The sun was dipping low, painting the park court in gold and shadow. My shirt clung to me with sweat, my arms burning from endless repetitions. I had spent the last hour drilling mid-range jumpers. Every time I missed, I exploded off the ground, grabbing my own rebound and firing again without hesitation. Miss, rebound, shoot. Miss, rebound, shoot. Discipline. Relentless.
I had just reset my stance when I heard voices drifting closer.
"Oi, Mitsui," one of them said, a cigarette hanging from his lips. "Looks like some idiot's using our court again."
I glanced up. A group of students wandered into the park—delinquents by the look of them, cigarettes glowing, shoes dragging across the concrete, eyes bored and sharp. One of them kicked a rock into the fence with a clang.
The name they said caught my attention. Mitsui.
At first, he didn't react, just shoved his hands into his pockets and followed the group. But when they pointed at me, I saw him lift his head. His eyes narrowed, locking onto me with something heavier than casual annoyance.
He stood still for a moment, watching. I could feel his gaze on me as I kept shooting, leaping high for every rebound, muscles coiling and exploding again and again.
I didn't know him. But he knew me. Or rather—he recognized something in me.
Mitsui's Thoughts
For Mitsui, the sight was like a punch to the gut.
That body… that intensity…It was the sharpest conditioning he'd seen outside of professionals. Every rebound I snatched, every jump I made—it dragged him back to his own memories. The roaring of crowds. The iron voice of Coach Anzai. Akagi's endless drive. The burning pride of being a champion… and the crushing pain of injury.
The bitterness twisted in his chest. Rage at himself. Regret for everything he had thrown away.
He stepped forward.
The Challenge
"Hey," Mitsui called out, his voice low but hard. "Get out of here. This court's ours."
I stopped dribbling and looked at him, calm. "It's a public park."
Before Mitsui could answer, one of his followers shouted, "Didn't you hear him? Get lost, punk!"
But Mitsui raised a hand, silencing them. He walked over to the sideline, picked up a ball, and spun it in his hands.
"Fine," he said, his tone steady but burning beneath. "We'll settle it. Shooting contest. First to ten makes. If I win, you leave."
I tilted my head, unimpressed. To me, he looked like another cocky student, one more with a big mouth and a chip on his shoulder. "Fine," I said. "But don't complain when you lose."
The Contest
The line was set. Three-point shots.
I went first. My heart was steady, my form practiced but not yet natural in this body. The first three went in—clean swishes that gave me a surge of pride. I missed the fourth, cursed under my breath, then found rhythm again. Shot after shot, rebound after rebound, until I reached ten makes.
Thirty seconds. Not bad. But not great. Still not enough, I thought. This body's not where I need it to be.
"Your turn," I said.
Mitsui stepped onto the line. He spun the ball once in his hands, bent his knees, and released.
The motion stunned me. Perfect arc. Perfect rotation. The kind of form I had only seen in the best shooters in my past life. Like Kyle Korver, Ray Allen, Reggie Miller—players who turned shooting into art.
One shot. Two. Three. Four. The ball whispered through the net again and again. The sound was pure. Effortless.
In under twenty seconds, he drained ten. Only one miss.
I exhaled slowly, surprised despite myself.
Mitsui smirked faintly. "I win. Pack your things."
I picked up my bag, slung the ball under my arm. But before leaving, I asked, "What's your name?"
He paused, then looked at me with cold eyes. "Hisashi Mitsui."
And just like that, he turned away, walking back to his group.
Reflection
As I left the park, my mind replayed every shot. The fluid release, the confidence, the precision.
This guy… he's different.
For the first time since coming to this world, I had found someone who truly impressed me. Someone whose talent was undeniable.
I smiled to myself, gripping the ball tighter.
Interesting. Very interesting.