The St. Jude’s Arts Center was a masterpiece of modern architecture—all transparent glass and polished concrete. It sat directly across a landscaped plaza from the University Tennis Complex, a sprawling facility where the rhythmic thwack-thwack of practice sessions echoed like a heartbeat.
Mikoto kept his eyes fixed on the pavement as he walked between Marin and Karen. Shino followed a few paces behind, her nose buried in a medical tablet, though she occasionally glanced up to ensure Mikoto hadn't bolted.
"Relax, Mikoto-kun," Marin whispered, tucking her arm through his. She was wearing a wide-brimmed hat and oversized sunglasses—her 'incognito' look. "The screening is in the basement theater. It’s soundproof. No tennis, just popcorn."
"I’m fine," Mikoto lied. The digital watch Shino gave him buzzed against his wrist—a haptic warning that his heart rate had climbed to 110 beats per minute.
"Liars get a twitch in their left eyelid," Shino remarked without looking up. "You’re currently at a high-frequency flicker."
Before they could reach the theater entrance, a group of athletes in navy-and-gold tracksuits stepped into their path. At the center was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a smirk that looked like it had been carved out of granite.
"Kodakawa! I thought I heard the 'Iron Ace' was taking a day off," the man called out. His eyes shifted from Karen to Mikoto, and his smirk widened. "And who’s this? Did you hire a bodyguard, or did the theater run out of seats for the help?"
Karen’s posture went rigid. "Back off, Ryuji. He’s with us."
Ryuji Sato. The captain of the men's varsity team. Mikoto remembered him from the junior circuits—Ryuji had always been the one who played dirty, the one who lived for the "psychological edge."
Ryuji stepped closer to Mikoto, sniffing the air. "Wait. Asada? Mikoto Asada?" He let out a sharp, barking laugh. "I haven't seen you since you choked at the Nationals. What happened, man? Did you finally realize you were better at folding laundry than hitting a backhand?"
"He’s our house manager, Ryuji. And he’s worth ten of you," Karen snapped, her hand clenching into a fist.
"House manager? That’s a fancy word for a maid," Ryuji sneered. He pulled a tennis ball from his pocket and tossed it toward Mikoto.
The yellow blur moved in slow motion. Mikoto’s hand twitched—the muscle memory of a thousand serves screaming to catch it—but he froze. The ball hit his chest and dropped to the floor, rolling away toward the glass doors.
"See? No reflexes. The 'Ghost' is just a shell," Ryuji laughed, turning back to his teammates. "Hey, Karen, if you want a real challenge, we’re doing open-court tie-breakers in ten minutes. Bring your 'manager' along. Maybe he can pick up the balls for us."
"He's not going anywhere near your court," Karen growled.
"Why not?" Ryuji challenged, looking back at Mikoto. "Scared he might have another breakdown? I heard they had to bring a stretcher out for your dignity last time, Asada."
The plaza went quiet. Marin’s grip on Mikoto’s arm tightened. She could feel him trembling.
"Actually," Mikoto said, his voice low and vibrating with a suppressed energy he hadn't felt in years. "Karen has a match to prepare for. She doesn't have time for a warm-up with someone who still relies on trash talk because his footwork is sloppy."
Ryuji’s face turned a deep, angry red. "Sloppy? I’m ranked third in the region, you pathetic—"
"Third," Mikoto interrupted, finally looking Ryuji in the eye. The fear was still there, but it was being pushed aside by a cold, sharp clarity. "Because you always over-rotate on your serve-and-volley. You’re predictable, Ryuji. Even a 'maid' can see that."
"Then prove it," Ryuji challenged, pointing toward the glass walls of the tennis complex. "One set. Six games. If you win, I’ll apologize to the Kodakawas and pay your salary for a month. If I win... you pack your bags and leave this campus tonight. I don't like losers staining my university."
"Mikoto, don't," Shino warned, stepping forward. "The physiological risk is—"
"He won't do it," Karen said, looking at Mikoto with a mix of worry and something that looked like hope. "He doesn't have to."
Mikoto looked at the tennis complex. He looked at the glass walls that reflected the sun like a mirror. His watch was vibrating non-stop now, a frantic rhythm against his skin.
"I’ll do it," Mikoto said. "But not for the money. I’ll do it because you’re blocking the way to the theater."13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOfMwhmDj33
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