"Looks like I got here too early," Tetsuo mutters, checking the time on his phone as he steps onto the silent, open court behind his community. The sky is no longer tinged with orange from the fading sunset, and a cool breeze whispers across the pavement. The streetlights haven't come on yet, leaving the outdoor court in a dim but playable twilight.
Tetsuo dribbles the basketball in his hand, letting it bounce rhythmically against the concrete. "I'll just shoot around for a bit," he says to no one in particular, his voice swallowed by the breeze.
He moves smoothly, like water flowing over rocks. The ball spins off his fingers with that perfect backspin—the kind that whispers "net" before it even touches the rim. One three-pointer. Then another. Then another. Each swish echoes faintly in the empty streets.
As he warms up, Tetsuo imagines a defender closing in. He tightens his dribble, crosses the ball between his legs, spins on his heel, steps back—one foot behind the arc—and lets it fly. As the ball soars, a shadow bursts into his peripheral vision.
WHAM!
The ball doesn't even make it halfway to the hoop. It's slapped out of the air and sent tumbling across the pavement like a fly swatted from the sky.
Tetsuo's eyes widen. He turns sharply.
"I knew you'd be out here," a familiar voice says.
Tadao stands in front of him, arms crossed, a smirk stretching across his face. His shirt is wrinkled, his sleeves rolled up, and a thin sheen of sweat clings to his forehead.
"I've been watching you shoot for a while now," Tadao continues, walking toward Tetsuo with a casual swagger. "You didn't miss a single shot. Not one. Looks like Toshigawa's got a really good team this year."
Tetsuo doesn't respond. He stands firm, dribbling the ball once before picking it up.
"Oh, come on. What's with that expression? At least say something," Tadao says, annoyance creeping into his tone.
"You here to play basketball," Tetsuo asks, voice calm but alert, "or just to stalk me?"
Tadao laughs, unfazed. "I'm here to play, of course. I mean, what else would I be doing on a court if I'm done beating up people?" His eyes narrow slightly. "Let's go one-on-one. First to eleven. Threes count as two, twos count as one. I'll even give you the ball first."
"Uh… okay," Tetsuo replies.
"I'm feeling confident," Tadao grins. "Come on. And don't you dare hold back. Let's see if those shots still fall when someone's actually guarding you."
Tetsuo dribbles twice and nods. "Fine."
Tadao passes him the ball, then steps back into a defensive stance.
Tetsuo moves fast, blowing by Tadao with a sharp jab step and drive. But Tadao is even faster. As Tetsuo rises for a fadeaway jumper from mid-range, Tadao's hand is already in the air—smack! A block.
Tadao snatches the rebound with ease and sprints to the three-point line. He lowers his shoulder slightly, uses his bigger frame to shield the ball, and, with surprising agility, muscles past Tetsuo for a clean layup off the glass.
"1–0," he calls.
They keep playing, but for the next several possessions it isn't really a game—it's a beatdown. Tadao is relentless. He drives hard, using his dribbling skills and dazzling agility to maneuver past Tetsuo every time.
On the second possession he fakes left, spins right, and scoops the ball up under Tetsuo's outstretched arms.
Next, he Euro-steps around him with dazzling footwork and lays it in off the left side.
Fourth—he baits Tetsuo into reaching, then ducks low and rockets forward, finishing with a powerful reverse layup.
Fifth—he posts up, backs Tetsuo down, bumps him twice, and floats a soft finger roll over his head.
Sixth—he jab-steps, waits for Tetsuo to shift his weight, then blows by for a quick underhand finish.
Tadao grins, dribbles up casually, then explodes toward the rim. The sound of his feet pounding against the pavement echoes through the court as he leaps into the air. His fingers wrap around the ball, and with a thunderous slam, he stuffs it through the hoop.
The rim shakes. The backboard trembles.
"7–0," he says, stepping down. "Come on, Tetsuo. At least put up a fight. I haven't played seriously in ages, and you're making this look too easy."
Tetsuo remains silent, his breathing steady—not angry, not defeated, just calculating.
Unbeknownst to the boys, someone else has arrived.
Haruko stands at the edge of the court, frozen in place. She had come, just as she said, to play basketball with Tetsuo and help him train, but what she sees leaves her stunned.
"…Wait. Isn't that… the guy who tried to attack us yesterday?" she whispers, crouching low behind a bush.
Her fingers tremble slightly. Her memory of Tadao is sharp—cold eyes, vicious intent. Yet here he is… playing basketball? Against Tetsuo?
Haruko's eyes shift back and forth between the two boys. "He's… he's good. Really good," she admits in disbelief as Tadao dunks again, sending the rim clanging once more.
"I thought he was just a thug. But he's actually… a player?"
She doesn't know what to make of it. Tadao's form when he dunks—his explosive power—is the same raw energy he had when he attacked them. But on the court, it's… controlled. Directed. Like he's a completely different person.
Tadao points to the top of the key. "Game point. Just one more dunk, and it's over. You haven't even scored, Tetsuo."
Still no response.
Tadao grins and approaches to check the ball.
But just as he takes one step forward, Tetsuo moves. A flash of motion. A sudden blur.
The ball is gone.
Tadao blinks. "Wait—what—?"
Tetsuo has stolen it before Tadao can score his final point. He sprints back to the three-point line, stops dead, rises, and shoots.
Swish.
A clean arc, a smooth release. It doesn't even graze the rim.
Tadao blinks. "You just got lucky," he mutters, shaking his head. "You're not doing that again."
But then, as soon as Tadao passes the ball back, Tetsuo dribbles once, steps back—fast—and pulls up for another. The motion is so fluid, so automatic, it barely looks like he's trying.
Swish.
Tadao's eyes narrow. "Okay… two's not bad. Still lucky."
He lunges forward on the next possession, trying to cut off Tetsuo's path. Tetsuo doesn't flinch—he just sidesteps like he expected it, rises high above the arc, and releases the shot with a flick of the wrist.
Swish.
"What the hell?" Tadao growls, frustration bubbling up. He can feel the shift in momentum, like the court itself has turned on him. "I could've sworn I blocked that."
But he didn't.
Over and over, each shot finds nothing but net.
Tadao stumbles backward, breath catching in his throat. "No way. No damn way," he mutters.
He tries to anticipate. To close the distance. Time the jump. Smother the space. But every time he reaches out, Tetsuo is already in the air, the ball already on its way to the basket.
Swish.
"Why can't I block him?!" Tadao's mind screams. "Every single shot—his form's wide open. They should be blockable! They should be!"
But they aren't.
Tetsuo dribbles slowly now, the ball bouncing rhythmically at his waist. His eyes lock onto Tadao's, calm and unwavering.
"Looks like it's game point for both of us," Tetsuo says coolly.
That strikes something in Tadao. He clenches his fists, grits his teeth, and charges forward with everything he has left—no holding back. All or nothing.
But it's too late.
Tetsuo steps right, smooth as silk. His heels plant on the arc's edge. He rises, unfazed by Tadao's last-ditch lunge.
The final shot soars.
Swish.
The net snaps like a banner in the wind.
The ball bounces on the floor.
Game.
Tadao stops in his tracks, chest heaving, shoulders sagging. "How…?" he croaks, staring at Tetsuo. "How did you just—? I couldn't even block one of those…"
Tetsuo walks back toward the hoop, calm and quiet. He picks up the ball as if nothing has happened—as if he hasn't just landed six three-pointers in minutes.
From the bushes, Haruko steps out, eyes wide, lips parted. She remembers the first time she saw him shoot—how perfect his form was and how he taught her to become a better player.
She stares at Tetsuo, amazed at how he came back from such a deficit.
"That's Tetsuo for you," she whispers, her voice nearly lost in the wind. A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. "One of the best shooters I know."
She holds her own basketball tight at her hip, fingers gripping the leather.
It isn't just his form, or his release, or even his ability to hit shot after shot under pressure.
It's the way he moves. The calm in his eyes. The way he never looks rattled, even when the world seems stacked against him.
He doesn't yell. He doesn't show frustration. He doesn't brag.
He just plays.
Haruko walks over to them slowly, her heart pounding in her chest from the game she has just witnessed. That was so cool, she thinks.
"That guy is really good. He can dunk and jump so high," Haruko says, clearly impressed. "But since I learned everything from Tetsuo, it feels like hitting a three-pointer takes more skill—and it's worth more anyway."
"Oh, Haruko. You're here," Tetsuo says, noticing her.
"Yeah, I got held up a bit," she replies with a slight chuckle.
Tetsuo walks over to her. "You've got leaves in your hair," he says as he gently picks them out one by one. "Why were you hiding in the bushes?"
Haruko flushes and brushes a leaf off her sleeve. "I, uh… didn't want to interrupt you two while you were in the middle of the game."
Tadao turns toward her, his expression unreadable. For a brief second, tension lingers—an old weight from yesterday's events. Then, unexpectedly, he lets out a breath and straightens his posture.
"…Tadao," he says, extending a hand with awkward stiffness. "Tadao Hoshiguma. I attend Toshigawa Academy. I… I'm sorry about yesterday. I lost control. I've always been the type to pick fights or scare people off the court just to keep it to myself… but now I realize how wrong I was. I don't expect you to forgive me, but… I needed to say it."
Haruko hesitates for a moment, then reaches out and shakes his hand.
"I'm Haruko Takahashi. Hachioji Academy," she replies. "It's fine. You're not the first guy I've seen lose his head. Just… don't let it happen again."
Tadao blinks, then chuckles lightly. "Fair enough."
Haruko's eyes flick from him to Tetsuo, then back. "You're a monster on the court, though. I didn't know you could move like that."
Tadao grins and rubs the back of his neck. "I used to get that a lot back in junior high. Basketball's… I don't know—used to be my thing. Guess it still is."
Haruko bounces her basketball once against the pavement. "Well, that makes three of us. You guys up for some training? I didn't come out here at this time just to watch."
Tetsuo nods, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. "Sure. You wanna run some drills?"
"Let's do it," she says, stepping forward.
The court settles into a steady rhythm again as the three of them begin to move together. Tetsuo leads them through basic warm-up drills—passing, sprinting, and shooting reps. Tadao and Haruko take turns challenging each other, and surprisingly, there's no tension—only a shared, competitive energy. Tadao offers her tips on footwork. Haruko points out Tetsuo's shooting angles, doing her best to mimic them. Tetsuo, ever silent and composed, gives advice without being preachy, communicating more through gestures than words.