Kenji Tachibana's sneakers crunched on the gravel path leading to Haru's house, the late morning sun casting long shadows across the quiet Tokyo suburb. His phone buzzed again in his pocket, Haru's text from last night—Found something on Kurogane's servers. Old file labeled 'Saito 98.' Call me. Now.—burning in his mind. Beside him, Hana walked briskly, her notebook tucked under her arm, her eyes scanning the street as if the Enforcer might reappear from last night's arcade encounter. The weight of their ongoing training for the next Tokyo Principal Cup, ten months away, pressed on them, but the Enforcer's threat and Haru's discovery had shifted their focus. Preparing for Ryusei High's Kaito Kurogane and Renjiro Hoshino was critical, but so was unraveling the truth behind Saito's 1998 death.
"You think Haru's got something real?" Hana asked, her voice low, fingers brushing her notebook. "Or is he just nerding out over code again?"
Kenji forced a half-smile. "Haru doesn't lose sleep over nothing. But that creep at the arcade knew we were there. Someone's watching us."
They reached Haru's house, a modest two-story with a cluttered yard—discarded circuit boards mixed with old basketballs. Haru flung the door open before they could knock, glasses askew, hair a mess. "You're late," he said, ushering them inside. "And this is huge."
Haru's room was a tech chaos: monitors glowed with code, a half-eaten bag of chips sat by a keyboard, and a whiteboard was scrawled with new play formations. Akira Sano leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his usual calm frayed. A crumpled team photo—him and Hoshino from their first year at Shinwa—sat on Haru's desk. Kenji's chest tightened. Akira had brought it, a silent nod to his unresolved pain.
"Talk," Akira said, voice sharp. "What's 'Saito 98'?"
Haru spun his laptop around, showing a grainy scanned document. "I cracked a backdoor into Kurogane's old servers. Took all night, but I found this—financial records from 1998, labeled 'Saito Project.' Payouts to refs, promoters, players. And this…" He zoomed in: Saito Tachibana – Debt Clearance: ¥5M. Condition: Tournament Fix.
Kenji's breath caught. "They paid my dad to throw a game?" His voice shook, anger surging. "And killed him when he didn't?"
Hana leaned closer, her pen tapping her notebook. "Look at the recipient. 'T. Morita.' Our coach?" Her eyes narrowed. "He was Saito's scout back then. Was he part of it?"
Akira's fist clenched. "Morita's rough, but he's no traitor." His tone wavered, Hoshino's betrayal clearly shaking his trust. "We need more before we accuse him."
Haru pushed his glasses up. "There's a lead. The file mentions a '98 streetball tape—tampered. It's in Kurogane's archives, but the location's encrypted. That tape could prove Saito was set up."
Kenji's mind raced, the Enforcer's words—"You're digging where you shouldn't"—echoing. "We tell the team," he said. "And confront Morita. If he's hiding something—"
"Not yet," Hana cut in, her voice firm. "We need that tape first. If Morita's involved, we can't tip him off. If he's clean, it'll clear him."
Akira nodded slowly. "She's right. We keep this quiet. But we train harder. Ryusei's waiting—Hoshino knows our plays. We need new ones."
Haru grinned, pulling up a spreadsheet. "I've got ideas. New formations—misdirection, fast breaks. I call it 'Phantom Shift.' Kaito's playcalling is 85% accurate, Hoshino's shooting 90% on your old sets, Akira, and Taiga's fouls are 96% legal. We counter with unpredictability."
Kenji raised an eyebrow. "Phantom shift? You're naming plays now?"
"Gotta keep it cool," Haru said, tossing a chip into his mouth. "Ryusei's got Kurogane's scouts. We need an edge."
Hana scribbled in her notebook. "We'll test Phantom Shift at practice. Kenji, your dribble's the core—pair it with Jiro's cuts, Rin's screens. But watch for Ryusei's tricks. Taiga's fouls, Shusei's threes, and that spy, Ryunosuke, posing as our backup manager."
Akira's eyes darkened. "Hoshino's not just using my plays—he's mocking them." He touched the team photo, then pulled back. "We'll be ready."
A sharp knock interrupted. Haru's mom poked her head in. "Kenji, this was left at the gate." She handed him a small package, brown paper, no address, just his name in black ink. Kenji's pulse spiked. He tore it open, revealing a tattered zine—Streetball Tokyo, 1998. A sticky note inside read: "Stop digging, or she pays." A photo of Hana at the arcade was taped to it, her face circled in red.
Hana's breath hitched, but she squared her shoulders. "They're scared," she said. "We're getting close."
Kenji's fists crushed the zine. "They don't get to threaten you." He looked at Haru. "Trace this."
Haru nodded, already typing. "If it's Kurogane, they're sloppy. I'll check for prints or digital trails."
Akira stood, his voice cold. "We train. We dig. We don't stop. But we're careful. No one else knows—not Jiro, not Rin, not Morita."
As they left Haru's room, Kenji slipped the zine into his bag, the Enforcer's scarred face flashing in his mind. Morita's possible betrayal loomed, and Ryusei's threat—Hoshino's winks, Taiga's elbows, Kaito's white-gloved schemes—felt closer than ever. The Cup was ten months away, but the fight was now.
Hana touched his arm outside. "Ramen tonight?" she asked, her voice steady despite the threat. "We'll figure this out, Kenji. Together."
He nodded, her touch grounding him. But as they walked away, he felt eyes on his back. Haru's discovery had opened a door to the past, but it had also painted a target on them all.