Night fell softly over Jamaica

The roads quieted, the cold air settled, and the sky stretched wide and starless—like the world itself was holding its breath. Tomorrow wasn't just another game. It wasn't just Hakuro Academy.

It was the game.

The game that would define their season.

The game everyone said they would lose.

The game Yuuto had been sharpening himself for since the moment he first saw Ryu Kazen's blue grid eyes.

And so… the night before war began.

Yuuto sat on his bed, legs crossed, the warm glow of a single lamp painting the room in gold. His basketball rested in front of him, and a roll of athletic tape lay by his knee.

He exhaled—slow, heavy—like he was letting out the last of his doubts.

His fingers trembled.

Not with fear.

With pressure.

The weight of being the starting point guard.

He tore strips of tape with careful precision.

Wrap.

Wrap.

Press.

His grip tightened around the ball.

He closed his eyes.

Ryu Kazen…

The monster everyone fears.

The one they say I can't surpass.

Yuuto lifted his phone and replayed the clips he'd studied for days:

Ryu bending pace like time itself warped around him.

Ryu splitting defenses like water.

Ryu's eyes glowing like a predator following the exact line of a victim's next step.

Yuuto's jaw clenched.

Tomorrow he wouldn't just face Ryu.

He would face himself—

the hesitant version,

the insecure version,

the version who always thought he wasn't enough.

A gentle knock.

"Yuuto? Dinner's ready," his mother called.

"I'll be down soon."

He didn't move.

Instead, he bounced the ball lightly—Pulse Dribble.

The sound echoed in the small room like a heartbeat.

Thump… thump-thump… thump… thump-thump…

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Then, quietly and fiercely, he whispered to the ball:

"Tomorrow… I show them who I really am."

The school gym was silent—lights off, doors locked—except for one steady echo.

Swish… swish… swish…

Marcus Rowe stood at the three-point line, hoodie drenched in sweat, each breath fogging in the cold air. He had shot until his legs shook.

He glanced at the empty stands.

"This place is gonna be packed tomorrow," he muttered.

"People watching. Cameras everywhere. Everyone waiting to see if Seiryō gets destroyed."

He dribbled.

Stopped.

Rose into a quick-hop three.

SWISH.

He caught the rebound.

These were the same hands that once shook in clutch time.

The same hands that froze last season.

The same hands critics said would never be "ace material."

Marcus tightened his grip.

"No," he growled.

"Not anymore."

Fadeaway.

Spin counter.

Quick-hop pull-up.

SWISH. SWISH. SWISH.

His shoulders loosened.

His breathing steadied.

He stared at his taped, calloused hands.

"Tomorrow…" he whispered.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"…I'll be the blade we cut Hakuro with."

One last shot.

Perfect.

Shunjin stood outside the dorms, basketball under his arm, staring into the dark cloudy sky as if seeking answers within it.

He hated silence—

because silence forced reflection.

And reflection forced truth.

I wasn't acting like an ace.

I was acting like someone who wanted the title, not the responsibility.

He tossed the ball lightly and caught it.

His chest tightened.

Tomorrow meant big men towering over him.

Hakuro's monsters hammering the paint.

Ryu Kazen carving through defenses like a surgeon.

He swallowed hard.

"I won't run," he whispered.

A cold breeze ruffled his hair.

"I ran last year. I hid behind excuses. I wanted points, not pressure."

He placed a hand over his chest, grounding himself.

"Not this time.

Tomorrow… I'll earn it."

The word ace pulsed inside him—

no longer ego, but a promise.

Daniel sat on the floor of his room, lights dimmed, laptop open as footage of Ryu Kazen looped endlessly.

Ryu accelerating in three steps.

Ryu freezing a defender mid-stride.

Ryu breaking another guard's ankles with a shoulder feint.

Daniel moved silently in the dark, shadow-defending each clip.

Slide.

Cut off.

Recover.

Shadow the hips.

His breaths were sharp and controlled.

"Don't look at the eyes. Don't look at the ball," he whispered.

"Watch the center."

He slid again—sweat trailing down his jaw.

His little brother peeked inside.

"Daniel? You okay?"

Daniel didn't take his eyes off the screen.

"Yeah. Just… preparing."

"Is that the guy you're fighting tomorrow?"

"Not fighting."

Daniel slid again, perfectly timed with Ryu's feint.

"Stopping."

The kid blinked.

"…He looks scary."

Daniel finally paused—breathing hard.

His lips curved into a small, almost excited smirk.

"He is."

He wiped his face.

"But I'm the wall he has to break tomorrow."

Takeda sat alone in his apartment, a cup of black coffee beside him, laptop filled with Hakuro's game footage.

Rotations.

Pace.

Brutality.

No wasted movement.

No unnecessary dribbles.

No hesitation.

Hakuro wasn't a high school team.

They were a machine.

Hikari stepped into the room with a folder.

"You're still working?"

"We don't have the luxury of relaxing," he said without looking up.

She sighed and placed the folder down.

"The boys really grew this week."

Takeda's fingers tightened around the coffee cup.

"…I know."

"They're scared," she admitted, "but they're ready."

He leaned back, letting the footage play without watching it.

"Fear isn't the enemy," he murmured.

"Complacency is."

Hikari smiled faintly.

"So. What's your plan?"

Takeda closed the laptop and stood.

"Simple," he said, grabbing his whistle.

"We go out there…

and make the strongest team in the region bleed."

In Hakuro's luxurious training facility, their players finished their final practice of the night.

Ryu Kazen dribbled slowly at half-court—calm, expressionless, eyes unreadable.

His teammates laughed, stretched, joked.

But Ryu didn't move.

Minato Raiji walked over.

"You excited, Kazen?"

No answer.

"Hey," Minato nudged him, "Seiryō's hyped up. People say their new PG is evolving."

Ryu stopped dribbling.

Lifted his head slightly.

"…Good."

Minato blinked.

"Good?"

Ryu tucked the ball under his arm.

"Only evolved players are worth crushing."

Behind him:

Shunpei cracked his knuckles.

Ren tied his hair back.

Hiroto adjusted his stance like a wolf ready to hunt.

Hakuro wasn't nervous.

Hakuro wasn't tense.

Hakuro was hungry.

As the night deepened, every player—every heart, every breath—felt the same thing.

Tomorrow.

Everything changes tomorrow.

Yuuto lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Marcus stretched his fingers by the window.

Shunjin tightened his grip on his ball.

Daniel whispered defensive cues under his breath.

The courts were dark.

The roads silent.

The world waiting.

And as midnight settled in, all five boys—whether aloud or in thought—spoke the same words:

"Tomorrow… we fight."

The moon finally pushed through the cloud cover—pale, thin, like a blade of silver slicing across the city. Seiryō slept, but the night itself did not.

It watched.

It listened.

It carried the quiet pulse of a thousand fears and a thousand hopes.

Inside the boys' dorm, a faint hum of electricity buzzed as the hallway lights dimmed into their midnight mode. The air was colder now, sharp enough that every inhale felt like waking up.

Yuuto's room was the first to stir.

He sat upright again.

Sleep wouldn't come.

His leg bounced nonstop under the blanket, his fingers tracing invisible plays in the air. Every once in a while, he lifted his hand and visualized Ryu Kazen's steps—the strange tempo, the half-second pause, the glide that shouldn't be humanly possible.

"Don't react," he whispered to himself.

"Make him react to me."

The words steadied him.

But they didn't calm him.

Yuuto knew what tomorrow meant. Not just the match. Not just the chance to prove himself as Seiryō's point guard.

It was the moment that would decide the version of himself he'd carry into the rest of his life.

Weak? Timid? A shadow?

Or something else—something sharp enough to cut the chains he'd carried since middle school.

He lay back down, eyes wide open, waiting for sleep that refused to claim him.

---

Across the hall, Marcus stretched his fingers one last time, cracking each knuckle slowly, rhythmically.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

"Tomorrow," he muttered to the window, "they either fear me… or forget me."

The darkness outside reflected his face faintly—tired, hardened, strangely peaceful. He tapped his fingertips on the sill, feeling the ghost of each shot he'd taken earlier.

But something inside him was twitching.

Not nerves.

A hunger.

The hunger to rewrite who he was under pressure. To take all the words he heard in the past—

choker,

inconsistent,

not built for the moment—

and throw them back into the fire.

Marcus inhaled deeply.

"If Ryu's their sword…" He smirked. "…then tomorrow, I'm our gun."

He pulled his hood over his head and closed his eyes, letting the darkness swallow him whole.

Shunjin couldn't sleep either.

He was still outside, sitting on the cold metal stairs behind the dorms. His breath came out in soft clouds as he bounced the ball lightly against the concrete.

thup…

thup…

thup…

The rhythmic tapping echoed down the empty courtyard.

He wasn't practicing.

He was grounding himself.

Shunjin had always been praised for his talent—his arm length, his vertical jump, his instinctive scoring. But praise never felt like fuel. It felt like a collar.

Tomorrow, though…

tomorrow would be different.

The stars finally peeked through the clouds, soft glimmers scattered across the blackened sky. Shunjin stared at them, eyes quietly burning.

"I don't want their praise," he whispered.

He placed a hand over his chest again.

"I want their trust. Their belief. Their weight."

He stood, bouncing the ball once more before tucking it under his arm and heading inside.

His steps echoed with purpose.

Daniel wasn't asleep.

He sat cross-legged on his floor, palms resting on his knees, breathing slow, deep, controlled. His laptop's glow illuminated his intense eyes as Ryu's clips looped silently.

But Daniel wasn't watching anymore.

He had memorized everything.

Every angle, every posture, every acceleration point, every shoulder twitch that preceded an explosion of movement.

But there was something else in Ryu's game that bothered him.

Something subtle.

Something he couldn't quite name.

A weakness?

No.

A rhythm.

A rhythm Daniel felt he could interrupt—even if only for one or two possessions.

And that would be enough.

Two possessions could swing the tide in a match like this.

Daniel exhaled, lowering his head.

"I don't have to beat him," he murmured.

"I just have to make him bleed momentum."

His younger brother, now asleep on Daniel's bed after accidentally dozing off earlier, snored softly. Daniel glanced at him and felt something warm flicker inside his chest.

Someone depended on him.

Someone looked up to him.

Someone believed in him without hesitation.

That alone made tomorrow worth fighting for.

And in the quiet of the coaching office, Takeda sat at his desk again—unable to sleep just like his players.

He rubbed his temples, staring at the playbook he'd rewritten three times that week.

He knew Hakuro.

He knew their precision, their cruelty, their discipline.

But more importantly—

He knew his boys.

He closed the notebook slowly.

"They're ready," he whispered.

Not because of talent.

Not because of training.

Not because of skill.

But because tonight… every single one of them was awake, wrestling something inside themselves—fear, pride, regret, expectation—and choosing to fight anyway.

That made them dangerous.

"Tomorrow," Takeda said softly as he turned off the final lamp,

"we stop being underdogs."

He walked out into the hallway, leaving the darkness behind him.

4:57 AM.

The first sliver of morning light crept over Seiryō's rooftops.

It was faint, gray, cold.

But it was coming.

Yuuto opened his eyes, still fully awake.

Marcus cracked his fingers again.

Shunjin stretched his legs before even rising.

Daniel tightened his shoelaces.

Coach Takeda stood at his window, watching the sunrise like it was an opponent.

And simultaneously—

from a luxurious facility across the city—

Ryu Kazen opened his eyes as well.

No alarm.

No hesitation.

Just instinct.

War had arrived.

Tomorrow…

was no longer tomorrow.

It was now.

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