The clock bled down to its final seconds of the second quarter.
Hakuro Academy held the ball.
The arena no longer buzzed—it hummed, a low, restless vibration that crept into the bones. Sneakers squeaked less now. Even the crowd seemed to breathe quieter, like everyone was afraid of disturbing whatever balance had formed on the court.
This wasn't excitement.
It wasn't anticipation.
It was pressure—thick, suffocating, coiling tighter with every passing heartbeat.
Yuuto wiped his palms on his shorts, the fabric already damp. He sank lower into his stance, knees bent, weight forward, eyes locked ahead. His breathing had steadied—inhale through the nose, slow exhale—but his thoughts refused to settle.
The stumbles were still there.
The strips.
The two clean takeaways that had burned into his memory like scars.
The mistakes that reminded him, again and again, how far he still had to go.
But beneath that frustration—beneath the fear of failing again—something else had taken root.
