Night draped itself over Hakuro Academy like a silent warning.

The moon hung low, pale and sharp, casting thin silver blades of light across the empty outdoor court. Most of the school had already settled into stillness—lights turned off, doors locked, students resting before tomorrow's big game.

But one person was awake.

Ryu Kazen trudged across the cold concrete wearing a black windbreaker and loose shooting sleeves. His breath fogged in the cool air. His shoes echoed against the ground—a slow, steady rhythm that felt nothing like his usual confident, arrogant bounce.

Tonight was different.

Tonight wasn't about showmanship or dominance.

Tonight was about the one thing he pretended he never felt:

Pressure.

Ryu dribbled a ball slowly, letting it strike the ground with muted thuds. Not flashy. Not fast. Just controlled. He wasn't warming up his handles. He wasn't practicing moves.

He was thinking.

His voice broke the quiet.

"…Yuuto Sato."

The name tasted strange in his mouth. Not bitter. Not sweet. Just… real.

He spun the ball on his finger, staring straight into the night sky.

"So the Shujin point guard finally awakened, huh?"

He didn't smile. He didn't scoff. He didn't underestimate.

Instead, he stood there, shoulders tense, face illuminated by moonlight.

Ryu Kazen—Japan's prodigy, the point guard monster, the player every high school feared—was finally acknowledging someone on his level.

And that annoyed him.

A lot.

He flicked the ball up, caught it with one hand, and shot.

The ball sliced through the net with a whisper.

Swish.

He didn't react. He simply walked to retrieve the ball, dribbling again… slower.

His thoughts didn't quiet.

That Shujin match footage kept replaying in his mind—Yuuto losing the ball, failing drives, hesitating… then suddenly changing. His dribble rhythm had evolved. His reads sharpened. His presence stabilized.

Takeda's system, Hikari's training, Shunjin's rising force, Marcus's shots…

But Yuuto?

Yuuto was the one Ryu felt.

The only one whose shadow pressed against him like an invisible hand.

Ryu exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy silver hair.

"That Pulse Dribble… annoying little—"

He stopped.

The frustration wasn't aimed at Yuuto.

It was aimed at himself.

He dribbled harder, the rhythm picking up.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. TAP. TAP. Ta—

A sudden memory interrupted him.

A gym.

A trembling younger version of himself staring at a towering figure.

A voice—cold, cutting.

"Control the court or be controlled, Ryu. There is no in-between."

His father's voice.

Ryu's fist tightened around the ball until the seams dug into his palm.

He hated that voice.

He hated how it still lived in his head.

He hated the way it sharpened his instincts and poisoned his peace.

His breathing turned uneven.

Every time someone strong appeared—

every time a rival rose—

that voice echoed:

"They're coming for your throne.

If you let them catch you, you were never a king."

Ryu shot again, but the ball hit the back iron.

Clang.

He stared at the rim, jaw clenching.

"…I don't lose. Not again."

He wasn't saying it to the world.

He wasn't saying it to Yuuto.

He was saying it to that ghost in his head.

And yet…

Yuuto's eyes from the footage haunted him.

Focused.

Determined.

Hungry.

Despite being smaller.

Despite being outpaced.

Despite being underestimated.

Despite almost crumbling under pressure.

Yuuto still whispered:

"I'll surpass him."

Ryu felt that whisper.

Not as a threat.

But as a challenge.

And he hated how excited it made him.

He paced along the court, dribbling behind his back, crossing between his legs, slipping into rhythm without thinking.

The ball moved like water in his hands—fluid, effortless, precise.

Ryu Kazen played like the wind—unpredictable, sharp, cutting.

But tonight, his movements were tight. Controlled. Pure technique. No flair.

Because he wasn't trying to impress.

He was preparing.

"For the first time," he muttered, leaning against the pole of the hoop, "someone's forcing me to think ahead."

He closed his eyes.

He imagined Yuuto.

Standing across from him.

Low stance.

Pulse Dribble tapping like a heartbeat.

Ryu's own heartbeat synced with the imagined rhythm.

"That kid… he's not just improving. He's evolving."

Ryu pushed off the pole and dribbled again, sliding into a slow jog, then a sprint, then a sudden stop—his signature pace-control.

His shoes screeched on the concrete.

"But even if he's evolving…"

He crossed left—

crossed right—

then pulled back with killer speed.

"…he's still behind."

He didn't believe it fully.

That hesitation—just a sliver—made his chest tighten.

A shadow appeared at the court entrance.

"You're up late again."

Ryu turned.

Haruto Kusanagi leaned against the fence, hands in his pockets, watching with calm golden eyes.

Ryu clicked his tongue.

"You're awake too? Isn't that rare for a 'perfect' player like you?"

Haruto shrugged.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Yuuto?"

"Yuuto."

Silence stretched between them.

Haruto walked closer, the moonlight revealing how serious his expression was.

"Tomorrow won't be a normal match."

Ryu scoffed. "No match is normal when I'm playing."

Haruto didn't smirk back.

Didn't tease him.

Didn't respond like usual.

Instead:

"There's something in the air this time. Something different."

He pointed toward Ryu's chest.

"You feel it too."

Ryu didn't deny it.

That heavy feeling.

That uneasy excitement.

That sense of danger.

Tomorrow wasn't just a game.

It wasn't even just a rivalry.

It was a collision.

Haruto crossed his arms.

"Yuuto has grown. Shunjin is stabilizing his presence. Marcus is becoming ruthless. They're not the same Shujin we steamrolled last time."

Ryu's jaw tensed.

Steamrolled.

He remembered the game.

He remembered Yuuto falling apart, Shunjin getting shut down, Marcus struggling.

He remembered the boredom.

And now?

He felt none of that boredom.

He felt anticipation.

Ryu picked up the ball again, spinning it on his finger.

Haruto watched him closely.

"You're excited."

"Tch. Maybe."

"You're nervous too."

Ryu stopped spinning the ball.

The stillness answered for him.

Haruto walked to the baseline and sat down, stretching his legs out.

"You know," he said softly, "it's okay to admit it. Rivalry is allowed to scare you."

Ryu didn't respond.

Haruto smiled faintly.

"You don't have to be your father's version of perfect."

Those words stabbed deeper than any insult.

Ryu shot Haruto a sharp glare.

Haruto held up his hands calmly.

"Relax. I'm not attacking you."

"You should be," Ryu muttered. "I'm not in the mood."

Haruto chuckled.

"Good. Stay irritated. You play better that way."

Ryu turned away.

Haruto continued quietly.

"But… don't let fear turn into self-destruction tomorrow."

Ryu froze.

Fear?

He almost laughed.

But the truth was—

Haruto wasn't wrong.

Ever since watching Yuuto's last game, Ryu felt that familiar itch creeping up his spine.

Not fear of losing.

Fear of being surpassed.

Being caught.

Being dethroned.

He hated that feeling.

And yet…

It lit him on fire.

Ryu started dribbling again.

Sharper.

Faster.

"I'm not scared of him," he said.

Haruto smirked. "Then what are you?"

Ryu didn't answer immediately.

He let the ball bounce.

Let the silence stretch.

Eventually—

"…I'm ready."

Haruto nodded.

"And he is too."

A long breath escaped Ryu's chest.

He stopped dribbling.

Picked up the ball.

Held it against his forehead.

Yuuto's shadow felt bigger now.

Closer.

He whispered into the cold air:

"Tomorrow… I'll crush him."

But then—

His lips curled into the smallest hint of a smile.

"…But I'm glad he's coming at full strength."

Haruto stood.

"You two were made to clash. Fate was too obvious."

Ryu scoffed but didn't disagree.

He started walking toward the gym entrance.

Haruto called out:

"Ryu."

Ryu stopped.

"Don't just try to destroy him."

Ryu turned slightly.

"…Why not?"

Haruto's golden eyes glowed in the darkness.

"Because Yuuto Sato will force you to become better than you've ever been."

Ryu didn't speak.

Didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

A long, heavy silence stretched.

Finally—

"…Good."

Then he walked off, the moonlight swallowing his silhouette.

The night felt colder.

The air felt sharper.

Tomorrow's storm… was inevitable.

And for the first time in years—

Ryu Kazen wasn't running from it.

He was walking straight into it.

The court behind him slowly shrank into shadow as he walked, but Ryu's mind stayed trapped under the moon's cold glow. Each step he took echoed with a rhythm he couldn't silence—not footsteps, but Yuuto's Pulse Dribble. That irritating, stubborn, evolving rhythm.

It followed him like a ghost.

Ryu stopped halfway to the door.

The silence pressed on him.

"…Tch."

He turned back around.

He wasn't done.

Not yet.

He dropped the ball once—hard—and the bounce shot upward like a gunshot in the dead night. His chest tightened as he caught it, palms tingling as if the ball itself were provoking him.

You're not satisfied.

You're not ready to sleep.

Because you're not ahead enough.

And that—more than any fear—was what kept him awake.

Ryu walked back to the top of the key and stood perfectly still. No dribbling, no shooting—just listening to his heartbeat. Slow at first, then faster. Then faster still.

He visualized tomorrow's game as if the court were split into two halves.

On one side: Haruto. A stable storm. An anchor. The golden standard.

On the other: himself. The wind. Cutthroat speed. Unpredictable instinct.

And in the middle—

Yuuto Sato, standing like a wall he needed to break.

Ryu inhaled sharply.

His fingers twitched.

He bounced the ball again.

Tap… tap… tap—

He closed his eyes and imagined Yuuto's stance. Low. Steady. Balanced. Not a scared rookie. Not an overwhelmed kid.

A point guard.

A real one.

The kind Ryu didn't just play against— but measured himself against.

That thought alone irritated him.

Ryu broke forward, driving hard to the left, then switching hands mid-stride. The ball glided effortlessly to his right as he stepped into his signature stop-jump, shoulders dipping, legs coiled like springs.

But as soon as he rose to shoot—

Yuuto appeared in his imagination again.

And this time, Yuuto didn't fall for the pace change.

He stayed with him.

Read him.

Anticipated him.

Ryu exhaled sharply and let the ball fall without shooting.

He landed hard, panting.

"…So that's how it is," he muttered to himself.

He wasn't just fighting Shujin.

He was fighting the version of himself who thought nobody would ever catch him.

And Yuuto Sato was catching him.

Not fully.

Not yet.

But fast enough to matter.

Fast enough to piss him off.

Ryu dribbled again—this time shifting into a slower, more technical rhythm. Every move was calculated. No wasted motion. No flair. Just raw mechanics.

The exact opposite of how people described him.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow he needed both.

Instinct and precision.

Chaos and control.

Unpredictability and discipline.

He shot again—clean swish.

His breathing steadied.

He finally understood why he couldn't sleep.

It wasn't fear.

It wasn't pressure.

It was hunger.

A hunger he hadn't felt in years.

Because until Yuuto appeared, every game had been a routine. A show. A performance he executed without truly being tested.

But tomorrow?

He would face someone climbing, someone burning to catch up, someone who refused to stay behind.

Ryu found himself smirking again—small, sharp, unforced.

"This is ridiculous," he whispered, shaking his head. "Why does a kid like that bother me this much?"

He knew the answer.

Because Yuuto wasn't looking up at him.

Yuuto wasn't starstruck.

Yuuto wasn't scared.

Yuuto was looking through him.

At the throne behind him.

The throne Ryu had been taught to protect.

The throne he never asked for.

The throne his father shoved him onto.

Ryu's expression darkened.

A cold wind rushed across the court, rustling his jacket. The floodlights flickered faintly, casting long shadows across the concrete.

He stood there, letting the wind cut against his skin.

Then—

A voice behind him.

"You're going to wear yourself out at this rate."

Ryu turned slightly.

It was not Haruto this time.

It was Coach Aizawa, standing at the fence with his arms crossed. His presence was calm but heavy—like a quiet storm waiting for the right moment to break.

Ryu didn't answer.

Aizawa stepped closer, his shoes crunching lightly on the gravel.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Didn't try."

"You're thinking about him," Aizawa said simply.

Ryu didn't deny it.

Aizawa leaned against the fence, eyes drifting toward the court. "Yuuto Sato… he's changed since the last time you played him."

Ryu scoffed. "No kidding."

"Good," Aizawa replied. "You need someone who pushes you."

Ryu's grip tightened around the ball. "Don't make it sound like I'm falling behind."

"You aren't," Aizawa said. "But you are—finally—being chased."

Ryu looked away.

Aizawa's voice softened. "Your father always told you the court is a battlefield. That every challenger is an enemy."

Ryu froze.

Aizawa pushed off the fence, walking slowly toward him. "But he was wrong."

Ryu didn't move.

Aizawa stopped beside him.

"Basketball isn't about destroying every opponent. It's about becoming stronger than the one you were yesterday."

Ryu inhaled, shaky.

Aizawa added quietly, "And tomorrow, Yuuto Sato will help you become better—whether you win or lose."

Ryu's jaw clenched. "I don't lose."

Aizawa smiled slightly. "Then you'll become better while winning. That works too."

Silence settled between them.

The wind grew colder.

The moon rose higher.

Ryu stared at his reflection in a nearby window—hair messy from the night air, breathing unsteady, eyes sharper than ever.

Not the perfect prodigy.

Not the cold tactician.

Not the untouchable king.

Just a boy with something to prove.

To his rival.

To his coach.

To his father's shadow.

To himself.

Aizawa rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. "Go home, Ryu. Tomorrow will be long."

Ryu didn't answer.

He watched Aizawa walk away.

Then he looked back at the hoop one last time.

He bounced the ball once.

Twice.

Then whispered—

"…Yuuto… don't disappoint me."

He shot.

Swish.

The cleanest one of the night.

Then he finally turned and left, the quiet court swallowing his footsteps.

Tomorrow would not be a game.

It would be a reckoning.

And Ryu Kazen would walk into it with fire in his veins.

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