Kenji didn't sleep.
How could he? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Enforcer's face. Felt that grip on his arm. Heard his father's voice from that grainy video, arguing with Kaito's father moments before everything went wrong.
At 4:47 AM, he gave up trying. Rolled out of bed, grabbed his phone from the nightstand. Seventeen missed calls. Forty-three text messages. Most from Hana, increasingly frantic as the night went on.
Hana: Are you okay? Haru texted me something about the warehouse. Please tell me you're alive.
Hana: KENJI. Answer your phone.
Hana: I swear to god if you died right after I finally kissed you I'm going to kill you myself
Hana: Tatami just called. He says you're safe. Thank god. Call me when you wake up. I don't care what time.
He called her.
She picked up on the first ring. "You're an idiot."
"Good morning to you too."
"Don't 'good morning' me. You almost died. Haru told me everything." Her voice was tight, controlled in that way that meant she was barely holding it together. "The Enforcer was there. The same guy who killed your dad. And you just—you walked right into—"
"I know. I'm sorry."
Silence. Then, quieter: "Are you actually okay? Like, physically?"
"Bruised shoulder. Nothing serious." He rotated his arm experimentally. It hurt, but not enough to affect his shooting form. Probably. "Haru?"
"Freaking out, but fine. He hasn't stopped texting me analysis of what went wrong. Apparently you both made 'seventeen critical tactical errors' by his count." A pause. "Tatami says it goes public today. Everything."
"Yeah."
"Are you ready for that?"
Kenji looked at his reflection in the dark window—seventeen years old, bags under his eyes, wearing his father's old Shinwa practice shirt. Ready? He'd never be ready for what was coming.
"Doesn't matter if I'm ready. It's happening."
"Okay. Then I'm coming over. Your mom makes good breakfast, and you're going to need the energy." Hana's tone shifted to business mode. "Also, we need to prep the team. Once this hits the news, it's going to be chaos. The school, the tournament officials, everyone's going to have questions. We need a unified message."
"What message? 'Hey team, sorry about the media circus, I've been investigating my dad's murder and accidentally started a war with our corporate sponsor'?"
"Something like that, but with better phrasing." He could hear her moving around, probably getting dressed. "I'll be there in twenty minutes. Don't do anything stupid before I arrive."
She hung up before he could ask what qualified as stupid at this point.
Tatami's "going public" turned out to be more coordinated than Kenji expected.
At 6:00 AM sharp, three major news outlets published stories simultaneously. Not the sports media—the real news. Investigative journalists who'd apparently been working with Tatami for weeks, just waiting for enough evidence to make the story bulletproof.
TOKYOTRIBUNE: "Corporate Corruption in Youth Sports: 27-Year Cover-Up Exposed"
ASAHIHERALD: "Kurogane Sports Linked to 1998 Tournament Death, Rigged Games"
NIKKEIBUSINESS: "Shadow League: How One Corporation Corrupted Amateur Basketball"
By 6:30 AM, it was trending on every social media platform in Japan. By 7:00 AM, international sports outlets were picking it up. By 7:15 AM, Kenji's phone had exploded with notifications—reporters requesting interviews, friends asking if it was real, random people offering support or calling him a liar.
And at 7:23 AM, his mother knocked on his door.
"Kenji? There are reporters outside."
He looked out the window. Three news vans parked on their quiet street, cameras already set up, reporters checking their hair in compact mirrors. Their neighbors were peeking through curtains, probably wondering what the hell was happening.
"Mom, I can explain—"
"Saito's death wasn't an accident." His mother's voice was eerily calm. "That's what the news is saying. That he was murdered. By Kurogane Sports."
Kenji turned to face her. His mom looked smaller than usual, wearing her restaurant uniform, hair pulled back, exhaustion written in every line of her face. She'd been up early to prep for the morning shift, probably heard the news on the radio.
"It's true," he said quietly. "I found evidence. Video footage, witness testimony, financial records. Dad tried to expose their rigged games, and they killed him for it."
She sat down on his bed, very slowly, like her legs had stopped working. For a long moment, she just stared at the floor.
"I blamed myself," she finally said. "For twenty-seven years, I thought if I'd just convinced him to stay home that night, if I'd been more supportive of his basketball dreams, if I'd—" Her voice cracked. "And it was them. It was always them."
Kenji sat beside her, not sure what to say. What could he say?
"Are you safe?" she asked. "These people who killed your father—are they coming after you?"
He thought about lying. But she deserved the truth. "They tried. Last night. But I had help. I'm okay."
His mother's hand found his, squeezed hard. "You should have told me. Should have let me help."
"I didn't want you to worry."
"I'm your mother. Worrying is my job." She looked at him, really looked at him, and Kenji saw something he hadn't seen in years—steel beneath the exhaustion. "What happens now?"
"I don't know. The tournament's in two days. School's going to be crazy. The media's going to—"
The doorbell rang.
They went downstairs together. Through the window, Kenji could see it wasn't reporters—it was Akira, Hana, and Haru, standing on the porch looking grim.
His mom opened the door. "Come in. I'll make tea."
They filed into the small apartment. Akira looked like he'd been up all night. Hana went straight to Kenji, checking him over for injuries despite his protests. Haru had his tablet out, already tracking the news coverage.
"It's everywhere," Haru said without preamble. "Twitter, Reddit, basketball forums, mainstream news. The hashtag #ShadowLeague is trending globally. Kurogane's stock dropped eight percent in pre-market trading." He looked up. "Kenji, you just took down one of the biggest sports corporations in Japan."
"We took them down," Kenji corrected. "All of us."
"Right. We." Haru didn't look convinced. "Anyway, there's already fallout. Principal Watanabe called an emergency assembly for 8 AM. The Tokyo Basketball Association released a statement saying they're launching an investigation. And Kurogane Sports just posted on their official account."
He turned the tablet around. The statement was brief and corporate:
Kurogane Sports categorically denies all allegations of wrongdoing. The accusations made in today's irresponsible media reports are baseless and appear motivated by a desire to damage our reputation ahead of the Principal Cup finals. We will pursue all legal remedies against those responsible for these defamatory claims. Our commitment to youth sports and ethical business practices remains unwavering.
"They're going to fight this," Akira said quietly. "Not admit fault, tie it up in courts for years, use their money and lawyers to make it go away."
"They can try." Hana's expression was fierce. "But it's out there now. People know. You can't un-ring that bell."
Kenji's phone buzzed. Coach Morita.
Coach: Emergency team meeting. 7:45 AM, gym. Everyone needs to hear this from you directly. Get here.
"We should go," Kenji said. "The team deserves to know what's happening."
His mother appeared with tea, set the cups down. "Kenji? That reporter outside—the one with the gray suit—is Nakamura from NHK. He's good. Honest. If you're going to talk to any of them, talk to him."
"Mom—"
"Your father would want the truth told properly. Not just the facts, but the why." She touched his cheek. "Go. Talk to your team. But after? You tell your story. Make people understand what Saito died for."
The gym felt different.
The whole team was there—even Daichi, who normally overslept everything. They sat on the bleachers, silent, watching Kenji walk to center court. The morning light through the high windows cast everything in sharp relief.
Coach Morita stood off to the side, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"So," Kenji started. "I'm guessing you all saw the news."
"Kind of hard to miss," Tatsuya said. "My phone's been blowing up since six. People asking if I know you, if the team's involved, if we knew about—" He gestured vaguely. "All of it."
"We didn't," Akira said firmly. "Most of us didn't. This was Kenji's investigation."
"Not just mine." Kenji looked at Hana and Haru. "We've been looking into my dad's death for months. What really happened in 1998. We found evidence that Kurogane Sports has been fixing games for almost thirty years. My father tried to expose them, and they killed him."
Silence. Then:
"Holy shit," Jiro breathed.
"The modeling contract," Rin said, his three-word sentences abandoned for once. "That's why they wanted you. To control you."
"Yeah. Probably." Kenji hadn't thought about the modeling contract in days, but Rin was right. Kurogane hadn't chosen him randomly. They'd wanted Saito Tachibana's son under their thumb, close enough to monitor, contractually bound to silence. "I signed it before I knew what they were. By the time I figured it out..."
"You were trapped," Riku finished. "That's so messed up."
"Are we in danger?" Kaito Hattori asked nervously. "Like, the team. If they killed your dad for exposing them, will they come after us?"
"I don't think so. You're not threats. You're just basketball players." But even as Kenji said it, he wasn't sure. The Enforcer had tried to kill him last night. Who's to say Kurogane wouldn't go after the team to send a message?
"Actually," Haru interjected, "there's some good news. The police have issued arrest warrants. Three people so far, including the man identified as 'the Enforcer' in Tatami's evidence. Kurogane's CEO is being questioned. The net's tightening."
"In time for what?" Akira asked. "The semi-finals are in two days. Even if we show up, even if we play, this is going to be hanging over everything. The media, the questions, the speculation. How are we supposed to focus on basketball?"
"We don't." Everyone turned to look at Morita. The coach stepped forward, his gruff features serious. "We don't focus on basketball. We focus on what matters."
"Basketball is what matters," Tatsuya protested.
"No. Basketball is the game we play. What matters is why we play it." Morita's eyes swept across them. "Saito Tachibana loved basketball. Really loved it. Not because he was good—though he was—but because it was honest. Five players, one ball, whoever plays better wins. No politics, no corruption, just skill and heart and teamwork."
He looked at Kenji. "That's what they took from him. Not his life—though they took that too. They took his ability to play the game honestly. Forced him to choose between his integrity and his safety. And when he chose integrity..." Morita's jaw tightened. "They killed him for it."
The gym was completely silent.
"So here's what we're going to do," Morita continued. "We're going to play Nishimura Academy in two days. We're going to play honest basketball—the kind Saito would have been proud of. And we're going to win. Not for rankings or glory or tournament brackets. We win for every player who ever had to choose between doing the right thing and staying safe. We win to prove that corruption doesn't always triumph. We win because that's what Saito died believing in."
He turned to address them all. "Anyone who doesn't want to play, I understand. This is bigger than basketball now, and nobody will judge you for stepping back. But for those who stay? We do this right. We do this clean. We show everyone what the game is supposed to be."
Riku stood up. "I'm in."
Then Jiro. "Me too."
One by one, they all stood. Even Daichi, who could barely play, rose from the bleachers with determination in his eyes.
"Alright then." Morita's expression softened slightly. "We've got two days. Let's practice."
The school assembly was a circus.
Principal Watanabe stood at the podium, trying to maintain order while five hundred students buzzed with speculation and excitement. Kenji sat in the back with the basketball team, very aware of every phone pointed in his direction.
"—understand that recent news reports have mentioned our school and one of our students," Watanabe was saying. "I want to be clear: Shinwa High School has no involvement in any alleged criminal activities. We support law enforcement's investigation and expect all members of our community to cooperate fully."
"Translation: please don't sue us," Haru whispered.
"However," Watanabe continued, "I also want to remind everyone that Kenji Tachibana is a student at this school. He deserves the same respect and privacy as any other student. Anyone caught harassing him or sharing unverified information on social media will face disciplinary action."
It was a decent attempt at damage control, but Kenji knew it wouldn't matter. By lunchtime, everyone would be talking. By tomorrow, the school would be swarmed with reporters. By the semi-finals...
His phone vibrated. Unknown number.
Unknown: Clever move, going public. But you've only exposed the surface. The shadow league runs deeper than you imagine. Want to know who else is involved? Who else profits from the corruption? Meet me. Same warehouse. Tonight. I'll bring proof.
Kenji showed Haru the message.
"That's definitely a trap," Haru said immediately.
"Obviously."
"So you're not going."
"I don't know yet."
"Kenji—"
"What if it's real? What if there's more to expose?"
"Then let Tatami handle it! Or the police! You almost died last night!" Haru's voice rose, and several nearby students turned to look.
He lowered it. "Please. No more warehouses. No more mysterious meetings. Let the professionals handle it."
He was right. Of course he was right. But something about the message nagged at Kenji. The shadow league runs deeper than you imagine. What if taking down Kurogane wasn't enough? What if there were others, more powerful, still operating?
The assembly ended. Students flooded into the hallways, and Kenji found himself immediately surrounded.
"Is it true your dad was murdered?"
"Are you going to testify against Kurogane?"
"Did you know about the rigged games?"
"Is the modeling contract canceled?"
Hana and Akira formed a protective barrier, pushing through the crowd. They made it to the courtyard, where fresh air and open space provided some relief. But even there, students stared and whispered.
"This is going to be our life now," Hana said.
"At least until the tournament's over and something else becomes news."
"Or until Kurogane's lawyers destroy us in court," Kenji added.
"Always with the optimism."
His phone buzzed again. This time, it was Ami.
Ami: We need to talk. Your apartment, 6 PM. Come alone. Don't tell anyone.
Another mysterious meeting. Another potential trap. At this rate, Kenji was going to develop a Pavlovian response to ominous text messages.
But Ami had helped them before. Had given them the USB drive, warned them about Kurogane's plans. If she had more information...
Kenji: Not alone. Hana and Haru come or I don't.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Ami: Fine. But no one else. What I have to tell you... it's complicated.
Great. Because nothing about this situation was complicated enough already.
Classes were pointless. Teachers tried to pretend everything was normal, but how could they? Kenji sat through Modern Literature, History, and Chemistry in a haze, barely processing anything. Other students kept glancing at him. Some looked sympathetic. Others seemed almost excited, like he was a celebrity now instead of just a person trying to understand why his father died.
At lunch, the team ate together in their usual spot behind the gym. It was quieter than normal—nobody quite knew what to say. Even Tatsuya's constant chatter had dried up.
"My dad called," Riku said suddenly. "Saw the news. Asked if I wanted to quit the team. You know, to avoid the drama."
Everyone looked at him.
"I told him no," Riku continued. "Told him this team is the best thing that's ever happened to me. That Kenji's the best point guard I've ever played with. That I'm not abandoning my friends just because things got complicated." He grinned. "He thinks I'm being stupid. But he's proud of me anyway."
"My parents said the same thing," Jiro admitted. "Well, they emailed. From Dubai. But they were supportive. In their own distant, emotionally unavailable way."
"My grandmother cried," Hana said softly. "When I told her what we've been investigating. She remembered Saito from the neighborhood. Said he was always kind to her at the market." She looked at Kenji.
"She said to tell you she's proud of what you're doing. And that your father would be too."
Something loosened in Kenji's chest. He'd been so focused on the danger, the conspiracy, the fear, that he'd forgotten: they weren't alone in this. People cared. People remembered.
"Thanks," he managed. "All of you. For not running away."
"Where would we run to?" Akira asked. "We're a team. That means staying together when things get hard. Besides—" He smiled slightly. "—Nishimura Academy isn't going to beat itself. We've still got a semi-final to win."
Right. The semi-final. In all the chaos, Kenji had almost forgotten: in two days, they had to play basketball. Had to execute plays and hit shots and function as a team while the entire country watched and speculated and judged.
No pressure.
His phone buzzed. Coach Morita.
Coach: Practice after school canceled. Team needs rest more than drills. Use the time wisely. See you tomorrow.
"Practice is canceled," Kenji announced.
"Really?" Riku looked relieved. "So we can just... go home?"
"We can do whatever we need to do." Kenji met each of their eyes. "Rest. Study. Spend time with family. Whatever helps you focus. Because tomorrow, we start preparing for real. And in two days, we show everyone what Shinwa basketball is really about."
They dispersed slowly, drifting off in different directions. Akira to his part-time job. Rin to physical therapy. Jiro to his apartment where he'd probably play video games and try not to think about everything. The others to homes and families and normal teenage lives that suddenly felt very far away.
Kenji, Hana, and Haru stayed behind.
"Six o'clock," Hana said. "Ami's meeting."
"You think she knows something important?" Haru asked.
"She always knows something important. Question is whether she'll actually tell us."
Kenji stood, brushed off his uniform. "Come on. We've got a few hours. Let's go somewhere normal. Somewhere that isn't about conspiracy or basketball or corporate corruption."
"Where?" Hana asked.
"I don't know. Ice cream? A bookstore? Literally anywhere that serves food and doesn't require me to investigate a murder?"
They ended up at a small café in Kichijoji, far enough from Shinwa that nobody recognized them. For two hours, they just existed—drinking overpriced lattes, sharing a slice of strawberry cake, talking about nothing important. Haru explained his latest statistical model for predicting defensive breakdowns. Hana complained about her most difficult tutoring student. Kenji mostly listened, grateful for the normalcy.
But at 5:30, reality returned. They took the train back to Kenji's neighborhood, walking the familiar streets as evening settled over Tokyo.
Three blocks from his apartment, Kenji spotted something wrong.
The reporters were gone. All of them. The news vans, the cameras, the chaos from this morning—vanished. The street was quiet, almost suspiciously so.
"That's weird," Haru said. "Why would they leave? The story's only getting bigger."
"Maybe they got what they needed," Hana suggested. But she sounded uncertain.
They reached Kenji's building. The front door was unlocked—also unusual. His mother always locked it during her shift at the restaurant. Kenji pushed it open cautiously, every instinct screaming danger.
The apartment was dark. Quiet.
"Mom?" he called out.
No answer.
He flipped on the lights. Everything looked normal. Kitchen clean, living room tidy, nothing obviously disturbed. But something felt wrong. That same prickling sensation from the warehouse, the feeling of being watched.
"Maybe she's still at work?" Haru offered.
Kenji checked his phone. No messages from his mom. He called her cell. It rang four times, then went to voicemail.
A piece of paper on the kitchen table caught his eye. He picked it up.
Your mother is safe. For now. You have something that belongs to us—video evidence, witness statements, financial records. Return everything by midnight, or she stays with us permanently. Come to the address below. Alone. Tell anyone, and she disappears.
This isn't a negotiation. This is mercy.
The address was in Yokohama. An industrial zone near the shipyards.
Kenji's hands shook so badly the paper fluttered. They had his mother. Kurogane had his mother.
"Oh God," Hana breathed, reading over his shoulder. "Oh God, Kenji, we have to—we have to call the police, call Tatami, we have to—"
"They said no police. They said alone."
Kenji's voice sounded distant to his own ears. "If I tell anyone, they'll kill her."
"They'll kill you if you go!" Haru grabbed his arm. "This is exactly what they want! You, isolated, desperate, willing to trade everything to get your mom back!"
He was right. Kenji knew he was right. This was a trap, just like the warehouse, just like every other setup. But it was his mother. The woman who'd raised him alone, worked double shifts to keep them afloat, never complained, never gave up.
He couldn't leave her with them.
"I'm going," he said quietly.
"Then we're coming with you," Hana said immediately.
"No. They said alone."
"They also murdered your father! They're not exactly trustworthy!" Hana's eyes were fierce. "You're not doing this by yourself."
"She's right," Haru added. "We can call Tatami, have his people position nearby. You go in alone like they want, but we'll have backup. If things go wrong—"
"When things go wrong," Hana corrected.
"—we'll be ready." Haru was already pulling out his phone. "I'm calling Tatami right now."
Kenji wanted to argue. Wanted to tell them to stay back, stay safe, not risk themselves for his family. But looking at their determined faces, he realized: they weren't going to listen. They were his team. And teams didn't abandon each other.
"Okay," he said. "Call Tatami. But we have to move fast. Whatever this is, it's happening tonight."
As Haru made the call, Kenji looked at the note again. This isn't a negotiation. This is mercy.
Mercy from the people who'd killed his father. Who'd tried to kill him. Who'd corrupted sports leagues and threatened families and destroyed lives for profit.
He didn't believe in their mercy.
But he'd play along. Go to their meeting. Trade the evidence if he had to.
And when the moment was right, when they thought they'd won...
He'd make them regret ever touching his family.