Gojo Satoru wasn't used to losing. Not on the battlefield. Not in life. And certainly not when it came to people.
But watching Kuroko walk out that day—watching the others splinter without even fighting to stop it—that felt like a loss.
So for once, Gojo dropped the smirk and started thinking seriously.
He wasn't a captain. He wasn't Akashi. He didn't lead with control or pressure. But he was someone people couldn't ignore. And that was a start.
His plan began the next morning.
He tracked down Aomine first—at a street court, headphones in, hoodie up. Gojo stepped onto the asphalt without a word and held out a ball.
"Game to 11," he said. "You win, I'll walk away. No more trash talk, no more flash. I'll tone it down. You win, you shut me up."
Aomine narrowed his eyes. "And if you win?"
Gojo smiled. "You come back. You play. Like you mean it."
Aomine scoffed—but he accepted.
It was brutal. Fast. Physical.
Gojo didn't hold back—and for the first time, neither did Aomine. He wanted to win. And halfway through the game, he started laughing.
Because it was fun again.
Gojo won by a point. But when it ended, Aomine clapped him on the shoulder. No words. Just understanding.
Next was Midorima. Gojo didn't play him—he challenged him.
"I'll make ten half-court shots in a row," Gojo said. "If I miss even one, I'll never question your logic again."
"You can't be serious," Midorima muttered—but watched anyway.
Gojo made eight.
Missed the ninth on purpose.
Midorima looked at him. "You threw that."
Gojo grinned. "You noticed. So maybe you are worth listening to."
Kise was easier. A private practice session, one-on-one. Gojo let him copy every move, every fake. But when Kise tried to mirror Gojo's no-look pass with the same Kuroko timing, he stumbled.
"You're not me," Gojo said. "But you're not them, either. Stop chasing shadows. Be your own light."
And finally—Akashi.
Gojo didn't go to him. He waited.
Three days later, Akashi came to the gym after hours. Gojo was already there.
"You're not as clever as you think," Akashi said quietly.
"I don't need to be," Gojo replied. "I just needed you to stop pretending you can hold us all together by force."
"We were perfect once."
"No," Gojo said, "we were winning. Not the same thing."
Akashi didn't respond—but he didn't leave either.
The next day, Gojo walked into practice to find the entire team there.
Aomine bouncing a ball. Midorima stretching in silence. Kise nodding a quiet hello. Akashi standing with arms folded. And Kuroko—Kuroko standing at the far end of the court, watching Gojo approach.
Gojo lifted his shades slightly, just enough for Kuroko to see the sincerity in his eyes.
"Team, huh?" Gojo said. "Let's try that again."
Kuroko nodded. Just once.
And so, the Miracles began to move again—not as weapons. Not as tools.
But as players.