Setting: Kenji's room. Desk light on. A fan hums softly. Everything is neat. Almost everything.
Kenji sat at his desk, staring at the practice bracket like it might blink first.
Ayumi's name was there, printed cleanly beside his in neat, unassuming font—no footnotes, no disclaimers, no warning: may cause disruption to traditional gameplay. But that's what it was, wasn't it? A partnership formed under unusual circumstances and somehow... working.
He turned to his notebook. Opened to a fresh page. Labeled the top:
Match Variables
Below it, he wrote in sharp, structured lines:
Serve efficiency – 78%
Ayumi's movement bias – favors aggressive right shift
Ryota: net coverage high, drop shot probability ↑
Hana: baseline accuracy, low verbal engagement → focus anchor
Then he hesitated.
Lifted the pen.
And added:
Ayumi – unpredictable but reactive. Fast.
Unknown ceiling.
He stared at those two words. Unknown ceiling.
Not in a bad way. In a she might break it if we let her way.
He leaned back in his chair, the ceiling above him suddenly less of a ceiling and more of a question mark.
The encounter with Ryota and Hana earlier was still replaying—Hana's cool assessments, Ryota's weaponized grin. They had precision. Practice. Balance.
But not her.
Ayumi moved like she didn't believe in straight lines. Or—more alarmingly—like they bored her.
Kenji's phone buzzed.
A message.
Ayumi [8:45PM]:
I'm communing with the spirits of dead tennis balls. It's spiritual.
He exhaled through his nose. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth before he could stop it.
Of course she's out there somewhere, talking to tennis balls under moonlight.
He typed:
Kenji [8:47PM]:
Tell them our footwork needs divine intervention.
No reply.
That probably meant she was grinning, alone on some quiet court, chasing ghosts with spin serves and jokes.
He didn't need the reply.
The game was coming. Ryota and Hana were watching. Coach would expect sharp lines, clean results.
But somehow, in the quiet, Kenji realized he wasn't building a strategy around Ayumi anymore.
He was building it with her.
He closed the notebook.
Let the lights flick off.
And went to sleep dreaming in diagonals and bright, unpredictable arcs.