The academy seniors were already warming up when Ren and Shizuka stepped onto the glass court. Their uniforms crisp, their shots sharp—every swing made Ren's stomach knot tighter.
"Formation B," Daigo barked. "First to six games."
Ren swallowed hard. "S-six?"
Shizuka didn't answer. She simply spun her racket in her hand and strode to the baseline, all confidence and disdain.
Ren followed, legs heavy. She hates this. And I'm the dead weight.
The first few rallies were disasters. Shizuka darted like a hawk, intercepting balls at the net. Ren flailed behind her, late on returns, his shoes squealing against the court.
"Mine!" she shouted.
He stopped mid-swing, nearly tripping. The seniors took the point with ease.
"Yours!"
Ren scrambled, strings clipping the ball weakly. It died on their side.
The scoreboard glowed: 0–3.
His chest burned. I'm dragging her down again...
But then something shifted.
Ren began to hear the rhythm of her commands, not as orders but as cues—short, precise signals in the storm.
When she shouted "Mine," he pulled back just enough to give her space. When she snapped "Yours," he lunged early, trusting her angle.
The rallies lengthened. His HUD flickered faint cones, red dots sparking at seams. He whispered once—"Wide, now!"—and Shizuka's smash thundered past their opponents.
Point.
Her eyes flicked toward him, sharp but curious.
The final rally stretched like a lifetime. Twelve shots, glass rebounds echoing through the court. Ren's body screamed to collapse, but his feet moved anyway, following her rhythm.
Shizuka cut the last volley with a vicious angle. Winner.
6–4.
Silence hung heavy, then Daigo's grunt. "Better. Still trash. But better."
Ren collapsed to his knees, sweat dripping into his eyes. The HUD blinked:
[Team Sync (Shizuka) +3 → 12]
As Ren sat, head hanging, a strip of shadow fell across him. Shizuka stood there, arms crossed, lips pressed tight.
"You're slow. Your footwork's ugly. And you almost ruined that rally twice."
Ren winced. "S-sorry—"
She turned, just enough for him to see her expression soften by a fraction.
"...Don't die before the next qualifier."
Then she walked off, ponytail swaying like a whip.
Ren's chest tightened, not from exhaustion but from something stranger, heavier.
She actually... cares?