The Shinwa High gym was a furnace of effort, the air thick with sweat and the sharp squeak of sneakers on polished wood. Kenji Tachibana's bandaged finger ached as he dribbled, weaving through a drill under the late afternoon sun filtering through high windows. Yesterday's encounter at Haru's house—the "Saito 98" file, the threatening zine with Hana's photo, the shadow of Coach Morita's possible betrayal—hung over him like a storm cloud. The Tokyo Principal Cup was ten months away, but Ryusei High's looming threat, led by Kaito Kurogane and Renjiro Hoshino, made every practice feel like a countdown. The team wasn't just training for basketball anymore; they were preparing for war.
Coach Morita's whistle cut through the chaos. "Tachibana! Eyes up! You think Hoshino's gonna wait for you to daydream?" His gruff voice carried an edge, sharper since Kenji had read Morita's name in the Kurogane payout log. Kenji shook it off, focusing on the new "Phantom Shift" play Haru had proposed. He faked left, spun right with his father's phantom dribble, and passed to Jiro, who cut hard to the basket. The ball sailed through the hoop, but Morita's scowl didn't budge.
"Sloppy," Morita barked. "Ryusei'll eat that pass alive. Again!"
Kenji glanced at Hana, stationed at the sidelines with her notebook, her pen a blur as she logged the team's movements. Her face was calm, but her eyes flicked nervously to the gym doors, as if expecting the Enforcer's black-capped shadow. The zine's threat—"Stop digging, or she pays"—had rattled her more than she let on. Kenji's fists clenched at the thought, his resolve hardening.
Akira Sano stood nearby, calling the next set. "Phantom Shift, variation two. Kenji drives, Rin screens, Jiro cuts. Tatsuya, fake the three." His voice was steady, but his hand hovered near his pocket, where Kenji knew the old team photo with Hoshino hid. Akira's new plays were sharp, designed to counter Hoshino's stolen strategies, but his eyes betrayed the weight of betrayal.
The team reset. Rin, stoic as ever, set a screen, muttering, "Block. Pass. Shoot." His knee brace creaked, but his jumper sank cleanly. Jiro, pockets spilling candy wrappers, grinned as he stole a rebound from Kaito Hattori, who tripped and stammered, "Sorry, sorry!" Tatsuya taunted Riku, "Snack fiend, keep up!" but Riku's lightning speed shut down his drive, earning a rare nod from Morita.
Hana called out, "Kenji, your pivot's sharper, but watch your blind side—Taiga'll target it. Riku, stay low; Shusei loves high picks." Her precision steadied the team, but Kenji caught her glance at Morita, her notebook page marked with a question: T. Morita – 98?
Haru, perched on the bleachers with his laptop, piped up. "Phantom Shift's working—65% completion in drills so far. But Ryusei's Kaito predicts 85% of opponent plays. We need more misdirection." He adjusted his glasses, still buzzing from his server hack. "Also, that zine? No prints, but the ink's from a rare brand—Kurogane's corporate pens. They're not even trying to hide."
Kenji's stomach twisted. Kurogane was taunting them, dangling clues like bait. He glanced at Morita, who was barking at Daichi for missing a rotation. Was he part of Saito's setup? Kenji wanted to confront him, but Hana's warning—"We need proof"—kept him quiet.
Morita called a scrimmage. "Starters versus reserves. Phantom Shift, full speed. Akira, lead it."
Akira nodded, his voice firm. "Spread out. Kenji, drive hard. Rin, screen high. Jiro, cut low. Tatsuya, pull the defense." The play unfolded like a dance—Kenji weaved through Kaito Hattori's flailing arms, Rin's screen gave him space, and Jiro's cut drew Daichi away. Kenji passed to Tatsuya, who faked a three and lobbed to Rin for a dunk. Rin landed hard, wincing, but the gym erupted in cheers.
Morita grunted, almost approving. "Better. But Ryusei's got Taiga fouling without flags and Hoshino reading your every move. Tighten it up."
As the scrimmage continued, Kenji noticed Akira's gaze drift to the bleachers, where Haru was typing furiously. Kenji jogged over during a water break. "What's up, Haru?"
Haru's eyes gleamed. "I cross-referenced the zine's paper. It's from a print shop near Kurogane's old HQ. And I found a partial decryption on the '98 tape's location—it's in a storage unit, Tokyo outskirts. I need more time, but we're close."
Hana joined them, her voice low. "If we go for that tape, Kurogane'll know. The Enforcer's watching." She hesitated, then added, "And we need to watch Morita. He's been too quiet about '98."
Akira overheard, his face hardening. "Morita's not Hoshino. He's family." But doubt flickered in his eyes, and Kenji knew the team photo in his pocket was a chain as much as a memory.
Before Kenji could reply, a basketball rolled to a stop at his feet, unattended. Taped to it was a folded note, the same black ink as the zine: "Next move's on you, Tachibana. Choose wisely." Kenji's heart pounded as he scanned the gym. The doors were closed, the team busy, Morita shouting at Riku for slacking. No black cap, no Enforcer—but someone had been here.
Hana grabbed the note, her hands steady. "They're in our house now," she said, voice cold. "We need that tape, and we need it fast."
Kenji nodded, adrenaline surging. "Haru, keep digging. Akira, we trust you, but we're watching Morita. We train, we investigate, and we don't back down."
Akira met his gaze, the torn photo's weight between them. "Agreed. Phantom Shift is our edge. We make Ryusei chase ghosts."
As practice ended, Kenji caught Hana's eye. "Ramen's on me tonight," he said, forcing a grin despite the note burning in his hand. She nodded, her smile small but fierce. The Cup was months away, but Kurogane's game was already on. The team was rebuilding, but the cracks were widening—and Kenji knew they'd need more than new plays to survive what was coming.