The court fell quiet as Felix stepped back into position.
The shuttlecock hovered briefly in the referee's hand before being tossed into the air. The sharp tap of the serve cut through the murmurs around the court.
Kunal served first.
Fast. Aggressive. Meant to dominate.
Felix returned it cleanly.
The rally began.
The shuttle sliced through the air in tight arcs, rising and falling like a heartbeat. Kunal pushed hard from the start, smashing with brute force, relying on strength and intimidation rather than finesse.
Felix didn't rush.
He moved lightly across the court, feet gliding, eyes tracking every angle. Years of regret sharpened his focus. Every mistake he once made sat quietly behind his eyes, whispering warnings.
Don't overcommit.
Don't panic.
Read him.
Kunal smashed again.
Felix dove, returning it with a soft drop shot that barely cleared the net.
A murmur rippled through the spectators.
Kunal scowled.
"You're getting lucky," he muttered under his breath as he retrieved the shuttle.
Felix said nothing.
The next rally stretched longer. Sweat formed at Felix's temples, but his breathing remained steady. He watched Kunal closely now—not just the shuttle, but the man himself.
The footwork that lagged after heavy smashes.
The impatience.
The slight hesitation before backhand returns.
There.
Felix exploited it.
A sharp diagonal shot forced Kunal wide. Another quick drop pulled him forward. By the time Kunal reacted, the shuttle was already past him.
Point to Felix.
Kunal's jaw tightened.
On the next serve, Kunal stepped closer than necessary, brushing past Felix deliberately.
"Watch yourself," he said, voice low. "Accidents happen in fast games."
Felix met his eyes calmly. "So do losses."
The words landed.
Kunal's smile vanished.
He played rougher after that.
A shove disguised as momentum. A foot sliding just a little too far into Felix's landing space. A racket swing that came dangerously close after a point ended.
The referee warned him once.
Then again.
Felix felt the tension rising—not fear, but clarity.
This is how he wins, Felix realized. Not skill. Pressure.
So Felix refused to crack.
He slowed the game when needed, forcing Kunal into longer rallies. He varied his shots—soft lobs, sudden smashes, deceptive clears that turned Kunal's aggression against him.
Point by point, Felix pulled ahead.
From the sidelines, Nikhil leaned forward, fists clenched.
"Come on," he whispered.
Dev watched silently, eyes sharp, as if committing every movement to memory.
Kunal grew reckless.
On one rally, he lunged hard, deliberately clipping Felix's ankle with his shoe. Felix stumbled but stayed upright, returning the shot on instinct alone.
The shuttle dropped cleanly on Kunal's side.
The referee's whistle shrieked.
"Warning," the referee said sharply. "One more and you're out."
Kunal laughed hollowly, spreading his hands. "Didn't touch him."
Felix straightened, heart pounding now—not from pain, but resolve.
This ends today.
The score climbed.
19–18.
Felix led by one.
The air felt heavy, charged. Even the casual onlookers had gone silent now, sensing the turning tide.
Kunal wiped sweat from his face, eyes burning.
"Last point," he said. "Let's see what you're really made of."
He served.
Hard. Fast. Meant to overwhelm.
Felix returned it calmly.
The rally exploded into motion.
Smash. Return. Drop. Clear.
Felix's legs burned, lungs screaming, but his mind stayed sharp. Every movement felt deliberate, grounded. This wasn't desperation.
This was a correction.
Kunal smashed again—too hard.
The shuttle sailed just long.
For a split second, everything froze.
Then—
"Out."
The referee's voice rang clear.
Match point.
Felix stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto the court. It took a moment for the sound to return—applause, surprised murmurs, gasps.
Kunal stared at the line where the shuttle had landed.
"No," he muttered. "That's wrong."
The referee shook his head. "Decision stands."
Felix had won.
The realization hit slowly.
Not a dream.
Not luck.
A win.
Nikhil let out a shout, pumping his fist in the air. Dev exhaled, a rare smile tugging at his lips.
Kunal turned sharply toward Felix, eyes dark.
"This isn't over," he said.
Felix met his gaze, steady and unflinching. "It is for today."
The words weren't loud. They didn't need to be.
Kunal scoffed and walked off the court, shoulders tight, his lackeys scrambling after him.
Felix remained standing, heart still racing.
"Felix Vedman," the coach called out, clipboard in hand. "Congratulations. You've secured a spot for the interschool badminton competition."
The sentence echoed in Felix's ears.
Interschool.
In his past life, this had never happened.
He nodded, bowing his head slightly. "Thank you, sir."
As he stepped off the court, Nikhil rushed toward him, nearly tackling him in a hug.
"You absolute idiot," Nikhil laughed. "Why didn't you ever play like this before?"
Felix smiled. "Guess I was waiting for the right day."
Dev clapped him on the shoulder. "You earned it. Don't let it go this time."
Felix held that moment close.
This—this—was the beginning.
The sun dipped lower as the trials wrapped up. Students filtered away, buzzing with talk of matches and rankings. Felix grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.
At the school gate, he stopped.
Nikhil stretched, yawning. "So, same cafeteria tomorrow?"
Felix hesitated.
Just for a second.
He knew where each path led now. He knew how easily days like this slipped by, how friendships faded without warning—not because of fights, but neglect.
"I'll come," Felix said gently after a pause.
Dev raised an eyebrow. "Is there any problem."
Felix smiled. "Just… got things to think about."
Nikhil shrugged. "Don't disappear on us again."
Felix looked at them—really looked.
"I won't," he said, more to himself. "Not like before."
They parted ways with casual waves, unaware of how heavy those words truly were.
Felix turned and began walking home alone.
The road stretched ahead, quiet and familiar. Evening lights flickered on one by one. His footsteps felt lighter than they had in years.
First win, he thought.
Not the biggest.
Not the last.
But the first time he chose himself—and followed through.
A.N. - So how's it going? Share your thoughts through comments.