The trophy sat on the bench like a forgotten ornament. Small, silver, barely gleaming under the dull lights of the academy court.
Ren reached out, fingertips brushing the rim. "...We actually—"
Shizuka's racket smacked the table beside it.
"Don't waste time staring at scraps." Her tone was sharp, dismissive. "If you think that cup means anything, you're already finished."
Ren flinched. "B-but it's our first—"
"Practice." She didn't wait for an answer, already walking toward the baseline.
Ren sighed, dragging his legs after her. She doesn't let me enjoy anything, does she?
The drill was brutal. Poach signals—silent cues, subtle gestures.
Shizuka raised her racket fractionally. Ren was supposed to leave the next ball for her. He didn't. Their rackets clashed mid-air, ball spraying wide.
"Idiot."
They reset. Again. And again. Sweat poured, hands blistered, lungs heaved.
But slowly, the rhythm formed. A flick of her wrist—Ren knew to cover crosscourt. A tap of her foot—he prepared for the lob.
The rally clicked. Twelve shots, then her smash thundered home.
Ren collapsed to his knees, gasping. The HUD pulsed faintly:
[Team Sync (Shizuka): 18 → 20]
Shizuka wiped her brow, expression unreadable. "...Better. Still not good enough."
Ren managed a crooked grin. Better is enough for me... for now.
As they packed up, the academy's holo-wall lit the evening sky. A broadcast highlight blazed across the screen:
Kazama Ryuji — 6–0, 6–0, 6–0.
Every point a clean demolition, every smash a thunderbolt that shattered the crowd into chants.
"Kaza-ma! Kaza-ma!"
Ren froze, watching the Dragon Smash replay on loop. The ball blurred, shattering glass sensors as if the court itself bowed to him.
His hand clenched around the racket. That's the wall I have to climb...
Beside him, Shizuka's fist tightened, knuckles white.
Her whisper was sharp, venomous. "...Kazama."