The semi-finals were in three days, and Kenji couldn't feel his legs.
"Again!" Coach Morita's whistle pierced the gym. "Defensive rotation, Tachibana! You're a full step behind!"
Kenji forced himself back into position, sweat stinging his eyes. They'd been running drills for two hours straight—the most intense practice since the season started. Morita was pushing them harder than ever, and everyone knew why.
Nishimura Academy wasn't just good. They were surgical.
"Their 2-3 zone is designed to force turnovers," Morita had explained during film study that morning, pointing at the projected game footage. "They trap the ball handler in the corners, collapse on drives, and their big men rotate like they're telepathic. You panic, you turn it over. You hesitate, you turn it over. You try to be a hero..." He'd let that hang.
Now they were drilling the counter-plays until muscle memory took over. Akira called out the formation, and they moved through the motion—pass, cut, screen, relocate. Again. And again. And again.
"Better," Morita grunted. "Water break. Three minutes."
Kenji collapsed on the bench next to Haru, who was frantically scribbling notes despite looking half-dead from running the practice squad.
"Nishimura's defensive efficiency is absurd," Haru muttered. "Sixty-two percent opponent field goal percentage, forcing an average of eighteen turnovers per game. Their center, Yamamoto, leads Tokyo in blocks. Their point guard, Sato, has a two-to-one assist-to-turnover ratio."
"Stats aren't everything," Rin said quietly, sitting down on Kenji's other side. The center had been unusually talkative today—which for Rin meant he'd said maybe ten full sentences. "They bleed fast."
"What?"
"Fast breaks. Watch close." Rin took a long drink from his water bottle. "Their zone's airtight. But transition defense? Sloppy."
Haru pulled up his tablet, scrubbing through game footage. "Oh. Oh, he's right. Look—when Nishimura forces turnovers, they're so focused on the trap that if it fails, they're out of position. If we can break their press and push tempo..." His fingers flew across the screen. "We'd need perfect outlet passes. And someone fast enough to—"
"Riku," Kenji and Rin said simultaneously.
Across the gym, Riku was demonstrating his vertical leap for Tatsuya and Kaito—or rather, deliberately not demonstrating it, doing these exaggerated ground-bound jumps that had both of them laughing. The kid was fast enough to outrun most guards in Tokyo when he wanted to be.
"Worth trying," Haru made a note. "But it's high risk. One bad pass and they're the ones with the fast break opportunity."
"Better than playing their game," Kenji said. "If we try to beat them in the half-court with that zone, we'll get strangled. We need to make them uncomfortable."
"Speaking of uncomfortable," Haru lowered his voice. "You're still planning to go tonight, right? The warehouse?"
Kenji nodded. He hadn't told anyone except Haru and Hana about the meeting. Akira suspected something was up—the captain always did—but Kenji wanted to keep the team focused on basketball. They had enough pressure without adding "corporate conspiracy showdown" to the mix.
"I'm going with you," Haru said.
"No."
"Yes. Don't argue. You need backup, and Hana can't go because she has that tutoring session she can't cancel—her client's taking entrance exams next week." Haru pushed his glasses up. "Besides, you need someone to record everything. Documentation is important."
"Haru—"
"I'm going. End of discussion." His friend's jaw set in that stubborn way that meant arguing was useless. "We're a team, remember? That includes off the court."
Before Kenji could respond, Morita's whistle shrieked again.
"Scrimmage time! First string versus second string. Takahashi, you're running point for the practice squad. Let's see if you've learned anything besides statistics."
Haru went pale. "Coach, I can't actually—"
"You can dribble, can't you? You can pass? Then you can run point. Consider it applied learning." Morita's grin was slightly evil.
"Everyone else, show our analyst what happens when theory meets reality."
The scrimmage was brutal. Haru tried his best, but the gap between knowing plays and executing them was vast. Tatsuya stole the ball from him twice in the first two minutes. But on the third possession, something clicked—Haru called out a play Kenji had never heard of, some complex numbering system, and when Daichi somehow understood it and cut to the basket, Haru hit him with a perfect bounce pass for an easy layup.
"What the hell was that?" Akira called out, laughing.
"Modified Princeton offense!" Haru shouted back, looking thrilled despite being completely winded. "I've been studying it! If we can get Daichi to learn the backdoor cuts, we could—"
He didn't finish because Jiro had already stolen the inbound pass.
The scrimmage continued for another twenty minutes, and despite the obvious skill gap, Haru's weird analytical approach actually worked a few times. He couldn't execute worth a damn, but his understanding of spacing and timing created opportunities the practice squad normally never got.
"Not terrible," Morita admitted when they finished. "Takahashi, you still can't play basketball to save your life, but that brain of yours is useful. Keep studying. The rest of you—showers. We're done for today."
As everyone headed to the locker room, Morita pulled Kenji aside.
"You doing okay, kid?"
Kenji blinked. The coach rarely asked personal questions. "Yeah. Why?"
"Because you've been distracted all week. Your footwork's sloppy, your passes are a half-second late, and you nearly ran into the wall during that last drill." Morita's expression was serious. "I know there's stuff going on outside basketball. There always is. But in three days, we're playing the best defensive team in Tokyo. I need you focused."
"I will be."
"Will you?" Morita studied him. "Your dad had the same look sometimes. Like he was fighting two battles at once—the one on the court and something else nobody could see. It tore him apart, Kenji. Don't make the same mistake."
Kenji wanted to argue, to say it was different, but the words stuck in his throat. He'd watched that video last night. Watched his father fighting a battle he couldn't win, against enemies who'd destroy him rather than let him walk away.
"I'll be focused," he said finally. "I promise."
Morita didn't look convinced, but he nodded. "Go shower. And Tachibana? Whatever you're dealing with—you don't have to do it alone. That's what teams are for."
The warehouse district in Nakano looked worse at night.
Kenji and Haru stood at the entrance to the industrial zone, staring at rows of shuttered buildings and rust-stained loading docks. Security lights cast everything in harsh yellow, creating more shadows than they eliminated. The address from the text message led to a warehouse at the far end—Building 47, according to the faded sign.
"This is definitely a trap," Haru whispered.
"Probably."
"We could still leave. Call Tatami, let his people handle it."
"We could."
Neither of them moved.
Kenji checked his phone: 10:57 PM. Three minutes until the scheduled meeting. The panic button Tatami had given him was in his pocket, a small weight against his thigh. Haru had one too, clutched so tightly his knuckles were white.
"Okay," Haru said. "New rule. If anything seems weird—and I mean anything—we press these buttons and run. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
They walked toward Building 47. The closer they got, the more Kenji's instincts screamed at him to turn around. Every shadow could hide someone. Every sound could be footsteps. The warehouse loomed ahead, its loading bay door partially open, spilling dim light onto the cracked pavement.
A figure stood in the doorway. Male, late forties, wearing a worker's jacket and looking extremely uncomfortable.
"Tachibana?" the man called out.
"Ichiro Sasaki?"
"Yeah." Sasaki glanced around nervously. "You came alone like I—" He spotted Haru. "Who's that?"
"My friend. He's with me."
"I said alone."
"And I said I'm not stupid enough to walk into an abandoned warehouse by myself." Kenji kept his distance, studying Sasaki. The man looked genuinely scared—sweating despite the cool night, hands shaking, eyes darting to every shadow. "You were at the '98 tournament. You played in the rigged games with my father."
"I didn't know they were rigged! Not at first!" Sasaki's voice cracked. "They told us it was just an exhibition tournament. Prize money, exposure, a chance to get noticed by scouts. We were kids, man. We believed them."
"What happened?"
Sasaki looked around again, then stepped back into the warehouse. "Not out here. Too exposed. Come inside. I'll tell you everything."
Every instinct Kenji had said no. But he'd come this far.
"Haru, stay by the door. If I signal, run and press the button."
"Kenji—"
"Stay by the door."
He followed Sasaki into the warehouse. The interior was mostly empty—old pallets stacked against the walls, some rusted machinery, and a single lamp providing weak illumination. Sasaki led him toward the back, where a small office had been set up with a table and chairs.
"They threatened my family," Sasaki said without preamble. "After your dad tried to quit, after he told them he was going to expose everything. They came to my house. Told me if I talked to the police, my wife and daughter would have an accident. So I didn't talk. For twenty-seven years, I kept my mouth shut."
"Why now? Why reach out?"
"Because my daughter just turned twenty-five. Same age I was when I played in that tournament." Sasaki's hands clenched. "She's getting married next year. Having a kid of her own. And I can't—I can't let her raise a child in a world where companies like Kurogane get away with murder. I can't."
He pulled out a folder, set it on the table. "This is everything I remember. Names, dates, amounts we were paid to throw games. The people who ran the tournament. The ones who cleaned up after Saito died." His voice broke on the name. "Your dad was a good guy, Tachibana. He tried to do the right thing. And they killed him for it."
Kenji picked up the folder with shaking hands. Inside were handwritten notes, some old photographs, and what looked like bank statements from 1998.
"There's more," Sasaki continued. "The tournament wasn't just about gambling. It was a recruitment operation. Kurogane was looking for talented players they could control—kids desperate enough to take money, scared enough to stay quiet. Your dad refused to be controlled. So they made an example of him."
"Who gave the order?" Kenji's voice was barely above a whisper. "Who decided to kill him?"
"I don't know for sure. But the man running the operation was—"
A sound. Metal scraping concrete.
Sasaki's eyes went wide. "Oh no. Oh God, they followed you. They said they'd know if I talked, they said—"
The warehouse lights cut out.
For one heartbeat, everything was darkness and silence. Then:
"Kenji!" Haru's voice, sharp with panic. "The door! It's—"
A heavy slam. The loading bay door crashing shut.
Kenji fumbled for his phone, turned on the flashlight. The beam caught movement—multiple figures emerging from between the stacked pallets. They'd been hiding there the whole time, waiting.
"Run!" Sasaki grabbed his arm. "Back exit! Through the office!"
They ran. Kenji's flashlight beam bounced wildly as footsteps pounded behind them. He could hear Haru somewhere in the darkness, shouting his name. Where was the panic button? His pocket. He reached for it—
Someone grabbed him from behind.
Kenji twisted, broke free, kept running. Sasaki was ahead, shouldering through a door marked 'Emergency Exit.' Kenji followed, burst through into—
A dead end.
The exit led to a fenced-in loading area, chain-link topped with barbed wire. No way out except back through the warehouse.
"No no no—" Sasaki spun around just as their pursuers reached the door.
Three men. The one in front wore a black cap.
The Enforcer.
"Ichiro Sasaki," the Enforcer's voice was surprisingly calm. "You were told what would happen if you talked."
"I didn't tell him anything! We just got here! I swear—"
"You're here. That's enough." The Enforcer's attention shifted to Kenji. "Tachibana's kid. You look just like him. Same stupid determination to stick your nose where it doesn't belong."
Kenji's hand found the panic button in his pocket. He pressed it, hard, praying Tatami's people were close.
"Nothing to say?" The Enforcer stepped forward. "Your father had a lot to say. Right up until he didn't."
"You killed him." Kenji's voice shook, but he held his ground. "You pushed him into that truck."
"I followed orders. Just like I'm following them now." The Enforcer cracked his knuckles. "See, here's the thing about investigations. They're only dangerous if the investigator lives to tell anyone what they found."
The other two men moved to flank them. Kenji looked around desperately—the fence was too high to climb, the door blocked, no other exits. Sasaki had backed against the fence, trembling.
Five minutes. Tatami said his people could be here in five minutes.
Kenji just had to survive five minutes.
"You don't have to do this," he tried. "Whatever they're paying you—"
"Not about money, kid. It's about loyalty. I've worked for the Kurogane family for thirty years. You think I'm going to let some teenager with a hero complex destroy that?"
The Enforcer lunged.
Kenji dodged, barely—the man was faster than he looked. A fist grazed his shoulder, sending pain radiating down his arm. He stumbled back, and one of the other men grabbed him.
This was it. This was how he died. In a warehouse loading area, just like his father, while—
Glass shattered. A window high on the warehouse wall exploded inward, and someone dropped through the opening.
Tatami.
The old streetball player hit the ground rolling, came up with something in his hand—pepper spray—and blasted the man holding Kenji. The grip released. Kenji fell back as chaos erupted.
More figures poured through the broken window. Two men, one woman, all moving with practiced efficiency. Tatami's network. They'd been watching the whole time.
"Go!" Tatami shoved Kenji toward a gap in the fence he hadn't noticed—a section that had been cut, just large enough to squeeze through. "Sasaki! Move!"
They ran. Behind them, shouts and sounds of fighting. Kenji grabbed Sasaki's arm, dragged him through the fence gap, emerged into an alley that—
Haru. Standing there with his phone out, filming everything, tears streaming down his face.
"I pressed the button," Haru gasped. "As soon as the lights went out, I pressed it and I called the police and I'm so sorry I couldn't—"
Sirens. Distant but getting closer.
"Police?" Sasaki looked panicked. "No, I can't—my family—"
"They'll be safe," Tatami appeared through the fence gap, breathing hard. Behind him, his people were still keeping the Enforcer and his men busy. "I've had protection on your family for three days. They're in a hotel in Yokohama, safe. Now move before more Kurogane people show up."
They moved. Ran through alleys and side streets while the sirens grew louder. Tatami led them to a parking garage where a van waited. They piled in, and the driver took off before the door was fully closed.
Kenji's hands wouldn't stop shaking. He'd almost died. Would have died, if Tatami hadn't been there. Just like his father. Just like—
"Hey." Haru grabbed his shoulder. "You're okay. We're okay. It's over."
But it wasn't over. Not even close.
Sasaki was in the front seat, clutching that folder like a lifeline. "They'll come after my family now. Even with protection, they'll find a way. Kurogane always finds a way."
"Not this time," Tatami said grimly. "Because tomorrow morning, everything you just told Tachibana is going public. Every name, every detail, every piece of evidence we have. We're going to bury them."
"But the plan," Kenji protested. "You said after the finals. Wait until—"
"Plans change. They just tried to kill a high school kid in an abandoned warehouse. We can't wait anymore." Tatami met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Tomorrow, we go to war. And this time, Kurogane doesn't get to write the ending."
The van drove on through Tokyo's night streets, carrying four people who'd just survived an execution attempt and one folder full of twenty-seven-year-old secrets.
In three days, Kenji had a semi-final to play.
But first, he had to survive what was coming tomorrow.