Michael couldn't help but roll his eyes. "You're lucky you're cute," he muttered, holding the little troublemaker close for a moment before turning his attention to the hologram flickering nearby.

The dark, sleek figure of Shadow materialized from the corner, arms crossed and crimson eyes glaring. His signature scowl was firmly in place, making it clear he wasn't about to take the blame.

"You couldn't stop him?" Michael asked, gesturing at Ferox.

Shadow's crimson eyes narrowed further. "I'm not a babysitter," he said bluntly, Michael sighed again, shaking his head. "Right. Because apparently saving the world doesn't involve monitoring the fridge."

Shadow scoffed, unfolding his arms. "I have more important things to focus on. Like making sure you don't get yourself killed." He stepped closer, his sharp, confident movements adding weight to his words.

Michael raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Ah, yeah, because you're really capable of doing anything when you're stuck as a hologram," he shot back, his words cutting but not cruel.

Shadow turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting to the side as if the statement had hit a nerve. "I still don't understand why you took off the Ultimatrix."

Michael's expression softened at Shadow's words. He looked down for a moment, his shoulders dropping as he let out a heavy sigh. "I had my reasons," he said, his voice quieter now, almost somber. "You know that."

Shadow's eyes flicked back to him, studying him closely. "What good are reasons if they leave you defenseless?"

Michael looked away, his gaze falling on Ferox, who was now curled up on the couch, pretending to be asleep but clearly eavesdropping. "It's not about being defenseless," Michael muttered. "It's about... control. Balance. I needed to figure out who I was without it."

Shadow's glare softened slightly, though his posture remained rigid. "And have you? Figured it out?"

Michael didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked over to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. He twisted off the cap and took a sip, his eyes fixed on the floor. "Some days, I think I have," he said finally. "Other days... I don't know."

Shadow's hologram flickered slightly as he crossed his arms again, his usual stoic demeanor returning. "The world doesn't stop just because you're trying to find yourself."

Michael nodded, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Fair point," he admitted, setting the water bottle down. "But for now, let's focus on cleaning up this mess before Ferox eats something he shouldn't. Again."

Shadow huffed, his crimson eyes narrowing as he glanced at the small creature pretending to snore on the couch. "I'll keep watch this time," he said, his voice dry. "Not because I'm a babysitter, but because clearly, someone has to keep things in check around here."

After cleaning up Ferox's mess and salvaging what little food remained, Michael finally headed to his bedroom. The day had been long, and exhaustion weighed heavily on him as he pushed the door open, letting out a quiet sigh.

As he settled into bed, his eyes instinctively drifted to the nightstand where a framed photo stood. It was from the summer, a snapshot of happier times. In the picture, Jen, Michael, Gwen, and Lucky stood shoulder to shoulder, all grinning brightly. Ferox, ever the playful one, perched on Michael's head, his tiny arms raised triumphantly. Behind them, Max stood tall, a proud smile on his face, his hands resting on Jen and Gwen's shoulders.

Michael