Kenji Tachibana's heart pounded as he sat in the dimly lit ramen shop, the steam from his bowl curling up like the questions swirling in his mind. Across from him, Hana slurped noodles, her notebook open to a page scrawled with notes on Tatami's cryptic voice memo: "Saito's tape is step one. Find my network. Kurogane's bigger than you know." The Seiko High friendly match victory hours ago felt like a fleeting high—Ryusei's spy, Ryunosuke, had been exposed, but Kaito Kurogane's presence and Hoshino's stolen "Phantom Shift" plays lingered like a bad aftertaste. The anonymous text—"Nice win. Tape's next. – T."—sat heavy on Kenji's phone, its sender a mystery. Was it Tatami, or a Kurogane trap?
Hana tapped her pen, her eyes sharp despite the late hour. "Tatami's alive, and he's got a network. That memo changes everything." She glanced at Kenji, her voice softening. "You okay? You've barely touched your ramen."
Kenji pushed his bowl aside, his bandaged finger twitching. "Kaito was there, Hana. Watching us. And Hoshino… he's using our plays like a weapon." He hesitated, then added, "And this 'T' text. If it's Tatami, why hide? If it's not…" He didn't finish, the Enforcer's scarred face flashing in his mind.
Hana reached across, her fingers brushing his. "We're close, Kenji. The tape, Ami's USB, now this memo. Kurogane's scared." Her touch steadied him, but the zine's threat—Hana's circled photo—made his stomach twist.
Their phones buzzed simultaneously. Haru's group chat: Meet at school. Midnight. Tape analysis done. BIG. Kenji and Hana exchanged a look, paid, and bolted.
The Shinwa High computer lab was a glow of monitors, Haru hunched over his laptop like a general plotting war. Akira leaned against a desk, arms crossed, the singed team photo now taped to his playbook—a reminder of Hoshino's betrayal turned fuel for revenge. The Seiko win had sharpened their edge, but Ryusei's espionage and the new text had them on high alert.
Haru spun his screen. "Tatami's memo was encrypted, but I cracked it. It's a map—coordinates to a meetup spot in Shibuya, tomorrow night. He's calling it 'The Network.' Ex-players, refs, even coaches burned by Kurogane's fixes." He pulled up Ami's USB, emails flashing: Tatami – Consultant. Terminated '98. Relocated. "He faked his death, went underground. Saito's tape was his signal to resurface."
Kenji's pulse raced. "He knew my dad. He's fighting Kurogane?"
Hana frowned, scanning her notebook. "The emails mention a 'shadow league'—Kurogane's tied to it. Pro games, rigged globally. Tatami's network could be our way in, but it's risky. That 'T' text could be a lure."
Akira's voice was cold. "If it's Tatami, we meet him. If it's a trap, we're ready. Phantom Shift beat Seiko. We'll outplay Ryusei, too." His eyes flicked to the photo, Hoshino's face half-burned. "No more surprises."
Haru held up Ryunosuke's camera, its feed hacked. "This caught Kaito texting during the match. Orders to 'secure the tape.' He's desperate. And…" He hesitated. "I found a deleted file on the camera—Hoshino practicing Phantom Shift, coached by Kaito. They've got our playbook, but I tweaked Shift's third variation. They won't see it coming."
The next morning, Kenji faced another Kurogane photoshoot, this time for a sneaker campaign. The studio buzzed with lights, but Ami's absence set him on edge. A new supervisor, a slick man with Kurogane's logo on his tie, watched too closely. "Big game yesterday, Tachibana," he said, smirking. "Heard you're making waves off the court, too." Kenji's jaw tightened—another hint they knew about the tape.
Mid-shoot, his phone buzzed: a photo of the gym, taken from the stands during the Seiko match, with "T" scrawled in the corner. Kenji scanned the studio, spotting a crew member with a familiar jaw scar slipping out. The Enforcer. He texted Hana: They're here. Be ready.
At practice, Morita gathered the team—Kenji, Jiro, Rin, Tatsuya, Riku, Kaito Hattori, Daichi—to refine Phantom Shift for another friendly, this time against Kosei Academy, a defensive powerhouse. "Seiko was a warm-up," Morita barked. "Kosei's a wall. Run Shift's third variation—unpredictable cuts. Ryusei's watching, so give 'em nothing."
Jiro, tossing a candy wrapper, grinned. "Ryunosuke's out, right? No more spies?" Hana shook her head, whispering to Kenji, "He's gone quiet. Too quiet." Rin muttered, "Watch. Learn. Strike," his knee brace creaking as he sank a jumper. Tatsuya and Riku bantered, but Kaito Hattori's clumsy block attempt drew laughs, easing the tension.
Akira called the plays, his voice fierce. "Kosei's no Ryusei, but we treat it like one. Kenji, drive hard. Rin, screen. Jiro, steal their rhythm." His eyes burned—no photo in sight. He'd burned the last piece that morning, Hana later told Kenji.
Post-practice, Kenji pulled Morita aside. "Coach, '98. You warned my dad about Kurogane. Why didn't you tell me?" Morita's face hardened. "I failed Saito. Couldn't save him. I'm saving you." He walked off, leaving Kenji with more questions.
That night, in Shibuya's neon chaos, Kenji, Hana, Haru, and Akira slipped into an alley per Tatami's coordinates. A hooded figure waited—Tatami, older, scarred, but alive. "Saito was my friend," he rasped. "Kurogane's shadow league is global. The tape's your key, but Kaito's closing in. Join us, or they'll bury you."
Before Kenji could answer, headlights flashed. A black van screeched up, the Enforcer at the wheel, Kaito in the passenger seat. "Hand it over, Tachibana," Kaito called, white gloves glinting. Hoshino stepped out, eyes cold, mimicking Akira's old "Ghost Pass" stance.
Akira lunged, but Tatami pulled them into a side street, vanishing as tires squealed. Kenji's phone buzzed: "Network's real. Kosei's next. – T." The friendly was another trap, and Kaito was playing for keeps.