The sun hadn't even cleared the skyline when the sound of a tennis ball hitting a wall began to vibrate through the Grand Zenith.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Mikoto sat up in his cot, his heart instantly hitting 100 bpm. His watch buzzed—a rhythmic warning. He didn't need a medical degree to know that sound. It was aggressive. It was desperate.
He found Karen in the living room. She had pushed the expensive designer sofa against the window and was firing balls at a reinforced patch of the hallway wall. She was drenched in sweat, her breathing ragged, her eyes fixed on a spot of peeling paint as if it were an enemy’s throat.
"It’s four in the morning, Karen," Mikoto said, leaning against the doorframe.
"I can't find the angle," she hissed, not stopping. Thwack. "Sato was right about one thing. My footwork is getting heavy. If I play like this at Nationals, I’m just a target."
"You're over-extending your shoulder," Mikoto observed, his eyes tracing the line of her swing. It was a reflex he couldn't kill. "You're trying to muscle the ball because you’re afraid of the finesse."
Karen stopped. She turned to him, her face flushed, her chest heaving. She didn't look like the "Iron Ace." She looked like a girl who was staring at a cliff.
"Ryuji Sato isn't the problem anymore," she said, dropping her racket. It clattered on the floor—a sound that still made Mikoto flinch. "I just got the scouting report. Ren Kurosawa transferred to the Northern Academy. She’s my first-round opponent."
Mikoto felt the air leave the room. He knew that name. Ren Kurosawa was the girl who had taken the Junior Title the year Mikoto collapsed. She was known for "Psychological Attrition"—she didn't just beat her opponents; she found their trauma and picked at it until they fell apart on the court.
"She’s been posting about it," Karen said, her voice shaking. "About how she’s looking forward to seeing the 'Kodakawa Prodigy' and her 'Broken Shadow.' She’s going to target me to get to you, Mikoto."
"Then let her," Mikoto said. "It's my past. Not yours."
"It's ours now!" Karen yelled, stepping into his space. "We stood by you! We kept you in this house! And now she’s going to use you as a weapon to break my concentration. I can't beat her with 'Prodigy' tennis. I need to beat her with the kind of tennis that doesn't care about the rules."
She grabbed Mikoto’s hand, her palm hot and calloused.
"The Agency offered me a coach from the Olympic committee. I told them to go to hell," Karen whispered. "I don't want a coach who sees a 'Kodakawa.' I want the guy who saw Ryuji’s weakness in three seconds. I want you to step back on that court. Not to play for a title... but to break me down so she can't."
Mikoto looked at the hallway wall, scarred by her practice. He looked at his own hands—the hands that had held Marin during her breakdown, and the hands that still felt the phantom weight of a championship racket.
"You're asking me to go back to the one place I can't breathe, Karen."
"I'll breathe for you," she promised, her grip tightening. "Just like you did for Marin. Just like you do for Shino. Help me win, Mikoto. Or I’m going to be the next 'Ghost' of this family."
Mikoto looked at his watch. 115 bpm. His vision blurred at the edges. But then he looked at Karen’s eyes—full of a raw, terrified ambition.
"I'm not a coach," Mikoto said softly.
"You're a winner who got lost," Karen countered. "Find your way back by leading me."
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