Without saying anything, Kenji knelt down and began tying the laces.
"Why?" Naseru asked quietly.
Kenji's hands worked methodically with the laces, his movements careful and deliberate. The gymnasium buzzed around them with the sounds of other players cooling down, coaches reviewing plays, equipment being stored away. But in this small pocket of space, time seemed to slow, the moment crystallizing into something that would burn itself into Naseru's memory forever.
"It's not that serious," Kenji said, adjusting the shoe efficiently. "Just don't want you to trip up when you got a bright future ahead. Gotta take care of yourself, pay attention to things like your shoes being untied. Saw they were untied during some of the morning drills the other day too. You hadn't tied them then either. This time I noticed, and I don't want to just pretend I didn't see it. Someone's gotta remind you."
Kenji finished tying Naseru's shoe and stood up, meeting the twelve-year-old's eyes directly. He smiled—not the confident grin he wore during games, but something softer, more genuine. "Good. And if you forget again, just ask. There's no shame in needing help with the small stuff."
As they walked back toward the main court together, the fluorescent lights casting long shadows across the polished floor, Naseru felt something shift inside him. A loosening of the tight control he'd maintained over his emotions, a crack in the armor he'd built to survive. For the first time since arriving at Frank Michaels's facility, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to carry everything by himself.
The simple act of having his shoes tied would stay with Naseru for the rest of his life. Years later, when he faced his own challenges, his own moments of doubt and struggle, he would remember this moment—remember that someone had seen him when he was just twelve years old, overwhelmed and trying to prove himself, and had chosen to kneel down and help with something as basic as shoelaces.
It would teach him that strength wasn't just about individual brilliance or self-reliance. Sometimes it was about allowing others to care for you. And sometimes it was about caring for others in return, noticing the small things that mattered, and choosing to act even when the gesture seemed insignificant.
The unspoken bond between them had been sealed not with grand words or dramatic gestures, but with the simple, profound act of one person making sure another person was safe to take their next step forward.
"Actually," Kenji said, stopping mid-stride, "let me show you a better shoe tying technique. That way you can tie them properly later and they'll stay tight during games."
Kenji knelt down again and began untying his own shoe completely. "See, most people just do the basic bunny ears method, but that comes loose under pressure." He held up the lace, his fingers working deliberately. "First, you make your initial cross and pull it tight—really tight. Then instead of making two loops, you make one loop with your right hand, but here's the key..."
Kenji wrapped the left lace around the base of the loop twice instead of once, creating additional friction. "Double wrap gives you more grip. Then you push the second lace through to make your second loop, but you pull both loops tight while holding the base knots down with your thumbs."
His fingers moved with practiced precision, demonstrating each step slowly. "The double wrap prevents the initial knot from loosening, and if you pull the final loops tight while keeping tension on the base, it creates a lock that won't come undone even during the most intense plays."
Naseru watched intently, his cognitive mind absorbing every detail of the technique.
Suddenly, a basketball shoe flew through the air and struck Naseru on the side of the head with a solid thump.
Both boys looked up sharply. Jason Anderson stood across the court, one foot bare, looking sheepish.
"Sorry," Jason called out, walking over on one shoe. "I was trying to kick that basketball to the rack and my shoe went flying by accident."
Jason approached them, the thirteen-year-old hopping slightly. "Kenji, could you show me one of those knot tying techniques we were learning last year? I forgot the specific one we practiced outdoors."
Kenji studied Jason's face, noting the timing. "The strongest knot? That would make it impossible for you to untie it if you used it."
Jason shrugged. "Just want to make sure it stays on."
Kenji looked between Jason and Naseru, then let out a short laugh. "Did you intentionally throw that shoe to hit Naseru?"
"Accident," Jason repeated, but his eyes held that familiar calculating gleam.
Kenji shook his head, still smiling, and knelt down in front of Jason. "Alright, let me show you both."