The Tokyo outskirts blurred past the train window, neon lights giving way to shadowed warehouses under a moonlit sky. Kenji Tachibana sat tense, his bandaged finger drumming on his knee, Hana beside him with her notebook clutched like a shield. Haru fidgeted across from them, laptop bag slung over his shoulder, while Akira stared out into the darkness, his jaw set. The decision to go after the tampered '98 streetball tape—hidden in a Kurogane storage unit, per Haru's decryption—had been made in hushed tones after practice. No Morita, no team. Just the core four, risking everything to uncover the truth about Saito's death and Kurogane's corruption. The next Principal Cup was still months away, but Ryusei High's shadow—Kaito's schemes, Hoshino's precision—loomed larger with every threat.
"You sure about the address?" Kenji whispered, glancing at Haru. The zine's warning and the gym note—"Next move's on you, Tachibana. Choose wisely"—echoed in his mind. Kurogane was closing in, and if Morita was involved, this could be a trap.
Haru nodded, adjusting his glasses. "Decryption's solid—Unit 47, old industrial park. But their security's analog: locks, cameras, no digital net. I brought tools." He patted his bag, a mix of excitement and nerves in his voice. "Phantom Shift worked in drills today, by the way. 72% completion. We're getting an edge on Ryusei."
Hana flipped her notebook, her pen marking a rough sketch of the unit layout Haru had pulled from public records. "Cameras at the gate and main doors. We slip in through the side fence—Jiro's lockpick lessons will help." Her voice was steady, but Kenji caught the flicker of fear in her eyes, the arcade photo still fresh. "If the tape shows Saito refusing the fix, it clears him. And if Morita's name is forged…"
Akira grunted, his hand in his pocket, thumbing the team photo. "Morita's no Hoshino. But if he's dirty, we cut him loose." His words hung heavy, the betrayal from Hoshino—a wink during their last scrimmage replaying in his mind—making trust fragile.
The train stopped at a desolate station, and they slipped into the night, hoods up against the chill. The industrial park was a maze of rusting buildings, Kurogane's faded logo on a chain-link fence. Haru clipped a wire with bolt cutters, and they ducked through, hearts pounding. Unit 47 loomed ahead, a padlocked door under a dim floodlight.
Jiro's tips paid off—Kenji picked the lock with a tense click, the door creaking open to reveal stacks of dusty boxes, old apparel prototypes, and file cabinets. Hana pulled a flashlight, sweeping the beam. "Financials, contracts… there—1998 archives."
Haru rifled through, pulling a VHS tape labeled Streetball Tourney '98 – Tachibana. "This is it. Tampered, like the file said." He pocketed it, but Akira froze, spotting a folder: Morita Scouting Reports. Inside, memos from 1998—Refuse payout. Protect Saito. Watch for enforcers.
Kenji's breath caught. "Morita warned my dad? He wasn't in on it—he was against it."
Hana's eyes widened. "Then why's his name in the payout log? Forged to frame him?"
Before they could dig deeper, footsteps echoed outside. The door burst open, the Enforcer's scarred face illuminated by Hana's flashlight. He smirked, a Kurogane badge glinting on his jacket. "Knew you'd bite, kids. Hand over the tape."
Kenji stepped forward, phantom dribble instincts kicking in as he dodged the Enforcer's grab. "You killed my dad. For a fixed game?"
The Enforcer lunged, but Akira tackled him, years of captain's grit fueling a punch that connected with a crack. "Not on my watch." Haru fumbled for his phone, dialing emergency, while Hana swung her notebook like a weapon, clipping the thug's ear.
The Enforcer shoved Akira off, snarling. "Kurogane owns the court. Ryusei'll crush you, and this ends tonight." He grabbed for the tape, but Kenji spun away, kicking a box that toppled onto the man, pinning him.
Sirens wailed in the distance—Haru's call connected. The Enforcer cursed, wrenching free and bolting into the night, but not before dropping a phone. Kenji snatched it, screen lighting up with texts: Target Tachibana group. Secure tape. Heir's orders—Kaito.
They fled as police lights flashed, hearts racing. Back on the train, Haru hacked the phone. "Contacts link to Kurogane execs. And Kaito Kurogane—direct line. He's deeper in this than we thought."
Hana leaned against Kenji, her hand finding his. "Morita's clean. But Kaito… he's pulling strings for his dad."
Akira stared at the tape, then the team photo. "We expose this. But first, we beat Ryusei. Phantom Shift? We perfect it. Hoshino'll face what he betrayed."
Kenji nodded, the tape heavy in his bag. The mystery was unraveling, but Kurogane's web was vast. The Enforcer was loose, Kaito aware, and the Cup approaching. Training tomorrow would be fierce, but so would their fight off the court.
As the train rattled on, Kenji's phone buzzed—an anonymous text: Tape won't save you. Game on. The sender? Blocked. But Kenji knew: Kurogane wasn't done.