The gym smelled like sweat and distrust.
Kenji bounced the ball once, twice, watching the others through the corner of his eye. Practice had been off all week—passes a half-second late, defensive rotations sloppy, everyone looking at each other like they were waiting for someone to crack. Coach Morita's whistle hadn't stopped screaming since warm-ups.
"Takahashi, you planning to join us today or just stare at that tablet?" Morita's voice echoed off the walls.
Haru flinched, nearly dropping his device. "Sorry, Coach. I was just—"
"Running the same defensive breakdown for the third time. I can see your screen from here." Morita folded his arms. "Whatever you're looking for, you're not finding it during my practice."
Hana caught Kenji's eye from the sidelines. Her expression said everything—we need to talk. But there wasn't time. There was never time anymore, not with the semi-finals against Nishimura Academy in four days and Kaede's latest broadcast still trending on every basketball forum in Tokyo.
"Sources close to Shinwa High suggest internal discord. Can the underdogs survive their own success?"
That smug bastard always knew exactly where to twist the knife.
"Line drills!" Morita barked. "Suicide runs until someone remembers how to play like a team."
Akira led them to the baseline without argument, but Kenji saw the tightness in his captain's jaw. Even their unflappable leader was feeling it. Rin moved into position with his usual silence, but his eyes tracked Tatsuya in a way that made Kenji's stomach clench.
The leak. It was eating them alive.
They'd narrowed it down after Asahi—someone had fed Kaede specific details about their "Phantom Shift" adjustment, the one they'd only discussed in the locker room after the Seihoku game. Twelve people in that room. Twelve suspects.
Kenji wanted to believe it was an accident, an overheard conversation, anything but what his gut kept screaming: one of them was selling them out.
"Tachibana! You running or daydreaming?"
He pushed off, legs burning as he sprinted baseline to baseline. Riku blazed past him—the kid always had an extra gear when he was nervous. Tatsuya followed, his usual trash talk noticeably absent. Even Jiro kept his mouth shut, just pumped his arms and ran like he was trying to outpace something invisible.
When Morita finally called water break, the silence was worse than the running.
Kenji grabbed his bottle and found Hana waiting by the equipment closet. She glanced around before pulling him into the shadowed alcove where they kept the spare balls.
"We have a problem," she whispered.
"We have twelve problems. Which one is this?"
She didn't smile. Hana always smiled, even when things were bad. That's how he knew it was worse than bad.
"Ami called me. She says Kurogane's planning something for the semi-final. Not just normal Kaito mind games—something bigger." Hana's fingers twisted the cap of her water bottle. "She wouldn't say what over the phone, but she wants to meet. Tonight."
"Ami." Kenji's jaw tightened. His ex-girlfriend turned modeling supervisor turned... what? Reluctant ally? Double agent? He still wasn't sure whose side she was really on. "Could be a trap."
"Could be. Probably is." Hana's brown eyes searched his face. "But what if it's not?"
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Somewhere in the gym, Morita's whistle shrieked again, calling them back.
"Where does she want to meet?"
"Shibuya. That café near the scramble crossing. Eight o'clock."
Kenji's phone buzzed in his bag across the gym. Then Haru's. Then Akira's. A cascade of notifications that made everyone stop and look at their devices.
"Oh no," Haru breathed. "Oh no no no."
Kenji jogged over, grabbed his phone. The screen showed Kaede's latest post, already at 50,000 views.
It was a video. Grainy security camera footage from inside Shinwa's locker room, time-stamped three days ago. The audio was muffled but clear enough.
"—can't trust anyone until we find the leak.
Could be any of them."
That was Akira's voice.
"Even the bench guys?"
Haru. Definitely Haru.
"Everyone's a suspect. That's just reality."
And that was Kenji. His own words, thrown back at him, now broadcast to everyone who cared about Tokyo high school basketball. Which, thanks to their Cinderella run, was basically everyone.
The caption read: "Shinwa High: Championship Contenders or Paranoid Imposters? Team chemistry implodes as accusations fly. Full analysis on tonight's broadcast. #PrincipalCup #TrustIssues"
Kenji looked up. Every face in the gym was staring at him—Akira's carefully neutral, Rin's unreadable as always, but Tatsuya's showed naked hurt. Riku wouldn't meet his eyes. Even Daichi, loyal, bumbling Daichi, looked uncomfortable.
"Kenji—" Haru started.
"Don't." Kenji shoved his phone back in his bag. "Just don't."
"Everyone, huddle up!" Morita's voice cut through the tension. When they gathered around him, he didn't mention the video. Didn't acknowledge the elephant destroying their gym. "Semi-finals in four days. Nishimura Academy runs a 2-3 zone with aggressive trap rotations. They're big, they're experienced, and they're expecting us to fold under pressure."
The old coach's eyes swept across each of them.
"So here's what we're going to do. We're going to practice. We're going to run our plays. We're going to trust each other because that's what teams do." He paused. "And we're going to win. Questions?"
Silence.
"Good. Water break's over. Back on the court."
They moved like sleepwalkers through the rest of practice. Kenji's passes found hands, his cuts hit the right angles, but it all felt mechanical. Wrong. Like playing basketball with strangers.
When Morita finally dismissed them, everyone scattered fast. No lingering, no usual banter in the locker room. Kenji was toweling off when Akira appeared beside him.
"That meeting with Ami," the captain said quietly. "I'm coming with you."
"Akira—"
"Not negotiable. If this is a setup, you need backup." Akira's expression was serious. "And if it's real intel, you need someone who can verify it. Hana's good, but she's not objective when it comes to you."
Heat crept up Kenji's neck. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means everyone can see how you two look at each other except you two." Akira slung his bag over his shoulder. "Eight o'clock, Shibuya. I'll meet you there at seven-forty-five. Don't be late."
He left before Kenji could argue.
Haru sidled up, tablet clutched to his chest like a shield. "So... that video. I've been analyzing the metadata. The camera angle suggests it came from the old security system, the one they supposedly decommissioned last year when they installed the new cameras."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning someone reactivated it specifically to record us. This wasn't opportunistic—it was planned." Haru's glasses slipped down his nose. "Kenji, I think the leak might not be one of us. I think someone planted surveillance."
It should have been a relief. Instead, Kenji felt ice in his veins.
"If they have cameras in the locker room, what else do they have? My apartment? Hana's tutoring sessions? Your room?"
Haru went pale. "I... I keep all my research on Kurogane in my room. The financials, the witness statements, everything we've found about your dad."
They stared at each other.
"We need to talk to Tatami," Kenji said finally.
"Tonight, after the Ami meeting. Can you set it up?"
"Already texting him." Haru's thumbs flew across his phone screen. "But Kenji? If they've been watching us this whole time, they know we're onto them. They know about Tatami's network, about our investigation, about everything."
"I know."
"So why haven't they shut us down? Why just leak stuff to Kaede?"
That was the question, wasn't it? Kurogane had money, influence, connections. If they wanted to destroy Shinwa's season, they could have done it already. Fabricated a doping scandal, planted evidence of recruitment violations, a dozen different ways to disqualify them from the tournament.
Instead, they were playing with them. Cat and mouse.
"Because they want something," Kenji said slowly. "They're waiting for us to do something, or find something, or—"
His phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Unknown: Your father didn't die in an accident. But you already knew that. The question is: do you have the courage to prove it? Tomorrow, 11 PM, Nakano warehouse district. Come alone, or don't come at all. Your choice, Tachibana.
Kenji's hands shook. He showed Haru the message.
"That's obviously a trap," Haru whispered.
"Right? That's got to be a trap."
"Probably."
"So you're not going."
Kenji looked at his best friend, at the concern written all over his face. Thought about his dad, about that grainy photo from 1998, about every dead end and cryptic warning that had led them here.
"I don't know yet," he admitted. "Let's see what Ami has to say first."
Outside, the sky was turning purple, city lights blinking on across Tokyo. Somewhere out there, Kaito was probably watching Kaede's broadcast, smiling that cold smile of his. Somewhere, the person behind that text message was waiting.
And somewhere, buried in twenty-seven years of lies and covered-up corruption, was the truth about what really happened to Saito Tachibana.
Kenji just had to survive long enough to find it.
Shibuya at night was organized chaos—salarymen rushing to catch trains, teenagers clustering around vending machines, tourists staring up at the video screens like they were seeing the future. Kenji kept his hood up, baseball cap pulled low. Ever since the modeling campaign launched, he couldn't walk through Shibuya without someone recognizing him.
Hana found him first, materializing out of the crowd like she always did. She'd changed out of her manager tracksuit into jeans and a dark jacket, hair pulled back in a ponytail that made her look older. Serious.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Not even a little bit."
She almost smiled at that. "Yeah. Me neither."
Akira appeared a moment later, scanning the crowd with the same intensity he brought to defensive rotations. "The café is on the second floor. Three exits—main stairs, emergency stairs, and a service corridor that leads to the building next door. I checked earlier."
"You scouted an escape route for a coffee meeting?" Hana raised an eyebrow.
"That's why he's captain," Kenji muttered.
They found Ami at a corner table, far from the windows. She looked different than the polished modeling supervisor Kenji was used to—no makeup, hair loose, wearing a nondescript sweater instead of her usual designer outfits. Her eyes tracked them as they approached, and Kenji caught the moment she registered Akira's presence.
"I said to come alone."
"And I said I'm done trusting people who've lied to me." Kenji pulled out a chair. "Akira and Hana stay, or we leave."
For a long moment, Ami just studied them. Then she sighed. "Fine. Sit. You'll want to hear this."
They sat. Kenji noticed she'd ordered tea but hadn't touched it, and her hands kept fidgeting with her phone case. Ami never fidgeted.
"What's going on?" Hana asked. "What's Kurogane planning?"
"The semi-final isn't the target," Ami said quietly. "The final is. Specifically, the broadcast rights."
Kenji frowned. "What about them?"
"The Principal Cup final is Tokyo's biggest high school sports event. Ten million viewers minimum, streamed nationwide, corporate sponsorships worth hundreds of millions of yen." Ami leaned forward.
"Kurogane Sports has been positioning to acquire the exclusive broadcast rights for years. This year, they finally succeeded. The final will be on their network, with their commentary, their camera angles, their narrative."
"So?" Akira's tone was careful. "That's just business."
"It's control." Ami's eyes were hard. "If Shinwa makes it to the final—when you make it—you'll be playing on Kurogane's stage, by Kurogane's rules. Every camera angle, every replay, every close-up will be designed to support whatever story they want to tell. And Kaito's father has already decided what that story is."
Hana's fingers tightened on her tea cup.
"What story?"
"The villain edit. You're the underdogs now, Tokyo's Cinderella team, everyone's favorite underdog story. But by the final? You'll be the paranoid conspiracy theorists who accused a respected corporation of corruption. The bitter kids who couldn't handle success. The team that imploded from internal drama." Ami's voice was bitter. "They've been building the narrative for weeks. Kaede's broadcasts, the leaked conversations, all of it. By the time you step on that court for the final, public opinion will have already turned."
Kenji felt sick. "And if we lose?"
"If you lose, the story is that you choked. That your wild accusations about rigged games and conspiracies were just excuses for not being good enough." Ami met his eyes. "But if you win? That's when it gets dangerous."
"Explain," Akira said.
"Kaito's father doesn't accept losses. Ever. If Shinwa beats Kurogane Academy in the final, on national television, with millions watching..." She trailed off. "Let's just say there are contingencies in place."
"What kind of contingencies?" Kenji's voice came out harder than he intended.
"I don't know specifics. But I've heard rumors. Equipment failures. Referee bias taken to the extreme. Or—" She hesitated. "Or something happens to disqualify Shinwa entirely. Fabricated evidence of violations, a player caught with prohibited substances, whatever it takes."
"They'd drug one of us?" Hana sounded horrified.
"They killed Saito Tachibana for losing a rigged streetball game." Ami's words fell like stones. "What's a little pharmaceutical manipulation compared to murder?"
The café noise seemed very far away. Kenji was aware of his heartbeat, of Hana's knee pressed against his under the table, of Akira's controlled breathing beside him.
"Why are you telling us this?" Akira asked. "What's your angle?"
"My angle?" Ami laughed, sharp and humorless. "I'm engaged to marry into the family that destroyed my career, blacklisted me from every major agency in Tokyo, and forced me to become their corporate puppet. My angle is that I'm tired of being controlled."
She pulled out a USB drive, set it on the table.
"This contains evidence. Financial records showing payoffs to officials across multiple sports. Communications about the shadow league. And a video file from 1998—security footage from the night Saito died. It's not complete, but it's enough to raise questions. Serious questions."
Kenji reached for the drive, but Ami's hand shot out, covering it.
"If you use this, Kurogane will know where it came from. My engagement will end. I'll lose everything—my job, my apartment, probably any chance of working in Tokyo again." Her eyes were hard. "So before you take this, I need to know: are you actually planning to expose them, or are you just playing detective for fun?"
"We're going to bury them," Kenji said quietly. "For my dad. For everyone they've hurt."
Ami searched his face for a long moment. Then she pushed the drive across the table.
"There's one more thing. That text you got about the warehouse meeting? It's from Tatami's network—one of the old '98 tournament players who's finally ready to talk. His name is Ichiro Sasaki. He was there the night Saito died, saw what happened." She stood, gathering her bag. "But Kenji? Be careful. Kurogane knows about Tatami. They've known for months. If they're letting this meeting happen, it's because they want you there."
"Then why warn me?"
"Because despite everything, I don't want to watch another talented kid get destroyed by that family." She turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Kenji? That modeling contract you signed? Read the morality clause again. Specifically section seven, subsection C. They can terminate it for 'conduct detrimental to brand image.' Accusing your sponsor of corruption definitely qualifies."
She left before he could respond.
The three of them sat in silence, the USB drive sitting on the table like a live grenade.
"So," Hana finally said. "We're completely screwed, right?"
"Comprehensively," Akira agreed.
Kenji picked up the drive, turned it over in his fingers. Everything his dad had died for, everything they'd been searching for, might be on this tiny piece of plastic. Or it might be another trap. Or both.
"We need to see what's on here," he said.
"Tonight. Before the warehouse meeting."
"I'll call Haru," Hana said, already pulling out her phone. "Tell him to bring his laptop to your place. We can go through it together."
"And tomorrow night?" Akira's tone was carefully neutral. "The warehouse?"
"I'm going."
"Then we're all going," Hana said firmly.
"Don't even try to argue."
"It said come alone—"
"It said come alone or don't come at all. We're choosing option three: come together and dare them to stop us." She crossed her arms. "You're not doing this by yourself, Kenji. We're a team. That's the whole point, remember?"
Looking at her—at Hana's determined expression and Akira's solid presence and knowing Haru would say the same thing—Kenji felt something unknot in his chest. The gym had felt poisonous all week, everyone suspicious and isolated. But here, now, with the people who actually mattered...
"Okay," he said. "Together, then."
They left the café and descended into Shibuya's neon chaos. Kenji's phone buzzed with notifications—more comments on Kaede's video, more speculation about Shinwa's drama, more people watching and waiting for them to fail.
But for the first time in days, he didn't feel like he was drowning.
They had evidence. They had allies. And in four days, they had a semi-final to win.
Everything else could wait.