The gym was supposed to be empty.

The lights were dimmed—only the far-left half of the court glowed under the harsh overhead lamps. Sweat still remained on the floor like ghost footprints from the team's earlier torture session.

But someone was still there.

Marcus Elijah Rowe.

His chest rose slowly, then sharply, as he stood at the three-point line, ball resting against his thigh. His jersey was half peeled off, hanging by a shoulder. His breath sounded ragged, uneven… almost angry.

Because tonight, the gym wasn't silent.

It was full of echoes.

Whispers from last season.

"Rowe sells the game in crunch time."

"Bro missed both free throws?"

"He's athletic but unreliable."

"Bad shot selection."

They weren't real voices tonight—just memories slapping him across the head.

Marcus bounced the ball once.

Thud.

Again.

Thud.

"Shut up…" he muttered, jaw tight.

The ball slipped out of his hands for a moment—his palm was shaking.

Not from exhaustion.

From fear.

Fear he thought he'd buried. Fear he thought that victory yesterday erased. But fear crawled back the moment he closed his eyes.

He saw the scene again—

Last season's tournament.

Score tied: 62–62.

Seven seconds on the clock.

Marcus got the ball on the wing.

He pump-faked, drove past his defender, rose for the tying jumper—

—and hit back iron.

The rebound was grabbed, the buzzer rang, and the score stayed the same.

62–62?

No. He remembered it wrong.

His team lost by two.

He missed the layup that would've tied the game before overtime.

He missed the free throw that came after.

He missed the final three-pointer.

All three chances belonged to him.

And all three slipped through his fingers.

Marcus didn't sleep for a week afterward.

And tonight?

Those ghosts were back.

He grabbed the ball tighter. "Not again… I won't be that guy again."

He stepped back to the wing.

Set his feet.

Rose.

Shot.

Clank.

The ball hit the left side of the rim and bounced away.

Marcus exhaled sharply and rushed to get the rebound.

He shot again—

Clank.

Again—

Clank.

He didn't understand why, but the more he missed, the heavier his hands felt.

The heavier his breath got.

The heavier his memories grew.

He picked up the ball, stared at it like it betrayed him.

"…Why are my shots breaking now?"

His voice cracked.

He wiped sweat from his brow, but his hand shook.

He squared up again and took another shot.

Airball.

"That's crazy…" Marcus whispered. "I don't… I don't miss like this. I don't—"

His breath hitched.

He swallowed hard, eyes stinging.

"I can't go out like that again… Everyone's counting on me. Yuuto, Shunjin, Daniel, Coach Hikari… they all expect me to score."

He shut his eyes.

"And Ryu Kazen… he scored two hundred."

Marcus swallowed a knot in his throat.

"What if… I'm not enough?"

Silence.

Then—

A soft voice behind him:

"Marcus?"

He froze.

He knew that voice.

Coach Hikari stood near the baseline, jacket folded over her arm, hair tied up. Her eyes were sharp but tired—as if she expected someone to be here. As if she knew.

She walked slowly toward him.

"You're still here."

Marcus forced a smile and rubbed the back of his neck. "Just… getting extra shots in."

"You're shaking," she replied.

"I'm… cold."

"You're drenched in sweat."

He winced. "Yeah, uh… warm sweat?"

Hikari stepped closer and put a hand on the ball he was gripping.

"Marcus Rowe," she said softly, but there was steel in it.

"Why are you really here?"

He hesitated.

His throat dried up.

Words wouldn't come out.

She didn't move her hand.

Didn't blink.

Didn't look away.

After a few seconds, Marcus finally whispered:

"…I'm scared."

Hikari's expression didn't change—but she didn't pull away either.

Marcus stared at the floor.

"I'm scared I'm not good enough," he said, voice trembling. "I'm scared that if the ball comes to me again… in the clutch… I'm gonna choke again."

Hikari let the silence sit. She didn't rush him.

Marcus swallowed.

"I think… I think someone like Yuuto deserves a real scorer. Someone reliable. Not someone who breaks down the moment the score gets tight. Not someone who—"

Hikari's voice cut through cleanly:

"Marcus."

She stepped so close he could see the reflection of the court lights in her eyes.

"Say it plainly."

Marcus felt the words uncurl themselves inside him.

Slowly.

Painfully.

"…I think I'm going to fail them."

Hikari finally pulled her hand away.

Then she slapped the ball out of his hands—hard.

Marcus flinched. "W—what was that for?!"

Hikari's tone was cool and controlled.

"You're afraid to shoot?"

He looked away.

"So you avoid facing the basket?"

Marcus clenched his fists.

"You don't go to war with fear," she said. "You hunt it."

She shoved the ball back into his stomach.

"You missed tonight because you're thinking of last season."

Marcus said nothing.

"Did you know scorers don't avoid fear?" Hikari said. "They step into it."

Her eyes sharpened.

"Scorers don't fear shots.

Scorers hunt them."

Marcus' breath caught.

Hikari pointed to the basket.

"Now. You and I are doing 200 contested shots."

Marcus blinked. "…Two hundred?"

"Yes. With me on you. Full defense."

"Wait—Coach, that's—"

"Start dribbling."

Her tone left no room for argument.

Marcus swallowed.

"…Alright."

He moved to the top of the key.

Hikari slid into a defensive stance—low, sharp, eyes locked on him.

"Your job," she said, "is to score on me. Mine is to make you face every fear you've been running from."

She cracked her knuckles.

"Let's begin."

Himself"

The gym looked different at night.

Not because the lights were dimmer

—not because the echoes were quieter—

but because after hours of Hell Week torture, the place felt like a battlefield still echoing with the ghosts of drills, sweat, and breathless shouting.

Yuuto had already pushed himself until he collapsed on the court.

Coach Takeda dragged him to the bench, told him to drink water, and said nothing more.

He stayed to watch Yuuto until his body stopped shaking.

Then Yuuto finally left.

The clock read 11:04 PM.

Only one person remained on the hardwood now.

Marcus Elijah Nakahara Rowe.

His shadow stretched long across the court, the ball in his hands the only sound breaking the silence.

thump… thump… thump.

Slow, steady dribbles.

Not training.

Not warming up.

A man thinking.

A man drowning.

A man trying to breathe.

Marcus kept dribbling, eyes unfocused. His thoughts were not in this gym. They were stuck in the gym of last year—the one he never spoke about.

The one where he missed the shot.

The one that shattered something inside him.

The one that birthed insecurity he pretended didn't exist.

---

Flashback — Last Season's "Moment"

The scene played like a broken movie reel.

Their old gym.

Crowd screaming.

Final 12 seconds.

Score tied 63–63.

Ball inbounded to Marcus.

"Take it! You're the ace shooter!" someone yelled.

Marcus remembered catching the pass.

The defender closing in.

His breath shortening.

His palms sweating.

He pulled up.

He released.

The ball left his fingers—

And even before it hit the rim, Marcus felt it.

He felt the miss.

clang.

Game over.

Team eliminated.

And the looks on his teammates' faces—

That disappointment.

That quiet frustration.

That unspoken "Why did you miss?"

It destroyed him.

People pretended it was fine.

That it was "just a shot."

That "everyone misses sometimes."

But Marcus replayed it every night before sleeping.

Because scorers don't forget.

Scorers replay their failures with razor clarity.

And tonight, after watching Yuuto evolve…

after seeing Shunjin get serious…

after hearing Coach Takeda say the words "Marcus is the blade"…

Marcus felt the pressure again.

What if the blade breaks?

What if he fails again?

---

Back to the Present — The Gym

Marcus dribbled harder, the ball echoing like gunshots.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

He drove to the hoop—

leapt—

released a floater—

CLANG.

Miss.

He retrieved the ball immediately.

Shot again.

Miss.

Again.

Miss.

His jaw clenched.

His knee throbbed.

Sweat rolled down his neck and into his shirt.

He shot again.

Another miss.

The ball rolled across the floor and hit a pair of feet.

Marcus froze.

Coach Hikari stood there.

Sweatsuit. Hoodie. Hair tied up. Eyes sharp, calm, unreadable.

She picked up the ball.

"…You didn't go home."

Marcus swallowed.

"…Neither did you."

She dribbled the ball once.

"Self-training?"

"No," Marcus said quietly. "Self-punishment."

Hikari didn't smile.

Didn't scold.

Didn't sugarcoat.

She passed him the ball.

"Good. Only scorers understand that."

Marcus blinked.

"…Huh?"

She stepped onto the court.

"Let's train."

---

Coach Hikari's Challenge

Hikari pointed at the left wing.

"Shoot."

Marcus took the shot.

She slapped the ball mid-air, blocking it cleanly.

"Too slow."

She moved to the top of the key.

"Shoot."

He shot.

She jumped diagonally, hand in his face, altering the trajectory.

Miss.

"Predictable."

Right wing.

"Shoot."

Marcus hesitated—

and that half-second was enough.

She stripped the ball out of his hands.

"Fear."

Marcus clenched his teeth.

"You're making this impossible! Why are you guarding me—"

Hikari stepped closer, voice calm and deadly precise.

"A scorer must hit shots even when the world tries to stop them."

She shoved the ball into his chest.

"Again."

---

200 Contested Shots — The Trial of a Scorer

The workout began.

1. Contested jumper — Miss.

Hikari tapped his elbow mid-shot.

2. Step-back — Blocked.

She read the movement instantly.

3. Pull-up — Altered.

Her pressure was suffocating.

4. Drive — Stripped.

Her instincts were monstrous.

Shot after shot—

Miss.

Block.

Alter.

Strip.

Marcus's shoulders burned.

His legs trembled.

His lungs cried.

His knee begged to stop.

But Hikari kept saying only one word:

"Again."

After 50 shots, he could barely breathe.

After 100, sweat dripped off him like rain.

After 150, he felt like vomiting.

After 170, his mind started going blank.

After 190, he couldn't lift his arms.

But Hikari's voice stayed steady.

"Again."

Marcus gasped, "Coach… why… why are you doing this…?"

She finally paused.

Then she looked him dead in the eyes.

"Because you don't believe you're a scorer."

He froze.

She continued:

"You hide behind effort. Behind 'trying.' Behind sweat. You pretend effort proves you're strong."

She stepped closer.

"But scorers don't measure themselves in sweat."

Her hand gently tapped his chest:

"They measure themselves in makes."

Marcus's breath hitched.

"You fear shots. Ever since last year."

His throat tightened.

"You fear the moment where everyone looks at you.

Where winning or losing hangs on your release."

She stepped back and threw the ball at him.

"Marcus."

Her voice sharpened like a blade.

"Scorers.

Don't.

Fear.

Shots."

---

The Breakthrough — Finding His Weapon

She moved to the elbow.

"Shot 191."

Marcus exhaled shakily.

He dribbled…

took a step…

felt her pressure—

And instead of panicking—

He let his body move freely.

Quick plant.

Shoulder fake.

Hard pivot.

Fadeaway—

Clean.

swish.

Hikari nodded once.

"Do it again."

Shot 192.

This time she leapt aggressively to block—

Marcus pivoted the other way—

reversed his fade—

released—

swish.

Shot 193.

Shot 194.

Shot 195.

He hit all three.

Hikari's eyes softened a bit—not praise, but recognition.

"You figured something out."

Marcus nodded slowly, breath shaking.

"Yeah… when I'm pressured… my body naturally leans into that pivot motion… I can turn it into a fadeaway."

"And the shot?" she asked.

He exhaled.

"…It feels like I'm floating."

Hikari smirked.

"Then that is your first new weapon—"

Blind Pivot Fadeaway

—A pivot that hides the release angle until the final frame.

She moved to the three-point line.

"Now shot 196."

Marcus narrowed his eyes.

He knew he needed another weapon.

Pressure defense again. Hikari sprinted toward him. Marcus caught, planted—

And instead of winding up…

He hopped.

A quick, barely-visible hop back.

A micro-step pullback.

Fast.

Silent.

Compact.

pop—swish.

Hikari raised an eyebrow.

"That's new."

Marcus panted. "…I just… reacted…"

"That is your second weapon."

Quick-Hop Release Three

—A compact, jump-light three-pointer to beat fast contests.

Marcus stared at his own hands.

He didn't recognize them.

These hands…

were no longer trembling from fear.

They ached.

They throbbed.

They burned.

But they were steady.

They were ready.

He looked up at Hikari.

"Coach… I can do this. I can really become the blade."

Hikari didn't smile.

But her voice softened.

"You always were the blade, Marcus. You just stopped believing it."

She pointed to the hoop.

"Now finish the last four."

Shot 197 — swish.

Shot 198 — swish.

Shot 199 — rim… rolls in.

Shot 200 — perfect arc, perfect sound—

swish.

Marcus dropped to his knees, exhausted.

Hikari stood over him.

"Good."

Her voice lowered, almost gentle.

"Now go home. Eat. Sleep. Tomorrow Takeda will break you again."

Marcus laughed weakly.

"…Great…"

He pulled himself up slowly.

His legs shaking.

His arms barely working.

Pain everywhere.

But his eyes—

His eyes were clear.

Sharp.

Determined.

Alive.

He whispered to himself, staring at his hands:

> "…I'll be the blade."

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