Love in Overtime

by CraZpy

Summary:

The star of the basketball team, Akito Seijuro, lives and breaths under the spotlight when everyone expects him to shine. But when his little "rivalry" with Hina begins, what starts as playful banter slowly bubbles into something more... Unexpected.

Chapter 1

The gym lights burned white-hot above, washing the polished hardwood in a golden glare.

The crowd was already feverish. Stomping. Clapping. A storm of noise rattled the rafters.

The referee raised his whistle.

“Tip-off!”

The ball flew upward.

Akito Seijuro launched with it. Hazel hair whipped upward, his yellow eyes narrowing. His palm met leather first, snapping it downward into his team’s control.

The game had begun.

The ball slapped into Akito’s hand. He crouched low, knees bent, sneakers squealing as he planted. His defender mirrored him, hands spread, jaw tight.

Akito dribbled once. Twice. His gaze was calm, impassive, but his movements sharp—ball tethered to his hand like it was born there.

He jab-stepped left. The defender flinched.

Akito burst right, the ball flaming against the hardwood. He tore past his man, jersey brushing against the red defender’s fingertips—too late.

Another body stepped in.

Akito didn’t slow. His calves coiled.

He lifted—air rushing, heartbeat pounding, light flooding his vision.

He hammered the ball down through the hoop with both hands.

BANG.

The rim rattled. The crowd roared like thunder.

2–0.

Akito dropped, jogged back, face still flat, golden eyes cold. To the stands, it looked like arrogance. To Akito, it was armor.

The red team inbounded quick. Their point guard dribbled fast, head low. Akito fell back into formation, shouting:

“Match up! Match up!”

The guard passed right. Their forward—broad, heavyset—caught it and bulldozed toward the paint.

Akito’s teammate stumbled. A gap opened.

The forward leapt, ball cocked for a layup.

Akito exploded upward. His palm smacked the ball with a crack like a gunshot.

BLOCK!

The ball shot loose. Sneakers squealed as players dove, but Akito was already sprinting, scooping it clean, legs pumping like pistons.

Fast break.

Two defenders cut him off. He slowed just enough, body leaning as though to pull up. Both defenders jumped.

But Akito’s arm whipped behind his back.

The pass snapped to his teammate, wide open under the rim.

Layup. Easy two.

4–0.

The crowd gasped, then roared louder.

“SEIJURO! SEIJURO!”

Akito only ran back, chest rising and falling. No smile. No fist pump. Just yellow eyes forward.

Next possession.

The red point guard dribbled top of the arc, scanning. He faked right, slipped left. Akito switched, sliding to cut him off. The guard pulled up for a jumper over the top.

The ball arced. Swish.

4–2.

Akito nodded once, calm, already signaling for the inbound.

Ball back in. He brought it up himself.

He crossed halfcourt, dribbling low. Defender crouched in front.

Akito jabbed right. Defender slid.

Crossover left. The ball slapped the floor hard, echoing. Akito darted past, shoulder brushing the defender.

The lane opened.

He planted, rose, floated into a soft finger roll.

The ball kissed glass and dropped in.

6–2.

The chants grew deafening now.

Red team came hard. Their shooting guard cut baseline, catching a pass in stride. He rose for a jumper near the corner.

Splash.

6–4.

The pace quickened.

Inbound again. Akito called for it. His breath was steady, but his legs burned already. Didn’t matter. This was his stage.

He dribbled across midcourt, eyes flicking between defenders.

The double team rushed.

He spun between them, ball tight to his hip, emerging on the other side with a burst of speed that made the crowd scream.

He hit the free-throw jumpshot, rose, released—perfect form.

Net.

8–4.

Back and forth it went.

Red team scored again—drive to the rim, 8–6.

Akito answered—a pull-up jumper, 10–6.

Red’s center banged inside, muscling a hook shot, 10–8.

Akito came downcourt, faked, stepped back behind the arc, launched—swish.

13–8.

The noise rose higher and higher, feeding off each basket.

Time ticked. Sweat streamed. Akito’s jersey clung to his back. His calves burned as he sprinted, cut, rose again and again.

But he never stopped.

Every possession, he was there—slashing, shooting, barking orders, diving for rebounds.

Thirty seconds left in the first quarter. Score: 28–27.

Eimei High clung to the lead.

Akito took the inbound, jogging upcourt, chest heaving. His defender waited, crouched low.

“Iso!” Akito shouted, voice slicing through the noise.

His teammates spread, leaving him one-on-one.

The crowd rose to their feet.

Clock ticked. 10…9…8.

Akito dribbled once. Twice. He stepped left. Defender leaned.

Spin right. Ball flashing behind his back.

Step back. Toes kissing the arc.

5…4…3.

He rose. Arm extended, wrist snapping. The ball flew.

2…1.

Buzzer.

The shot arced high, perfect. The net whispered as the ball dropped through.

Swish.

31–27.

The quarter ended.

The gym detonated with noise.

Akito lowered his arm, eyes unreadable, chest heaving. His team mobbed him, slapping his back.

But Akito just walked toward the bench, expression calm, golden eyes flicking to the scoreboard.

To the crowd, he looked untouchable. Unshakable.

Thirty minutes later.

The scoreboard was bleeding red and white, numbers locked in a dead heat: **61–61.**

The gym was hotter now, every breath thick with the stench of sweat and polish. Jerseys clung to backs, sneakers screeched like knives every time a body cut across the floor.

And at the center of it all—Number 0.

Akito Seijuro’s chest rose and fell like a piston, sweat dripping down his jaw, hazel hair plastered to his forehead. His golden eyes never blinked. Every drive, every shot, every rebound, he was there. Carrying. Fighting. Leading.

But not everyone was matching him.

The red team inbounded. Their guard cut left, fast. Ryo—Eimei’s shooting guard—hesitated, just half a step late.

It was enough.

The guard sliced past, elevated, and tossed in a lazy floater. No resistance. No contact.

**Swish.**

The crowd roared. Score flipped: 63–61.

Akito froze. For a split second, the mask cracked. His lips curled, jaw tightening.

Then he turned.

Ryo had already dropped his gaze, jogging back, muttering something under his breath.

Akito stormed up, grabbed him by the jersey collar, yanking him close. The crowd noise blurred, replaced by the ragged rasp of Akito’s breath.

His golden eyes burned into Ryo’s.

“If I ever—” Akito’s voice was low, venomous, but sharp enough to cut through the chaos. He yanked harder, pulling Ryo nose-to-nose. “—see you let someone score like that again…”

His chest heaved. Sweat trickled down his cheek.

“…I’ll gouge my own eyes out.” His teeth bared, the words snarled. “So I never have to see anything that bullshit again.”

Silence, just for a second.

Ryo’s eyes widened. The bench stirred, coaches shouting, the ref’s whistle nearly blowing. But Akito released his grip before anything more came.

He shoved Ryo back toward the baseline.

“Get it together,” Akito hissed, before turning, already locking back on the inbounder.

The crowd didn’t catch the words. They saw only the fire, the fury of the ace who demanded nothing less than perfection.

And for the first time all game, Akito’s mask of calm arrogance slipped—revealing the edge beneath.

The ball was live again.

Akito crouched, arms wide, legs bent, focus narrowing to a pin. He wasn’t going to let this game slip. Not now. Not ever.

---

The gym was now a furnace.

The scoreboard burned: **89–88.** One minute left. Every heartbeat, every breath, every squeak of rubber on the court—it all mattered now.

The opposing guard dribbled at the arc, legs pumping, crowd screaming. He crossed, stepped back, and rose.

**Bang.**

The shot was smooth, perfect form. The net snapped.

**91–89.**

The gym exploded, students leaping, banners shaking. And then—

The shooter turned, chest puffed out, and locked his eyes on a girl sitting in the front row.

He blew her a kiss.

The crowd howled even louder, whistles echoing, the girl covering her mouth in embarrassment.

Akito saw it all.

And he laughed. Not loud, not boisterous. Just a low, sharp chuckle, curling at the edges of his lips. His golden eyes glinted under the gym lights.

He walked up to the guard, close enough to make sure the words landed.

“You think that’s cute?” His voice was calm, almost mocking. “She probably gets more kisses from the soccer team captain during lunch.”

The guard stiffened.

Akito leaned closer, smirk sharpening. “Matter of fact… she looked real comfortable sitting on your baseball captain’s lap last week. You sure that’s your girl?”

The words hit like a knife.

The guard’s face twisted, eyes flaring with rage.

And then—snap.

The guard shoved Akito in the chest, hard. The gym gasped.

Akito didn’t stumble. He smirked wider. Raising his arms as if he was taunting him even more. And it worked.

The guard swung. A wild, desperate punch.

But Akito slipped back, body weaving away like smoke. The fist cut air.

Gasps and screams echoed through the stands. Players rushed in, refs blew whistles, benches cleared.

Chaos. Almost a brawl.

The guard was restrained, coaches holding him back. The refs’ whistles screamed again.

After a tense pause, the verdict came.

**Technical foul. Ejection.**

The gym roared, half in disbelief, half in triumph.

Akito? He just dusted his jersey, yellow eyes burning like a predator who had baited his prey into the trap.

He turned back toward his bench, lips curling.

“Guess he couldn’t handle the truth.”

The next play. Inbound. Akito caught the ball at the wing.

**One possession. One chance.**

He lowered his shoulders, dribbled hard, and exploded past the first defender like lightning. His shoes screeched against the hardwood, every step echoing like a war drum. The lane opened, the rim looming closer.

But then—

A shadow slid across his vision.

**Danger.**

The second defender came in fast, body angled, arm swinging. Akito felt it before it even hit.

**Crack.**

An elbow smashed into his face.

The gym went dead silent for a split second.

Akito staggered, head snapping back, blood instantly trickling from his nose.

But his expression? Blank. Cold.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even wince.

Instead, he calmly raised his hand, smeared with his own blood, and held it up for the referee to see.

The ref’s whistle pierced the air. **Foul.**

The crowd exploded, half cheering, half booing.

The player who threw the elbow—number 14—threw his arms up, shouting, face twisted in outrage. “That wasn’t me! That wasn’t—”

But then he saw it.

Akito.

Standing there. Blood dripping. Hazel hair falling into his golden eyes. And those eyes—those unblinking, sharp, merciless eyes—cut right through him.

No words. Just a look.

A look that said:

**“Game on, fucker.”**

The air grew heavier, the tension suffocating. Number 14’s jaw locked, his bravado cracking. For the first time all game, he hesitated.

And Akito? He simply wiped the blood on his jersey, walked to the free-throw line, and spun the ball in his hands.

**Score: 91–89.**
**Time: 00:32 left.**

The gym pulsed like a living beast. Every breath from the crowd was heavy, every scream shaking the walls. Akito stood at the free-throw line, blood still faintly dripping from his nose. The world had slowed into a tunnel.

**Bounce. Spin. Breathe.**

First free throw: **swish.**

91–90.

Second free throw: **nothing but net.**

91–91.

The game was tied.

The opposing team inbounded quickly, desperate to kill the clock. Their point guard dribbled frantically, calling for a screen. But Akito was already there, eyes locked in, body gliding across the hardwood like a phantom.

**Steal.**

He ripped the ball clean out of the guard’s hands, exploding forward. Two defenders chased, but they were too late.

One step past the arc.
Two steps in rhythm.

**Pull-up three.**

The ball arced high, spinning against the blinding lights.

**Splash.**

91–94.

The crowd detonated. The chants of “ZERO! ZERO!” shook the rafters.

**Time: 00:20.**

The other team scrambled. Their shooting guard rushed down the court, panic in his eyes. He rose for a contested jumper—desperation shot.

**Clang.**

Rebound. Akito’s hands.

He turned, immediately sprinting. The gym blurred around him, sneakers screaming across the court. His defender tried to foul—Akito shrugged him off like dust.

Straight to the rim.

**BOOM.**

A thunderous one-handed dunk. The backboard shuddered, the gym shook, and the scoreboard ticked again.

91–96.

**Time: 00:11.**

The opposing coach screamed, waving frantically for a timeout—but it was too late.

Their forward inbounded carelessly. A high, lazy lob.

**Akito jumped.**

Golden eyes wide, arms reaching, body cutting through the air like a hawk. He intercepted it mid-flight, twisting in the air.

Another three-point attempt. No hesitation.

**Bang.**

91–99.

The gym lost its mind. Fans were standing on seats, hands on heads, screaming until their throats tore. The other team’s bench sat frozen, stunned.

**8 points. 30 seconds.**

The other team called time, players slumping, faces pale. The star who blew the kiss earlier sat on the bench, head buried in his hands. His girl was already staring at the court—staring at **Zero.**

And Akito?

He just walked back to his bench, face calm, chest rising and falling like he hadn’t just ripped the soul out of his opponents.

He glanced at the blood on his jersey, then at the scoreboard.

Smirk.

“Should’ve ended it when you had the chance.”

---

After the timeout, 3 seconds remained.

The opposing guard launched a desperate three, legs kicking out, form shaky.

**Clang.**

The ball ricocheted off the rim, bouncing high into the air.

The buzzer blared.

**Final score: 99–91.**

For a moment, silence—then the gym exploded. Students jumped from the stands, banners waved wildly, the roar shaking the walls.

**“AKI-TO! AKI-TO! AKI-TO!”**

The chant thundered, hundreds of voices in unison, shaking the court beneath their feet.

Akito stood at half-court, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping down his jaw. A faint streak of dried blood still clung beneath his nose.

His teammates rushed him, arms thrown over his shoulders, laughter and shouts filling the court. Ryo leapt onto his back, screaming in joy, while substitutes tossed towels into the air. Coaches shouted over the chaos, barely heard in the deafening celebration.

The opposing team slumped to their bench, heads hanging low, unable to even glance at the scoreboard.

But Akito? He didn’t pump his fists. He didn’t scream. He didn't scream. He simply sat on the hardwood, letting his eyes wander across the roaring stands, golden gaze sharp, unreadable.

He heard his name, over and over.

“AKITO! AKITO!”

Yet his expression didn’t break. No arrogance. No overconfidence. Just that calm, razor-sharp presence, like the whole game had been exactly what he expected.

Because to Akito Seijuro, this wasn’t some miracle comeback.

This was normal.

Chapter 2: Akito Seijuro

The morning sunlight poured through the tall windows of Class 2-A, dust motes drifting lazily in the warm beams. The air, though, buzzed with energy—not from lessons, but from the echoes of last night.

Akito sat at his desk, posture straight, headphones looped loosely around his neck. His notebook was already half-filled with careful notes. Despite being the basketball team’s star, despite the chants that had rattled the gym less than a day ago, he was still here—focused, calm, pencil steady in his grip. He wasn’t the smartest in school, but effort carried him to the top 20 in rankings, and everyone knew he earned it.

Beside him, Kyo scribbled in his own notebook, his light brown hair hanging over his glasses. Where Akito was sharp and imposing, Kyo was quiet and matter-of-fact. The kind of guy who picked up on the things people didn’t say. His eyes flicked to Akito now and then, reading his mood the way others read a textbook.

The break bell rang. Chairs scraped, chatter swelled.

Kyo leaned over, keeping his voice low.
“So,” he murmured, tapping his pen against the desk, “how’s it feel being the hero of Eimei High?”

Akito slid his pencil back into its case, expression flat.
“Hero, huh? You know I only play.”

Kyo smirked. “Right. And I only study.”

Akito tilted his head, lips tugging into the faintest grin. “Captain Insight strikes again.”

“Captain Reality Check, thank you,” Kyo corrected smoothly.

The two of them shared the kind of quiet laugh only old friends did—one that didn’t need to be loud to feel real.

Then—
A shadow fell across their desks.

“So, Mr. Hero,” came a lilting, teasing voice.

Hina Chono stood there, pastel notebook clutched against her chest, her rhythmic gymnastics lanyard swinging slightly as she leaned forward. Her bright eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Any girlfriends yet? You’re tall, handsome, good-looking, _famous_… someone must have tried already.”

Akito’s gaze lifted lazily to hers, golden eyes catching the light. His answer came without hesitation.

“Jealous, Hina?”

The words landed like a fast break dunk.

Her cheeks puffed in mock outrage. "Jealous? Of _you_? Don’t flatter yourself.”

Akito leaned back in his chair, lips quirking. “Thought so. Maybe you’re just bitter my popularity beats yours. Happens when you’re a midget.”

The punch came instantly—a playful jab to his shoulder. “I’m not a midget! I’m average height!”

He caught her fist midair, grip light but steady, eyes cool as ever.
“Of course. Average height.”

Her pout deepened, arms crossing in exaggerated frustration. Kyo nearly choked on his pen, turning to hide the laugh creeping up his throat.

The school filled again with chatter, but now a different kind—whispers rippling through rows of desks.

“Did you see Seijuro’s game last night?”
“Eight points in thirty seconds… insane.”
“He doesn’t even look tired today.”
“And he’s sitting next to Kasahara like nothing happened…”
"Ah, he's so hot and handsome~, have you seen his abs?"

Hina caught some of it and smirked. She leaned a little closer, voice just above the murmurs.
“Looks like you’ve got the whole school wrapped around your finger, Seijuro.”

Akito’s eyes flicked toward the whispering corners of the room, then back to her. He didn’t answer—just shrugged, expression unreadable.

---

The boys’ basketball team had no practice that afternoon, but the gym wasn’t quiet. The girls’ team was in full swing, sneakers squeaking, balls echoing under the high ceiling.

Seijūrō Akito sat on the side bleachers, arms folded. He wasn’t required to be here. But when his schedule allowed, he sometimes stayed behind to watch and help out. Passing balls back, rebounding, tossing the occasional pointer. Never acting as their coach—just a watchful upperclassman lending his presence.

“Seijūrō-kun,” a voice called.

Akito looked up. Kano Chinatsu was standing near half-court, ponytail tied high, basketball tucked under her hip.

“You’re here again,” she said with an amused smile. “It’s like you’re part of our team at this point.”

Akito smirked faintly. “Someone has to make sure you all stay sharp.”

She let out a light laugh and waved him over. “Come on then, help me out. I need someone to push me during shooting drills.”

Akito stood and strolled over, taking the ball when she passed it. “Fine. But don’t complain when I outscore you.”

Chinatsu rolled her eyes, setting her stance. “Big words.”

They traded shots, rebounding for each other, keeping pace in quiet rhythm. The other girls practiced their own drills, though a few cast glances at the ace of the boys’ team casually stepping in.

During a pause, as Chinatsu caught her breath, she dribbled lazily and asked, “Seijūrō-kun, you watched the 2022 All-Star Game again last night, didn’t you?”

Akito froze mid-dribble, eyes snapping wide with barely-contained excitement. His entire demeanor shifted in an instant.

“Of course I did! Curry was unreal—sixteen threes, Kano-san. Sixteen! The way he pulled up from half-court like it was a free throw? And that shot where he turned around before it even went in—” He clutched the ball against his chest, grinning like a kid. “You can’t tell me that wasn’t pure greatness!”

Chinatsu covered her mouth with her hand, laughing. She had seen this countless times already—every time the topic of Curry came up, Seijūrō-kun’s mask cracked and his fanboy side came rushing out. And yet, it never stopped being funny.

“Honestly,” she said between chuckles, “you’re hopeless. You’ve told me about that game at least five times now.”

“It’s worth telling every time!” Akito fired back, his voice louder than usual, golden eyes shining. “You don’t just _casually_ change the geometry of basketball! Curry’s making kids everywhere shoot from the logo like it’s normal. That’s a legacy, Kano-san!”

She tilted her head, smirking knowingly. “See? There it is again.”

Akito blinked, then realized how animated he’d become. His ears flushed red. He cleared his throat, straightening up, forcing his usual cool back into place. “Ahem. Anyway. He’s… good.”

“Just ‘good’?” Chinatsu teased, still grinning. “You were practically glowing just now.”

Akito’s scowl was half-serious, half-embarrassed. He turned quickly, sinking a jumper from the arc with a smooth motion. _Swish._ He glanced back at her with a smirk that tried (and failed) to erase his earlier excitement.

“Don’t get used to it, Kano-san.”

But Chinatsu only smiled wider. She had seen this side of him many times now, and every time it chipped away at the image of the untouchable, stoic ace. And secretly, she liked seeing him this way.

---

Akito sank another jumper from the top of the key, the ball snapping the net cleanly. He smirked, brushing back strands of hazel hair damp with sweat.

“You’re still behind, Kano-san. 9 -1 to be exact.”

Chinatsu caught the rebound and bounced it back to him, rolling her eyes. “That’s because you’ve barely missed all day. If I start keeping track, you’ll just brag for a week.”

“Correct,” he replied flatly, though the corner of his mouth curved.

She laughed lightly, already jogging back to her spot. For a few minutes they played in silence, the only conversation happening in the cadence of shots and passes.

Then Chinatsu stopped mid-dribble. Her gaze slid past Akito’s shoulder toward the benches near the gym entrance. “Hm?”

Akito followed her line of sight—only for his eyes to catch something else.

A boy. Lean build, neatly kept hair, standing just behind another player. He was talking with Kyo, laughing at something. But his eyes—his eyes weren’t on Kyo. They kept flickering back toward the court.

No, not the court. Toward them. Toward _her_.

Akito narrowed his gaze slightly. His instincts as an athlete sharpened not just for games, but for people. He noticed things: body language, focus, tension. And right now, that boy’s entire focus was wrapped around Chinatsu.

Interesting.

Akito casually walked to retrieve the ball that had rolled near the sideline. He didn’t look directly at the boy, but in his periphery he noted every detail—the way he quickly looked away when their eyes nearly met, the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand rubbed at the back of his neck as if covering nerves.

When Akito straightened and turned back toward Chinatsu, he made sure to step a little farther away from her. He drifted left, away from her shooting angle. Just to test something.

Sure enough, the boy’s eyes didn’t follow him. They stayed locked on Chinatsu.

A smirk tugged at Akito’s lips. _Got you._

He bounced the ball lazily back to Chinatsu, then asked in an even, almost bored tone, “Oi, Kano-san.”

“Hm?” She caught it with both hands, pausing.

“You know that guy over there?” Akito tilted his head toward the boy, careful not to make it obvious he’d been observing him. “The one talking with Kyo. Tall-ish, kind of serious face, keeps glancing this way.”

Chinatsu turned. Her expression softened immediately with recognition. “Oh. That’s Inomata-kun.”

“Inomata?” Akito repeated, brows raising slightly.

She nodded, spinning the ball against her hip. “Taiki Inomata. He’s on the badminton team. We've recently met, but he's a good friend of mine."

“Good friend, huh.” Akito’s golden eyes flicked back toward the boy. _That explains the look._

Chinatsu smiled faintly, watching Taiki joke with Kyo before his gaze inevitably slid back toward her. “He’s… always been like that. Works hard, but sometimes pushes himself too much. Still, he’s a good person.”

Akito tilted his head, studying her expression more than her words. There was a softness there, a familiar warmth. Not the kind of look she gave everyone.

And the boy—Taiki—looked at her like she was the sun itself.

Akito exhaled through his nose, tossing the ball up and catching it again. “Figures.”

Chinatsu blinked. “Figures what?”

“Nothing,” Akito muttered, shooting another jumper that clanged off the rim. He rarely missed, but his mind was elsewhere this time.

Chinatsu jogged to grab the rebound, bouncing it back to him. She tilted her head curiously. “You noticed him pretty fast, Seijūrō-kun.”

“I notice everything,” he replied without hesitation, slipping back into his usual cold confidence. “On the court or off it.”

But inside, his thoughts were running differently.

_So that’s him. The guy who keeps staring. The guy who’s clearly into her._

Akito’s smirk returned faintly as he dribbled the ball hard against the floor. _This just got interesting._

But before Akito could delve in, the whistle sounded.

The girls’ coach clapped loudly, his whistle echoing through the gym. “Alright, everyone! Gather up—time to start practice drills. Hurry up!”

Chinatsu caught the sound and tucked the ball under her arm. She turned back to Akito with a light smile. “Looks like I’ve got to go.”

Akito caught the ball she bounced to him one last time, spinning it in his palm before tucking it under his arm. “Don’t trip over yourself out there, Kano-san. I’d hate to see my shooting rival lose to her own teammates.”

Chinatsu gave a short laugh, waving as she jogged back toward the others. “We’ll see about that, Seijūrō-kun. Next time, I’m not letting you win so easily.”

Akito smirked, watching her go, before tossing the ball into the rack.

With the girls’ team claiming the court, there wasn’t much left for him to do here. He was already drenched in sweat from the casual shooting and drills he’d joined earlier. And his body—the type that demanded routine, demanded more—was restless.

The men’s team had no official practice today, but Akito wasn’t one to waste momentum. So instead of heading home, he slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way across campus, toward the smaller training gym attached to the athletics building.

The hallways were quiet, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. When he stepped into the gym, the emptiness greeted him like an old friend. No teammates. No coach. Just polished floors, racks of weights, and machines lined up like silent soldiers.

Perfect.

Akito exhaled through his nose. He reached down, tugged at the hem of his damp practice shirt, and peeled it off. Sweat clung to his skin, making his hazel hair stick faintly to his forehead. He tossed the shirt into his bag, adjusted the waistband of his shorts, and stretched his shoulders back.

His body was lean yet built—muscular without being bulky, every line sharpened by hours of training. A frame made for basketball, honed by relentless dedication.

His first target, the leg press machine.

He lowered himself into position, back pressed against the pad, hands gripping the handles at his sides. Then, almost instinctively, he made the sign of the cross—forehead, chest, shoulders. A ritual. Not of faith, but of focus.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s see what’s left in me.”

He started light. 100 kilograms. Feet shoulder-width apart, he pressed the sled upward, fluid and controlled. Ten reps, slow and steady, the burn just beginning to lick at his thighs.

He exhaled, reset. Added more plates. Now 140 kilograms. The resistance doubled, his muscles flexing harder, veins pushing against his skin. Twelve reps this time, his breaths sharp and deliberate.

He paused only to add another set of plates. 180 kilograms. Heavy. Serious weight.

The first rep came down like thunder. His quads screamed instantly, hamstrings straining as he pushed back with all his strength. Sweat poured down his temple, his jaw clenched. By the eighth rep, his legs trembled. By the tenth, his body shook like a machine about to fail.

He forced two more reps out, then slammed the sled into place with a growl.

“Good.”

Next came squats. He loaded the barbell with 100 kilograms, slid under, and hoisted it onto his shoulders.

“Down,” he muttered, lowering himself until his thighs nearly touched parallel. “Up.”

The bar pressed into his back, his entire body tightening to stabilize. He powered through ten reps, breathing heavy but steady.

Then he racked the bar, added more plates. Now 140 kilograms. His chest heaved once, then he slid under again.

This time, every rep was war. The first five felt brutal. The sixth made his knees shake. By the eighth, his vision blurred at the edges.

But he didn’t stop.

Nine. Ten. Eleven. He nearly roared on the twelfth, racking the bar with a sharp slam. His body lurched forward, but he steadied himself with iron discipline.

His thighs felt like they’d been set on fire. He smiled faintly. _Progress._

Akito lay on the hamstring curl machine, strapping his legs in place. He set the pin to 40 kilograms and pulled his heels downward. Smooth. Controlled. Fifteen reps, no problem.

He upped the weight to 60 kilograms. Now the machine fought back. His hamstrings tensed, muscles rippling as he pulled against the load. By the twelfth rep his breaths were ragged, but he kept going until fifteen.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, shaking out his legs before moving on.

The leg extension machine was next. He started at 50 kilograms, extending his legs fully and holding for a beat before lowering. The motion isolated his quads, burning them raw.

He bumped it up to 70 kilograms, then 90 kilograms. Each set stabbed fire into his thighs, the pain forcing a grimace onto his face. His legs shook uncontrollably by the last rep, sweat dripping onto the machine’s padding.

He wasn’t done. Akito loaded the hack squat, bracing his shoulders under the pads. The angle was brutal—every descent felt like diving into hell.

80 kilograms for ten reps. Then 120 kilograms for another twelve.

By the end his lungs screamed, legs twitching, but he refused to falter. He racked the sled with trembling arms, head dropping forward as sweat dripped like rain.

Finally, calf raises. He balanced on the edge of the platform, heels dropping low before pressing upward explosively. First with his own bodyweight. Then, after twenty reps, he added a 40kg plate onto his lap and continued.

His calves flared with pain, tendons straining as he forced each rep. Twenty more. Then another twenty.

By the last set, his entire lower body trembled uncontrollably.

---

When he finished, thirty minutes passed. Thirty minutes. No breaks, no distractions. Just pain and suffering.

When he finally collapsed onto the bench, his legs refused to obey him. His quads twitched violently, calves spasming, thighs burning as if set alight. His breath came in harsh, ragged waves.

He laughed under his breath, low and exhausted. “How am I supposed to go home?"

It took him minutes to gather the strength to stand again. When he did, his knees buckled slightly, forcing him to grab the bench. He waited until the tremors eased before straightening, legs wobbling like jelly.

And that was the moment the gym door creaked open.

Akito turned his head.

Hina Chono stood in the doorway, wide-eyed.

Their gazes locked for a long, silent second.

Then Hina shrieked, covering her eyes with both hands—but her fingers peeked open just enough to sneak glances. “W-What are you doing?! Put some clothes on already!”

Akito blinked, then smirked faintly. He grabbed a towel and lazily draped it over his shoulder, not bothering to hide much. “Oi. What’s a midget doing sneaking around in my gym?”

“I-I wasn’t sneaking!” she shot back, cheeks puffed, still covering her face. “This is school property—you don’t own it!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Akito replied smoothly, leaning back against the machine with a hand half-covering his torso. “You show up right when I’m training, start peeking through your hands. Classic stalker behavior.”

Hina groaned, stomping one foot in frustration. “I wasn’t peeking!”

“You were,” Akito said flatly, eyes glinting with mischief. “And for the record… average height doesn’t mean child height.”

Her jaw dropped. “I am not a child!”

He smirked wider, watching her cheeks redden. “You sure? Looked like one just now.”

Chapter 3: The Fire Ignites

A week had slipped by since Akito Seijūrō’s uncle and aunt left the country. They had followed his parents overseas, chasing better work. Normally, they might have worried about him living alone, but instead they left him in the quiet care of the Chono family, who lived right next door.

To Akito, solitude wasn’t a problem. Solitude was discipline.

The garage door was half-open, letting in shafts of mid-morning sunlight and a cool breeze that stirred the faint smell of dust and motor oil. The concrete floor was marked with faint scuffs from basketball drills, and the air carried the faint _thump_ of rubber on cement.

Akito hung from a pull-up bar bolted into the garage’s support frame, his body lean but powerful. His muscles tensed, veins pushing against his skin as he hauled himself upward. His chin cleared the bar—one, two, three—each rep deliberate, breath hissing out through clenched teeth. By the fifteenth, his forearms burned. By the twentieth, his shoulders screamed.

He dropped down, landing lightly on his feet, sweat already rolling down his forehead. He grabbed a jump rope from the side wall and began skipping, the rope slapping the floor in sharp rhythm. His calves fired like pistons, arms rotating smoothly. One hundred reps passed in a blur, then two hundred, then three. His shirt clung to his body, every muscle outlined beneath the thin fabric.

Without pause, he tossed the rope aside and grabbed a basketball. He crouched, dribbling low, switching hands in rapid-fire crossovers. The ball echoed against the garage floor, each bounce as crisp as a heartbeat. Behind-the-back. Between the legs. Spin. Crossover again. His body moved in sync with the rhythm, sweat spraying with every sudden stop and shift.

He pushed into lateral slides, mimicking defensive footwork, shuffling side to side across the small garage. His sneakers squeaked faintly, his breaths came sharp and heavy. The ball stayed low, controlled, like it was tied to his palm.

When his legs burned, he switched again. Push-ups. Standard at first, then wide-grip, then diamond. He moved from one set to the next without hesitation, his body trembling but refusing to collapse.

“Thirty… thirty-one… thirty-two…” His voice was barely more than a growl.

He flipped onto his back, gripping the basketball tightly, and launched into Russian twists. Each rotation snapped his core tight, sweat dripping steadily onto the concrete. Then planks. His arms quivered, shoulders locking in place, sweat beading down his temples. At the sixty-second mark, he pushed further—ninety seconds.

When he finally collapsed, he was gasping, chest heaving like a bellows. His body begged for rest. But his mind refused.

“Not yet.”

He picked up the ball again and went into squat jumps, exploding upward with each rep, the ball pressed tight to his chest. His thighs burned, calves quaked, lungs screamed. He reached twenty before stumbling, his legs shaking uncontrollably.

He staggered to the side bench, sitting down heavily, towel draped over his neck. For a long moment, he stayed hunched over, elbows on knees, sweat dripping onto the floor. His heart pounded in his ears. His whole body trembled.

A crooked grin tugged at his lips. “Good enough… for now.”

Then—

_Ding-dong._

The sudden chime of the doorbell cut through the quiet hum of cicadas outside.

Akito blinked, straightened, and grabbed his towel to wipe the sweat from his face and arms. He tugged a shirt over his head, the fabric sticking to his damp skin. Still breathing hard, he padded toward the front gate.

When he peeked over, he froze.

Standing there was Hina, balancing a tray with steaming food.

“Yo, Akito-kun!” she chirped, her face bright with a cheerful smile. “My mom told me to bring this over. She said you probably only eat cup ramen when you’re alone.”

Akito raised an eyebrow, smirking. “What’s this? They sent the smallest soldier in the Chono army to watch me?”

Hina puffed her cheeks, glaring. “H-Hey! I’m not small! I’m average height!”

“Average… for grade schoolers maybe.” He leaned casually on the doorframe, eyes narrowing with amusement. “You’re practically bite-sized.”

Her face flushed. She shoved the tray toward him. “I-I came here to do something nice and you’re making fun of me?!”

Akito chuckled, taking the tray and setting it down on a nearby table. The smell of freshly cooked rice and miso soup filled the entryway. “What, you expected me to cry tears of gratitude and kneel down?”

Hina crossed her arms, pouting. “You’re such a jerk.”

He reached out suddenly, dropping his hand onto her head, ruffling her hair roughly. “Thanks, though midget.”

She blinked, startled by the simple gesture. Her pout wavered, eyes widening as something unfamiliar warmed in her chest.

“…Idiot,” she muttered softly, looking away to hide the faint pink on her cheeks.

Akito smirked again, leaning back. “What’s wrong, midget? Cat got your tongue?”

Hina glared up at him, cheeks puffed once more. “You’re just lucky I don’t punch you again.”

“Try it,” Akito teased, flexing his arm slightly. “Your fists probably feel like pillow taps.”

She stomped a foot in frustration, but the corners of her lips betrayed a tiny smile.

The quiet garage behind him still smelled of sweat and hard work, but now the air between them carried something lighter—playful, almost warm.

And for the first time in a while, Akito didn’t mind sharing his space.

---

After Hina left, Akito peeked at the food a little. As he got inside, he opened the containers one by one.

Rice steamed softly, each grain fluffy and white. Beside it, karaage chicken, golden brown with a faint crispness. A small bowl of miso soup sat in a thermos container, its savory scent laced with tofu and wakame. Rolled tamagoyaki glistened faintly yellow, the sweetness just visible in its sheen. And pickled radish slices added a pop of color, arranged neatly as though Hina’s mother had taken the time herself.

Akito sat, towel still around his neck, hair damp with sweat. He clapped his hands softly.

“Itadakimasu.”

The first bite was silent, but the second made him close his eyes briefly. Karaage’s crunch gave way to juicy tenderness, the seasoning strong enough to wake his tired body. The rice balanced it perfectly. He didn’t say a word, but inside, the warmth of home cooking hit harder than he expected.

With his free hand, he set up his phone on the table, propping it against a cup. He scrolled past music and messages, straight into the folders of saved videos: basketball highlights, full games, film breakdowns.

The first play he tapped opened with DeMar DeRozan, 2022 season highlights. Akito chewed slowly as he watched.

DeRozan’s footwork was smooth, almost surgical — jab steps into pull-ups, spins into midrange fadeaways. The video slowed, circling his pivot foot. Akito leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing, chopsticks frozen mid-air.

“…The timing. He doesn’t waste movement.”

The next clip showed Jrue Holiday hounding an opponent. Feet light, arms extended, his body slid like water yet hit like a wall. Contest after contest, steals ripped clean.

Akito exhaled sharply through his nose.

“That’s how you kill rhythm. Not just blocks. You choke them at the dribble.”

He shoved another mouthful of rice into his mouth, chewing mechanically, but his eyes were locked on the screen.

Then, with a swipe, he switched apps. A different thumbnail appeared — one that made his stomach knot for a moment.

“...Aomine Daiki.”

The screen flickered to life, showing grainy tournament footage. Toō Academy versus Eimei High. The Inter-High quarterfinals.

Akito set down his chopsticks, his appetite vanishing as the sound of the crowd filled the room.

The scoreboard on screen: **56–60.** Eimei chasing.

---

**Flashback
Last Year's Inter-High, Quarterfinals.**

The gym was deafening.

Akito’s heart hammered in his chest, sweat dripping into his eyes. He was only a first year, his uniform hanging just slightly loose on his still-growing frame. His lungs burned, his body ached, but his mind was sharp.

On the bench, his teammates Rintarō and Jun — both seniors, both stars — sat grimacing with ice packs, their ankles twisted, their nights done. The coach crouched low, eyes desperate but firm.

“Seijūrō. You’re up.”

Akito blinked. “Coach—”

“I don’t care if you’re a rookie. Right now, you’re the only one who can score. Forget their names, forget their reputation. Play your game.”

The whistle shrilled. Akito tugged at his jersey, stepped onto the court, and inhaled deeply.

Toō’s defense shifted as he caught the inbound. Their eyes weren’t mocking, but wary. He was unknown. Dangerous.

He dribbled once. Twice. Then exploded.

His first bucket came on a pull-up jumper, clean over an outstretched hand. Swish. 58–60.

The crowd roared.

Next possession, he drove hard to the right, planted, and spun back left. Defender bit. Midrange jumper — money. 60–60.

The roar grew louder. Eimei’s bench leapt to its feet.

He was locked in.

The ball swung to him again, and without hesitation, he rose from three. The net barely moved. 63–62, Eimei lead.

“Who the hell is this kid?!” someone shouted from the stands.

But Akito didn’t hear them. He was in rhythm, every nerve buzzing. He scored again, and again. A floater over two defenders. A steal into a fast break layup. His teammates fed him, trusting him like a veteran.

By the time he reached his twenty-sixth point, the crowd was chanting his name.

“SEI-JU-RO! SEI-JU-RO!”

Then — silence.

A low chuckle cut through the noise.

From across the court, Aomine Daiki grinned, leaning on his knees. His blue hair stuck with sweat, his eyes glowing with something wild. He pointed directly at Akito, laughing as though the game were a joke only he understood.

“So you’re Akashi's relative, huh?” Aomine’s voice carried. “Not bad. But…”

The next possession was different. From then on, Akito could see a faint streak of blue lightning emitting from Aomine's eyes.

Akito drove, only to find Aomine’s shadow glued to him. Every feint was mirrored, every step cut off. He rose for a jumper — _smack_. Blocked clean.

The ball flew into the stands.

The crowd gasped.

Aomine smirked. “It’s over. Don't even dream of beating me.”

From there, it was suffocation.

Akito tried to drive again — stripped clean. He tried a step-back three — contested perfectly, brick. He tried to pass — intercepted.

Every attempt, Aomine was there. Relentless. Smiling as if the effort wasn’t even effort.

Akito scored only twice more after that, managing twelve points total. But Toō… Toō exploded. Fast breaks, dunks, transition threes. The scoreboard widened.

66–91.

The final buzzer sounded.

Akito stood frozen, jersey clinging to his skin, chest rising and falling like he’d sprinted through hell. The scoreboard glared above him like a sentence. His seniors clapped his shoulder, telling him he’d done amazing for a rookie. But their voices didn’t reach.

Across the court, Aomine yawned, stretching lazily. “Too easy.”

The words burned deeper than the loss.

---

**Present Day.**

The video ended. Akito stared at his phone, knuckles white around his chopsticks. His food had gone cold, untouched for several minutes.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to set the container aside. His reflection faintly shone in the black screen of his phone.

“…Next time,” he muttered, voice low and steady. “I’ll stop you.”

The quiet of the house returned, the cicadas outside buzzing faintly. Akito stood, gathering the dishes. He carried them to the sink, turned on the tap, and began washing, the steam curling against his damp skin.

Water splashed softly, but his eyes stayed sharp, staring down not just at plates — but at shadows of the court.

Shadows he would chase again.

---

**The Next Week**

The announcement came on a cloudy afternoon in the gym. The sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished wooden floor, the rhythmic thuds of bouncing basketballs, and the echo of voices suddenly fell quiet when the coach clapped his hands. Everyone gathered, still sweating from warmups, their expressions turning curious.

The coach’s face was unusually serious. He held a clipboard tucked under one arm, his other hand gripping a folded sheet of paper that looked official. The kind of paper that carried weight.

“Listen up,” he began, his voice low but firm. “I just received word from the organizers. This year’s Inter-High…” He paused, the silence stretching thin, “…has been cancelled.”

For a moment, no one reacted. The words hung in the air, heavy and unbelievable. Then, slowly, a murmur rippled through the gym.

“What? Cancelled?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Does that mean—no nationals this summer?”

The reason followed soon after. Budget cuts, scheduling issues with venues, and complications with the number of teams entering this year. It wasn’t just them — every school across the country was hit with the same news. There would be no Inter-High tournament, no chance to prove themselves on the national stage this summer.

Some of the players looked… relieved. One laughed under his breath, rubbing his head. “Guess that saves us the trouble of facing the monsters from Tokyo.” Another shrugged. “More time to focus on Winter Cup anyway.”

But Akito stood still. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing just slightly as he stared at the floor. Everyone else seemed to ease into casual chatter, but to him, the words weren’t settling. Cancelled. The one tournament he had been preparing for, the one where he could have finally tested himself against Daiki Aomine, the unstoppable ace of Tōō. That chance was gone.

Then after that small announcement, scrimmage came.

The ball went up.

Akito leapt higher than anyone else, tipping it clean. He then asked for the ball, his teammate gave it to him with no hesitation. One dribble forward, then he exploded past the first defender. The second stepped up, but Akito didn’t slow—he spun left, slipped through the gap, and laid the ball softly off the glass. The scoreboard lit up, 2–0.

“Damn, he’s locked in,” one teammate muttered.

The opposing team inbounded, but Akito was already hounding the ballhandler. His stance was low, arms spread, every muscle wired like a coiled spring. The guard tried a crossover—bad choice. Akito’s hand struck out, lightning-fast, knocking the ball loose. In one fluid motion, he was sprinting the other way, dunking with both hands before anyone could react.

4–0.

The gym erupted in cheers and nervous laughs.

But it wasn’t fun for the ones on the court.

“Watch him, watch him!” someone shouted.

They tried to move the ball quickly, swinging it around the perimeter. Akito darted across the floor, his eyes tracking every pass. The forward caught it on the wing, tried to rise for a jumper—too late. Akito’s hand smacked the ball away, sending it flying toward the sideline. He chased it down, saved it from going out, and without pausing launched a long outlet to his teammate under the basket. Easy score.

6–0.

He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t smirk. He just jogged back, his expression carved from stone.

The other team finally got on the board with a desperate floater, but Akito came right back, hitting a contested three from the top of the arc. His defender sagged off for a split second—too much time. Swish.

The game turned into a showcase.

He split double teams like they weren’t there. He drew contact, powered through, finished and-one after and-one. On defense, he denied every angle, smothered every shooter, forced turnover after turnover. It felt less like a scrimmage and more like a one-man storm tearing through the court.

By the halfway mark, he had scored 18 points himself.

“Yo, we can’t even breathe out there,” one exhausted defender groaned. His jersey clung to him, soaked with sweat.

“Coach, he’s playing like it’s the damn Winter Cup already!” another gasped.

But the coach didn’t stop it. He stood with his arms folded, eyes sharp, watching every detail.

The next possession, Akito received the ball at the wing. He jab-stepped, the defender flinched, and Akito immediately punished him with a step-back three. The arc was pure, the release smooth. The net snapped clean.

The crowd of bench players exploded.
“Akitooo!”
“Too nasty!”

The defenders slumped.

On the next trip, they sent three men at him. Desperation. He drove straight into them, his body colliding hard, the ball nearly lost—but somehow, twisting mid-air, he found the angle. The ball kissed the glass and fell through.

The gym thundered.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink. He just turned back on defense, eyes fixed, his breathing loud but steady.

The scrimmage ended with the score so lopsided it almost felt cruel. Akito’s team had doubled their opponents, and every player—friend or foe—knew exactly why. His fire had lifted them, carried them, burned through them.

The whistle blew. “That’s it,” the coach said.

Everyone collapsed onto the benches, gulping water. But Akito didn’t sit. He dribbled the ball slowly, eyes locked on the rim, his body still humming with energy. The scrimmage hadn’t been enough.

He attacked the rim again, dunked, then jogged back to the three-point line. Another shot. Swish. Again. Swish. Again. Swish.

The gym was emptying. Players dragged themselves out, shaking their heads. “Man’s possessed.”
“Crazy… dude’s pissed about Inter-High.”

Only the coach stayed, arms crossed, watching in silence.

Akito pushed through exhaustion. His shirt was drenched, sweat dripping into his eyes, but he didn’t stop. Every shot was precise, every drive violent. He ran sprints between baskets, lungs burning, legs screaming, but it only seemed to feed him more.

When he finally paused, gasping, the coach walked closer. His voice cut through the silence.

“You frustrated?”

“No.”

“Frustrated about Inter-High?”

“No.”

The coach studied him. “Or is it… that you can’t face Aomine?”

The ball slipped. The water bottle crushed in his fist.

The fire in his eyes answered without words.

The coach didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, voice calm. “You’ll get your chance. Winter Cup. Nationals. You’ll face him. Until then—keep working. That’s what makes the difference. That’s how you win.”

Akito stood straight, chest heaving, his grip tightening on the ball again. He stared at the rim, and the words slipped out like a promise to himself.

“I’ll stop him.”

The coach nodded once.

The next jumper Akito released fell with a clean swish, echoing across the empty gym.

The fire wasn’t going out. It was only growing.

Chapter 4: Evolve

One chilly evening, after a late scrimmage, Akito trudged home with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The sky was dusky, painted in streaks of orange and violet. He shoved the door open, expecting the quiet clatter of dinner being prepped. Instead, his phone buzzed on the counter, the screen flashing with his parents’ names.

He picked it up, half-tired, half-distracted. “Yo, what’s up?”

“Akito,” his father’s voice boomed through the line, unusually energized. “Pack your bags.”

Akito froze mid-step. “…What?”

His mother chimed in, her voice lighter but equally excited. “You’re going to America, Akito. Two weeks. We already booked the ticket.”

The words slammed into him harder than any screen on the court. “Wait—America? Like… actually America? Why?”

His father chuckled. “Because we managed to call in a favor. An old friend of mine knows a trainer—one who’s worked with college players, even NBA pros. We thought… why not give you the chance?”

Akito’s hand gripped the phone tighter, knuckles whitening. “You’re serious?”

“Completely,” his mother said. “Flight’s in three days. So get packed, mister skyscraper.”

The call ended, leaving Akito staring blankly at the dim glow of the screen. For a moment, the house was silent, except for the distant hum of the fridge. Then his heart kicked into gear, pounding so hard it felt like it might break his ribs.

America.

Basketball in America.

And not just streetball—training with the kind of coaches who molded the players he watched every night on his phone.

He stumbled into his room, dropped his bag, and sat on the edge of his bed, mind racing. A grin tugged at his lips, unwilling but unstoppable.

“…Guess I’ll need bigger bags,” he muttered.

The phone call didn't end there, his parents called again, this time insisting he switch the video on. Akito, still blinking from the shock, hesitated before tapping the screen. His mother’s face popped up, framed by the glow of her kitchen. His father leaned in from the side, both of them grinning wide.

“Show us, show us!” his mother said, waving a hand. “It feels like forever since we’ve seen you.”

Akito angled the phone away, showing himself in the dim light of his room. He was still in his practice clothes, hair damp, towel looped around his neck.

The reaction was instant.

“Akito!” his father barked in disbelief. “What the hell happened to you?!”

“You’re huge!” his mother added, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Wait—how tall are you now?”

Akito rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “…Six-five.”

“Six-five?!” his father repeated, almost choking on his own spit. “Are you serious? That’s taller than me! Taller than your uncles too!”

His mother leaned closer to the screen, narrowing her eyes. “You were only six-one last year, weren’t you? Four inches? That’s not normal, Akito. Did you—did you drink some magic growth potion?!”

Akito let out a laugh despite himself, shaking his head. “Nah. Just… I dunno. Guess it happened.”

His father’s eyebrows shot up. “Do you even realize what this means? You’re practically built for basketball now. You’re going to tower over most of the court.”

Akito grinned faintly, shrugging. “Guess I got lucky.”

His mother shook her head in disbelief, though her smile was wide. “You look so different, Akito. More… grown up. Are we sure you’re not sneaking protein shakes three meals a day?”

He scoffed. “I wish. I barely get enough food with practice.”

That was when his father cut in, the excitement returning to his voice. “All the more reason to go to America. We already told you—there’s a trainer waiting. He’s worked with college stars, pros. You’ll learn things you can’t here.”

His mother nodded firmly. “You’ll be staying near the gym he runs. And don’t worry—we already arranged everything. All you need to do is show up, train, and eat.”

Akito sat there, stunned all over again. It was one thing to hear the words. Another to see his parents’ excitement pouring through the screen.

“America, huh…” he muttered, almost to himself.

“America,” his father confirmed. “Get ready, Akito. This could be the beginning of something big.”

---

Three days later, he was on a plane, duffel bag packed with his basketball shoes, practice gear, and a notebook he scribbled plays in. The long flight felt endless, but the excitement buzzing in his chest kept him from sleeping more than a few minutes at a time. When the plane finally landed, the bright sunlight of the US spilled through the windows, glaring off the tarmac.

He stepped out, dragging his bag, and immediately felt the shift. Everything was bigger—the cars, the buildings, even the air felt heavier. His Japanese hoodie seemed out of place among the flood of caps and jerseys passing him by.

At the arrivals gate, a tall man in a tracksuit waved a sign with his name. “Akito?”

“That’s me.”

The man grinned, offering a handshake firm enough to jolt Akito’s arm. “Name’s Coach Davis. Heard a lot about you. Your dad wasn’t kidding—you shot up like a bean sprout, huh?”

Akito chuckled sheepishly. “Guess so.”

“Good. I like long arms. Long arms mean defense. And we’re gonna put those arms to work.”

The ride from the airport was a blur of highways, neon signs, and strange accents buzzing around him. By the time they pulled up to the training facility—a huge, warehouse-like gym plastered with banners and posters of NBA players—Akito’s heart was hammering.

Inside, the court stretched wide and polished, surrounded by racks of medicine balls, ropes, and weights. A group of players were already there, scrimmaging. They were big. Not just tall, but broad, their shoulders thick with muscle. Akito swallowed hard, realizing he wasn’t the outlier anymore. Here, he was just another tall kid.

Coach Davis clapped him on the back. “Don’t just stand there. Get changed. Today, you’re gonna see what real work feels like.”

Akito nodded, trying to steady his breathing as he headed to the locker room.

The squeak of sneakers echoed through the gym, sharp and unrelenting. Akito jogged out onto the court after changing, his plain black jersey clinging to his skin. The other players had already noticed him — wide-eyed glances, a few smirks, some muttered words in English he couldn’t fully catch, but he understood the tone.

The tallest one, a broad-shouldered light skinned kid with tattoos down his arm, grinned at him. “Fresh meat.”

Another laughed, he had a dark complexion this time. “Japan, right? They send anime characters now?”

Akito clenched his fists but said nothing, taking his spot as Coach Davis barked out instructions.

“Warm-ups first. Full-court sprints, twenty reps. Let’s go!”

The whistle blew.

The Americans exploded forward like sprinters. Akito followed, his long strides carrying him down the hardwood. For the first five runs, he kept up. By the eighth, his chest was heaving. By the twelfth, his calves burned like fire. The others, laughing and yelling, kept hammering the floor, barely slowing.

“Come on, Japan!” one of them jeered as they passed him. “Don’t die yet!”

Akito bit down hard, forcing his legs to keep moving. He staggered on the last two sprints, but he didn’t stop, crossing the baseline with sweat already pouring down his face.

Davis’ eyes flicked toward him, unreadable, before blowing the whistle again.

“Good. Now, defensive slides. Sideline to sideline. No walking. Go!”

Akito bent his knees, sliding left and right. The others were quicker, sharper, their footwork drilled and vicious. His thighs screamed. His lungs clawed for air. By the tenth rep, he thought his legs would give out. But every time he slowed, every time his body screamed at him to quit, he forced himself lower, pushing off harder.

The smirks turned into raised brows. The laughter quieted, though the sneers stayed.

---

Then came the scrimmage.

Five-on-five.

“Japan, you’re with Team B,” Davis barked, tossing him a jersey.

The first possession came quick. Akito caught the ball near the wing, dribbled once — and instantly had it smacked away by the tattooed player.

“Too slow!” the guy laughed, sprinting downcourt for an easy dunk.

Akito’s jaw clenched.

Next time down, he tried to cut into the paint, only to be body-checked by another defender. The hit sent him stumbling. No whistle. Play on.

Every possession was the same — shoves, elbows, hands grabbing his jersey. They towered over him not just with size but with confidence, like predators circling prey.

“You don’t belong here!” one of them barked in his ear as they boxed him out hard, sending him crashing to the floor.

Akito’s palms burned against the wood. His knees ached. For a second, lying there, his chest heaving, the thought flashed: _Maybe they’re right._

But then he remembered Aomine’s smirk. That effortless dominance. The way he’d shut him down in the Inter-High. That mocking laugh.

Akito’s eyes sharpened. He pushed himself back up.

The next possession, he fought through the screen harder, sticking to his man. When they tried to bully him off the ball, he planted his feet and absorbed the hit, gritting his teeth. His arms shot out, deflecting a pass.

“Finally!” Davis roared from the sideline. “That’s defense!”

Akito dove, snatched the loose ball, and sprinted the other way. His lungs felt like glass, his legs like lead, but he forced himself forward, rising for a layup — only to have it swatted into the wall.

The Americans roared with laughter.

But Akito got up again. And again. And again. Every hit, every shove, every rejection — he absorbed it all, his expression dark, silent, burning.

By the end of the scrimmage, he was drenched, shaking, barely able to stand. His teammates walked off smirking, some clapping his shoulder mockingly.

But Coach Davis watched him carefully, arms crossed.

“You’re not strong enough. Not fast enough. Not skilled enough,” Davis said flatly. Akito’s head lowered, his fists clenching.

Then the coach added, his tone sharper:

“But you didn’t quit. Not once. Most kids fold when they get pushed like that. You didn’t. You kept getting up.”

Akito’s chest rose and fell as he met the coach’s gaze.

“Good,” Davis said, finally allowing the faintest hint of a smile. “Now we have something to work with.”

---

The next morning, Akito woke up with his entire body screaming. His shoulders ached, his thighs throbbed, and even rolling out of bed felt like dragging a mountain. But he remembered Davis’ words. _You didn’t quit._ That was enough to push him into his sneakers.

The gym was already alive when he arrived — the smell of rubber, iron, and sweat thick in the air. Davis stood waiting, arms crossed, beside a rack of weights and resistance bands.

“Yesterday, you survived,” the coach said. “Today, you start learning how not to die out there.”

He tossed Akito a medicine ball. “Mobility first. Core and hips. You want to move like those Americans, you need to loosen up that stiff frame.”

---

The first drill was medicine ball slams. Simple in theory — lift it overhead, throw it down as hard as possible, repeat.

By the twentieth rep, Akito’s shoulders were burning. Sweat rolled down his face as he gasped for air.

“Again,” Davis barked. “Explosive! Don’t throw like you’re scared of breaking it. Put everything into it!”

Akito gritted his teeth, raising the ball higher and slamming it down so hard the echo rattled through the gym.

“Better.”

Then came band-resisted shuffles. A heavy resistance band looped around his waist, Davis pulling from behind as Akito slid laterally, forcing him to keep his stance low, his feet quick. His thighs quaked, calves screaming.

“Stay low! Don’t stand up, you’ll get blown by again!”

Akito’s breaths grew ragged, but he stayed low, his eyes sharp, sliding back and forth until his legs nearly buckled.

Finally, box jumps. Thirty-inch platform. Explode up, land soft, reset, repeat.

The first five were fine. By the tenth, his legs shook. By the fifteenth, he almost missed, catching himself with his hands on the box.

“Up!” Davis barked.

Akito’s jaw clenched. He forced his legs to spring again, this time sticking the landing.

By the time they finished, his shirt was drenched, chest heaving like a furnace.

Davis nodded. “That’s day one.”

Scrimmage that evening was different. Akito still struggled — the bigger players bodied him, the faster ones slipped past him. But now, he wasn’t falling as much. His lateral slides were sharper. He cut off one drive, forcing a pass. On offense, he managed to fight through contact and hit a midrange jumper.

It wasn’t domination. It wasn’t even close. But it was something.

One of the players who mocked him earlier frowned after Akito boxed him out clean for a rebound.

“Yo… he’s getting annoying.”

Akito wiped sweat from his forehead, his chest rising and falling, but his eyes gleamed.

---

The next week, the grind intensified.

Mornings were gym sessions. Heavy squats, sled pushes across the gym floor, deadlifts, weighted pull-ups. Every session left him trembling, but each day, his body adapted a little more. Davis focused on his endurance too — suicides until his lungs burned, rope skipping drills to sharpen his footwork, core planks that left his abs quivering.

Afternoons were skills. Handle drills, dribbling with weighted balls, shooting under fatigue. If his arms were shaking, Davis made him shoot more.

Evenings were scrimmages.

At first, Akito was a target. Elbows, shoves, constant pressure. But gradually, he learned how to use his frame better. He widened his stance on defense, fought through screens without collapsing, and when they tried to bully him in the paint, he leaned back harder, using leverage instead of pure strength.

The shift was small, but noticeable.

In one scrimmage, the tattooed player tried to post him up again. This time, Akito held his ground, chest firm, hands up. When the shot went up, Akito leapt, tipping the ball just enough to force a miss.

“Lucky,” the guy muttered.

But Akito just jogged back downcourt, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

---

Days bled into each other. The rhythm became routine: dawn in the weight room, afternoons on drills, nights on the hardwood. At first, his body fought against it — sore muscles, blistered hands, aching knees. But with each sunrise, the aches dulled, replaced by something harder. Stronger.

Akito’s frame started to fill out. His shoulders broadened, his legs turned into coiled springs, his footwork cleaner. His handle tightened, his jumper smoother. Davis noticed it. Even the cocky players who once laughed now scouted him warily.

One morning, Davis had him pushing a weighted sled across the gym. The first week, he could barely move it. Now, his strides dug into the ground, shoving the sled forward with raw force until it clattered against the wall.

“Not bad,” Davis muttered. “Now do it again.”

And Akito did — sweat pouring, lungs burning, but no hesitation.

Scrimmages began to shift too.

At first, he was just “the Japanese kid.” Target practice. Then he became “the annoying one.” Getting in the way. Blocking passing lanes. Boxing out too aggressively.

By the second week, he was “the problem.”

He started picking up guards full court, sliding with them step for step. He cut off drives that used to blow past him. When the tattooed player tried to back him down, Akito leaned in, absorbing the contact, forcing a miss.

Offensively, he wasn’t flashy — but he learned where to strike. A quick cut at the right time, a midrange pull-up after creating just enough space, an offensive rebound leading to a putback.

Piece by piece, he carved out respect.

---

Then came the final scrimmage.

Davis blew the whistle, voice echoing across the gym. “Last one before you head home. Let’s see what you’ve learned.”

The ball tipped.

Akito locked in instantly. His first play came on defense — his man drove baseline, but Akito slid in front, chest firm, arms wide. When the shot went up, Akito timed it perfectly, swatting it against the glass.

“Yo, what the—?!”

Gasps echoed. Akito didn’t celebrate, just jogged upcourt, eyes cold.

A few plays later, it was payback time. The tattooed player got a steal and bolted downcourt for what looked like an easy dunk. He rose — but behind him, footsteps thundered.

Akito.

Leaping with everything he had, Akito smacked the ball off the backboard in a violent chasedown block, sending it flying into the wall.

The gym erupted.

“Damn!” someone shouted.

Even Davis cracked a grin. “Now that’s defense!”

The tattooed player scowled, slamming his fist against the padding.

But the highlight came in the fourth quarter of the scrimmage.

Akito caught the ball on the wing. The tattooed player slid over, smirking, ready to body him again.

“Try it, anime boy.”

Akito’s eyes narrowed. He jabbed once, then exploded baseline. The defender bumped him hard, but Akito absorbed it, gathering power off two feet. He rose — higher than before, higher than even he expected.

And then came the dunk.

Over him.

The rim rattled. The gym erupted in chaos. Even the players who once mocked him slapped their foreheads, shouting, laughing in disbelief.

The tattooed player hit the floor, stunned. His eyes wide, his pride cracked.

Akito hung on the rim for just a second, then dropped down, expression unreadable. He didn’t gloat. Didn’t trash talk. He just jogged back downcourt, silent and calm.

But everyone else? They knew what just happened.

When the scrimmage ended, sweat dripping from every player, the mood was different.

“Hey, Japan,” one of the guards muttered, clapping his shoulder. “Respect, man. You can ball.”

Another chuckled, shaking his head. “Didn’t think you had that in you. Props.”

Even the quieter ones nodded at him, their gazes less mocking, more… accepting.

Only the tattooed player stayed silent, his glare sharp as knives. But even then, he said nothing.

Akito just bowed slightly, out of habit, before grabbing his water. His chest was still heaving, his arms still trembling — but for the first time, he felt like he belonged.

Davis walked past, muttering just loud enough for him to hear.

“Now you’re starting to look like a player.”

---

The airport was loud — wheels dragging across tiled floors, voices mixing in a dozen languages, the metallic voice of the announcer calling out boarding times. Yet Akito barely heard it.

His body still ached from the scrimmages, from the weight sessions, from the endless drills Davis had thrown at him. The blisters on his palms and the bruises across his forearms hadn’t faded yet. But the real mark left on him wasn’t physical.

It was in his head — the way he saw the game now.

He leaned back against the cold airport bench, eyes half-closed, and let the memories wash over him.

The first days were humiliation. American players were taller, stronger, quicker. They shoved him around, laughed when he missed layups, when his shots got swatted into the bleachers. He’d gone to bed those nights with clenched fists and bitten lips.

The middle stretch became survival. His body adapted, his feet quicker, his shoulders harder. He studied the way Davis barked at him about footwork, about staying low, about never giving up an inch on defense. Slowly, the gap shrank. Slowly, he stopped being the victim.

The final week was fire. He remembered the rush of the chase-down block, the roar of teammates he’d barely known, the silence after he slammed the ball through the rim over the cocky tattooed player. Respect didn’t come easy, but it came.

Akito exhaled slowly. It had been just two weeks. Barely more than a blink. And yet, it had felt like a lifetime.

His parents had surprised him with the trip. He hadn’t expected much — maybe some sightseeing, maybe some pickup games. But what he got instead was a trial by fire, one that had burned the weakness out of him and left something sharper behind.

The inter-high was gone this year. His showdown with Aomine delayed. That still stung. But now… now he had something else. A glimpse of what he could be if he kept going.

The boarding call for his flight back to Japan snapped him out of his thoughts. He slung his bag over his shoulder, towering above most of the crowd now. Six-foot-five. Still getting used to it. His mom had nearly screamed when she realized how much he’d grown in a year.

Akito allowed himself a small smile.

“America was just the beginning,” he muttered under his breath.

And with that, he stepped onto the plane, ready to bring everything he had learned back home.

Chapter 5: The Zone

The wooden floor of the gym echoed with a steady rhythm — _step, shuffle, swing, recover._ 
Taiki’s racket sliced the air as he returned yet another smash from Kyo. Sweat rolled down his temple, his breathing sharp but steady. The shuttlecock ricocheted back and forth like lightning, the sound of strings snapping against feathers blending with the squeaks of sneakers and the faint _thud-thud_ of basketballs dribbling on the far side of the court.

“C’mon, Taiki, quicker footwork!” Kyo barked, his voice always blunt, yet strangely encouraging in its own way. “If you hesitate even half a second, you’ll lose the point!”

Taiki gritted his teeth, lunged forward, and returned the smash with a desperate flick. The shuttle arced higher than he wanted, giving Kyo the perfect setup. With a sharp leap, Kyo slammed it back down — _smash!_

The shuttle hit the floor beside Taiki’s shoes. Game over.

“Haa… haa…” Taiki leaned on his racket, catching his breath.

“Don’t get sloppy.” Kyo adjusted his grip and walked over to pick up the shuttle. “If this were a real match, you’d already be down three points from mistakes like that.”

“I-I know,” Taiki muttered, but his eyes were already drifting.

Something felt… off. The gym was noisier than usual. He noticed movement near the windows — small groups of first-years clustered together, peeking inside with wide eyes. Some were whispering, others pointing.

“Kyo,” Taiki said between breaths, “there’s… a lot of people watching today.”

Kyo followed his gaze, frowning. “Mm. Of course there are.” He tossed the shuttle into the air, catching it casually. “It’s spring. Clubs are recruiting. First-years always check out the strong ones. They’ll come, stare, then decide which club to join.”

Taiki nodded slowly, though he still felt the weight of so many eyes. “…But, they’re not watching us, are they?”

Kyo smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. He leaned against his racket like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“If they aren’t here for the clubs,” he said matter-of-factly, “then it’s probably her.”

He tilted his chin toward the basketball court.

Chinatsu was there, tying her shoes at the bench, her hair swaying as she tightened the laces. A few girls giggled from the windows, and Taiki didn’t miss the way some boys whispered her name.

“She’s the most popular girl in the school,” Kyo continued. “If not her, then—”

His eyes shifted toward the other side of the gym.

Hina had just entered, chatting with a friend, her bright energy instantly lighting up the air. A couple of underclassmen nudged each other, pointing at her.

“…Then it’s Hina. She’s right up there with Chinatsu-senpai.”

Taiki blinked, absorbing Kyo’s calm analysis. But then, Kyo’s expression changed. His eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head toward the far corner of the court.

“And if they’re girls,” Kyo said flatly, “then they’re definitely watching him.”

Taiki followed his gaze.

His jaw dropped.

There was Akito.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A towel hanging carelessly around his neck as he picked up a basketball with one hand. His shirt was discarded at the bench, and under the fluorescent lights, his body looked like it had been sculpted by hours — no, _years_ — of merciless training. His six-pack flexed with every breath. His arms, cut with lean muscle, tensed as he dribbled lazily.

The girls by the windows weren’t even subtle anymore. Half of them were practically swooning, hands over their mouths as they whispered. A group of underclassmen actually clutched their phones like they were trying not to squeal.

Taiki froze. His senpai… looked different.

“…Akito-senpai,” Taiki muttered, voice low, almost disbelieving.

Kyo, as calm as ever, shrugged. “Looks like spring break did him good.”

Akito, oblivious to the attention, pulled up from half-court and drained the shot effortlessly. The ball swished through the net without even grazing the rim. He didn’t celebrate, didn’t smirk — just picked up another ball and repeated the motion, smooth as clockwork.

Taiki could only stare. Two weeks ago, Akito had been strong. Intimidating, even. But this… this was something else entirely. It was like he’d leveled up overnight.

And judging from the growing crowd at the windows, he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

---

Akito stood at the top of the key, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths. Just weeks ago, he had been ahead of everyone — two steps, three steps, an entire league above his peers. But now, it wasn’t even comparable. It was like watching an ant against a hawk. His first dribble sliced through the air like a whip, and with a quick crossover, he blew by two defenders before slamming the ball through the rim.

“Akito!” his teammates roared. The crowd of first-years by the wall murmured in awe.

But today… something was different.

On the other side of the court, a newcomer adjusted his headband, sweat gleaming on his dark skin. He was taller than Akito — just barely — standing at 6’6 despite being a first-year. His build was lean, but the way he moved was electric. The players had learned his name fast.

**Jamal Adams.**

The first few drills, he’d looked solid — good shooting form, decent footwork. But nothing eye-popping. That changed in the scrimmage.

“Ball!” Jamal called, catching the rock in stride.

He took one step inside the three-point line, drove with a slick behind-the-back dribble, and before Ryo could react, Jamal cocked his arm back and _hammered_ a dunk straight over him.

“OOOOH!” the gym erupted, half in disbelief, half in excitement.

Ryo stumbled back, eyes wide, humiliated. Jamal landed and flexed, his teeth flashing in a grin. “C’mon, y’all gotta do better than that!”

The coaches raised eyebrows. Some of the first-years practically lost their voices screaming.

Akito, though… he didn’t flinch. He just smirked.

“Not bad,” he muttered under his breath.

The ball swung back in play, and that’s when Akito showed the difference.

When Jamal tried to push the pace, Akito cut him off — low stance, eyes sharp, every muscle coiled like a predator. Jamal faked left, spun right, but Akito was already there, suffocating him with perfect defensive angles. The American’s athleticism was undeniable, but Akito’s _mind_ was sharper.

“Where you goin’?” Akito taunted, swiping the ball loose.

He snatched it, sprinted down the court, and finished with a reverse layup that had the crowd gasping.

The game went on like that. Jamal with flashy drives, quick crossovers, even a step-back jumper that made the crowd howl. But Akito? He was relentless. He locked down passing lanes, rotated like clockwork, and scored at will. Mid-range pull-ups, euro-steps, even bullying his way to the basket for an and-one.

By the end of the scrimmage, the scoreboard read:

**30–21.**

Akito’s team victorious.

The stat line spoke volumes: **Akito — 18 points. Jamal — 11.**

---

The gym was still buzzing after the scrimmage. Some guys were laughing, others groaning about sore legs, but the energy had shifted. Most were ready to pack up and call it a day, but Jamal Adams wasn’t. He dribbled the ball hard against the floor, his expression unreadable, sweat rolling down his jaw. His eyes, sharp and unshaken, locked on Akito.

“That last game?” Jamal said, voice steady but cutting through the chatter. “My team dragged me down.” He caught the ball on the bounce and spun it in his hands, the sound echoing through the quieting gym. Everyone turned.

“I’ll show you who’s really the best here. One-on-one.”

Before Akito could answer, Jamal fired the ball into his chest. The thud was sharp, enough to sting, but Akito didn’t flinch. He caught it, fingers curling into the leather like it belonged to him.

“Akito, don’t.” Ryo stepped in quickly, worry in his voice. “He’s just salty. You’ve already proved yourself.”

“Yeah, man,” another teammate added, “you’re not gonna gain anything. Forget it.”

But Akito’s eyes never left Jamal. That fire, that arrogance—he’d seen it before. It was the same as the tattooed player who had once shoved him around like he was nothing. That memory dug at him like a thorn, and this felt too familiar to ignore.

Akito bounced the ball once, slow and deliberate. His jaw tightened. “I’m not backing down.”

The gym grew tense. Bags that were being zipped were left open. Shoes that were being untied stayed laced. One by one, players and onlookers circled the half court. The whispers began to spread.

“Yo, is this really happening?” 
“Akito versus Jamal…” 
“Two freaks going at it.”

Jamal’s smirk widened, his teeth flashing under the gym lights. “First to twenty-one.”

Akito nodded once. “Fine.”

The players cleared the half court. The lights above cast long shadows across the polished wood, making every movement seem heavier. Jamal took the ball first, bouncing it low and hard, the rhythm sharp and precise. Ryo muttered nervously under his breath, “This dude’s not playing around…”

They checked the ball, and the battle began.

Jamal wasted no time. A jab right, then an explosion left—the first step was lightning quick. Akito shuffled but Jamal’s stride was too long, his shoulder brushing past. One more dribble, a gather, and he rose. Akito leapt with him, arm stretched to the ceiling, but Jamal twisted midair, scooping the ball under Akito’s hand and spinning it high off the glass. It dropped in soft.

“1–0,” Jamal said, landing smoothly. “Too easy.”

The crowd erupted in whistles and gasps. Akito only stared back, jaw tight.

Now it was his turn. He dribbled slowly, calm, his movements steady. Jamal crowded him, arms spread wide, chest almost pressing against him. Akito jabbed left, spun back right, rose and released. Jamal’s hand was there, inches from his face, but the ball arced high above the contest and fell through the net with a clean swish.

The gym cracked with shouts. “Damn! That was cold!”

Akito didn’t react. He jogged back, calm as ever. “1–1.”

Jamal took the ball again, pounding it with force. He slashed inside, using his shoulder to nudge Akito, then exploded upward with both hands gripping the ball. He hammered down a dunk that rattled the rim, sending vibrations through the gym.

Gasps and cheers filled the air.

“Holy—he just dunked it in his face!” 
“No way!”

Jamal slapped the ball once as he landed, smirking. “You’re too slow.”

Akito caught the ball back. He jabbed, drove hard, then pulled up, rising for a mid-range jumper. Jamal read it, timing his jump perfectly. _Smack!_ The ball was swatted clean, bouncing far across the floor.

“Get that weak stuff outta here!” Jamal barked, laughing.

The crowd roared louder, the tension turning into fire.

Jamal’s confidence only grew. He toyed with the dribble, euro-stepped past Akito for a layup. He crossed over and slipped in another bucket. He spun and kissed another off the glass. The score stretched quickly.

“Four to one!” someone yelled.

Akito bent slightly, breathing heavier, sweat dripping down his jaw. Around him, his teammates exchanged uneasy looks.

“Akito’s… losing.” 
“This Jamal kid’s insane.” 
“Didn’t think anyone could hang with him, but Jamal’s straight-up taking over.”

Jamal spun the ball on his finger, his grin wide. “You’re good, senpai. But you’re not on my level.”

The word cut deep. Senpai. The tone—mocking, sharp—was the same one he’d heard before, when the tattooed player had shoved him to the ground and told him he’d never be great. That humiliation, that sting—it all came rushing back.

Jamal was grinning, the score 1–4, and Akito felt the weight of failure crawling back into his chest—Aomine, that tattooed player, every humiliation he’d swallowed.

He tightened his fist.

As Jamal caught the ball, ready to push his lead further, something flickered in Akito’s reflection on the polished floor. His own eyes—hazel—glowed for the briefest moment, like a crackle of lightning.

Jamal froze for half a beat, unsettled by that faint shimmer.

Akito blinked, unaware of what had just sparked inside him. His body felt lighter, sharper, but he didn’t think about it.

He only muttered, low enough for Jamal to hear—

“Game on.”

The gym had gone dead silent. Jamal had the ball at the top of the key, dribbling with that cocky smirk, the one that said he already had Akito figured out. He jab-stepped once, twice, then exploded to the right, his long stride cutting like a blade. To everyone watching, it looked like Akito had been beaten.

For half a second, Jamal even thought so too.

But then—

_SNATCH!_

A palm the size of iron clamped the ball out of midair, one-handed, ripping it away as if Jamal had dribbled it right into him. Gasps rippled through the gym. Akito didn’t grin, didn’t shout—he just turned, eyes sharp, and stormed the other way.

On offense, he backed Jamal down, slow and deliberate. Jamal tried to plant his feet, chest squared, arms out. But Akito dropped his shoulder, slid his elbow just enough into Jamal’s sternum—not malicious, just forceful. Jamal stumbled back like he’d been shoved by a truck. In that heartbeat of space, Akito rose, cocked the ball back, and _slammed_ it through the rim.

_THUD._

The rim rattled, echoing like thunder.

“2–4.”

Whispers lit up the sideline. Nobody had ever seen Jamal tossed around like that.

Jamal’s grin cracked.

The next possession, Jamal tried to go back to his bread-and-butter—quick crossover, hesitation, then spin. He thought he had separation, pulling up for a jumper.

_Smack!_

Akito’s hand was there, suffocating, erasing the ball from existence. It didn’t even look like he jumped. It was like he already knew where Jamal was going.

Akito picked up the loose ball, crossed the halfcourt with long strides, and pulled from deep—well beyond the arc.

_Swish._

3–4.

By now, Jamal’s dribble had lost some swagger. He tried using his length, backing Akito down, throwing in pump fakes. But Akito didn’t bite. He stayed grounded, eyes blazing, arms stretching wide like a hawk pinning prey. Every angle Jamal looked for—closed. Every fake—ignored.

Frustrated, Jamal forced a drive left, launching for a layup.

_BANG!_

Akito came from behind, a chasedown block, pinning the ball so hard against the glass that it bounced halfway across the court. The sideline erupted.

On the reset, Akito didn’t waste time. He dribbled casually, then slashed right past Jamal. Instead of going for the easy layup, he spun midair, switching hands, dropping a silky reverse layup that kissed the glass and rolled in.

4–4.

The cage was closing.

Jamal wiped sweat from his brow, dribbling harder, faster, trying to shake the cage Akito had built around him. He feinted left, powered to the right, then snapped the ball behind his back. The lane opened—finally.

Or so he thought.

Akito slid with him step for step. Jamal rose for a pull-up—

_Snap!_

The ball was ripped from his hands mid-motion. Not a block. Not a strip. A theft. In one lightning-quick snatch, Akito was already sprinting the other way. He took off in two long strides and hammered the ball through the rim with both hands, the slam echoing like thunder.

5–4.

—

Next possession, Jamal slowed it down. He told himself not to rush. He sized Akito up, used a hesitation dribble, then powered inside. His shoulder dropped into Akito’s chest—nothing. It was like ramming a steel wall. Jamal forced the shot anyway, twisting for a contested layup.

The ball smacked glass.

Akito had pinned it. With one hand.

He dropped it to the floor, scooped it up, and without a pause, launched a one-legged fadeaway three in transition. The arc was high, impossibly high—

_Swish._

6–4.

The crowd murmured now. Not just in awe, but in disbelief.

—

Jamal grew desperate. He used his speed, darting left and right, burning energy like firewood. But no matter the cross, no matter the burst, Akito’s defense clung to him—arms out, feet sharp, anticipation perfect. It was suffocating.

Finally, Jamal spun baseline and went for a reverse. Akito’s body was right there, cutting him off, hand slapping the ball away clean. Jamal hit the floor.

Gasps.

Akito picked the ball up and, with Jamal still scrambling to his feet, drove in and lofted a floater over his shoulder. It kissed glass, dropped in.

7–4.

—

Jamal roared. He wasn’t giving up. He barreled in again, this time lowering his shoulder with all his strength. Akito absorbed it, didn’t budge, then stuffed the layup before it left Jamal’s hand.

The gym went silent.

Akito brought the ball back, walked it to the arc, then performed a cruel move—rocking the dribble side to side, slow, deliberate, staring into Jamal’s eyes. Then, with a single explosive step-back, he let it fly.

_Net._

8–4.

From then on, it was carnage.

Akito drove baseline and spun into a two-handed dunk, knees at Jamal’s chest. 
9–4.

He faked a pass, slid behind the arc, hit a step-back three. 
10–4.

He caught Jamal leaning left, crossed right, floated in a jelly layup off the wrong foot. 
11–4.

Every shot was poetry, every move an execution.

Jamal’s possessions were worse. Each attempt, denied. When he rose for a midrange, Akito smothered him. When he tried to drive, Akito cut him off, chest to chest. When he spun, Akito’s hand was already waiting.

At one point, Jamal managed to get a half-step lead. He bolted for the rim, full extension, dunk attempt primed—

_BAM!_

Akito soared and slapped it away at the peak, the ball ricocheting toward the ceiling. The gym erupted, players screaming, hands on heads. Jamal landed, eyes wide, chest heaving.

Akito calmly grabbed the rebound, walked it back, and drained another jumper.

14–4.

From there, it was humiliation.

He hit a behind-the-back dribble into a fading midrange. 
15–4.

A euro-step around Jamal into a soft touch off the glass. 
16–4.

A cruel no-look jumper, eyes fixed away until the net snapped. 
17–4.

Jamal tried one last desperation three. Airball. Akito shook his head, caught it, and bolted backcourt, slamming home another dunk. 
18–4.

The gym was shaking now, the echoes of sneakers, the gasps and cheers. Jamal’s teammates didn’t even shout anymore. They just watched, wide-eyed.

Akito’s eyes glowed with that faint hazel lightning. Not anger. Not arrogance. Just focus—pure, burning focus.

He hit a scoop layup after spinning Jamal into the paint. 
19–4.

He dropped a fadeaway three so smooth it silenced the room. 
20–4.

Match point.

Jamal held the ball, panting, drenched, shoulders sagging. He forced one last drive. Akito let him go by—just like that very first possession.

Then, at the rim, he reappeared. A ghost. A wall.

_SWAT!_

The ball ricocheted across the gym.

Akito grabbed it, dribbled once, and without hesitation rose for a deep dagger three. Time slowed. The ball spun, climbed, and fell—

_Swish._

21–4.

Game over.

Jamal stood frozen, chest heaving, hands on his knees. His teammates stared in silence.

And Akito? He looked straight into Jamal's eyes and said.

"Don't ever dream of beating me"

He stated, cold, with no remorse in his words.