The Hawks' gym pulsed with energy — sneakers squeaking, fans roaring, the scoreboard's red digits glowing like fire. The semi-finals were within reach, and everyone in the crowd could feel it. Everyone except Kaito.
He stood on the hardwood, shoulders heavy, his confidence leaking away like air from a punctured ball. His teammates buzzed with adrenaline, shouting, clapping, slapping hands. But Kaito? He felt numb.
The referee's whistle shrieked. Tip-off.
The Hawks stormed out of the gate — fast passes, sharp cuts, pure aggression. But when the ball touched Kaito's hands, everything slowed. His legs felt like lead. His shots bounced off the rim. Every move he made was half a second too late.
"Come on, Kaito, move!" someone shouted.
The Panthers smelled blood. Their defense tightened, suffocating him, predicting every pass and dribble. The once-loud gym now seemed to echo only one sound — his mistakes.
Coach Johnson paced the sidelines, jaw clenched, voice cutting through the chaos. "Kaito! What's going on with you? You're dragging us down!"
Kaito swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I—I'm trying, Coach—"
"Try harder," barked Jake, the team's captain, glaring at him. "We can't win if you keep choking!"
Each missed shot chipped away at Kaito's spirit. Each turnover stung like a slap. The Panthers' point guard — slick, fast, ruthless — danced around him, scoring at will.
When the buzzer finally screamed, it was over. 103–104. A one-point loss. The Hawks' record slipped to 5–10.
In the locker room, silence reigned. No one looked at Kaito.
"Man, what were you even doing out there?" Alex muttered. "You can't just hand them the game."
"I said I was trying!" Kaito's voice cracked.
Jake shook his head. "Then maybe trying isn't enough."
Coach Johnson's words were the harshest of all. "You're a liability right now, Kaito. If this keeps up, I don't know why I'd keep you in the lineup."
Their words echoed long after they left. Kaito sat alone on the bench, staring at the floor, feeling the weight of every missed shot pressing down on his chest.
By the time he left the gym, night had fallen. Streetlights blurred through his tired eyes as he walked home, his mind looping through every mistake, every disappointed face.
When he passed the small game shop on the corner, its neon sign flickering like a heartbeat, he stopped. Anything to escape this feeling.
The bell over the door jingled as he stepped inside.
"Rough game?" Mr. Karuizawa, the shop owner, asked kindly from behind the counter.
Kaito nodded wordlessly.
"Well, maybe I've got something to lift your spirits." The old man reached under the counter and pulled out a game case. "Brand new VR title. Just came in today."
Kaito took it, studying the cover — a glowing, futuristic basketball court, strange symbols shimmering underfoot.
"What's this one?"
"Never seen anything like it," Mr. Karuizawa said. "They say it's the most realistic basketball experience ever made. Feels almost… alive."
Kaito hesitated, then smiled faintly. "I'll take it."
Back in his small apartment, he slipped the disc into his VR console and pulled the headset over his eyes.
A robotic voice greeted him as light filled his vision.
"Welcome to… Hoop Evolution. Would you like to start the game?"
Kaito's fingers hovered over the controller. His heart thudded. "Yeah," he whispered. "Let's do this."
The world around him melted away.
In an instant, he stood on a futuristic court bathed in blue light, his body sleek and strong, his movements effortless. The ball felt weightless in his hands.
He jumped — higher than he ever could in real life. He moved — faster, sharper, unstoppable. Every shot was perfect. Every dunk, electric.
For the first time in weeks, Kaito felt alive. The tension, the failure, the disappointment — all of it faded. Here, he was powerful. Here, he belonged.
But as the glowing court pulsed beneath his feet, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than just a game.
Something in the shadows watched him.
And from that moment on, Kaito's life would never be the same as it was again