After school, Mitsui Hisashi walked alone through the campus.
His steps were unsteady, as if he were treading on thick cotton.
The mid-May breeze carried warmth, yet when it brushed against him, it only triggered waves of icy shivers.
It wasn't his body that was cold—
the chill seeped from deep within his bones, the kind of cold that no amount of warmth could drive away.
What had happened that day in the alley replayed in his mind like a deliberately slowed, endlessly looping slideshow.
That fat guy—
he now knew his name was Takamiya Nozomi, a first-year at Shohoku.
That greasy face with its smug grin.
The suffocating pressure.
The raucous laughter of those red-haired delinquents around him.
And then—
that tall figure with flames for hair, who walked over, squatted down, and spoke in a tone so calm it was almost cruel.
If you want revenge, we'll settle it on the court.
Let me see how much of that former MVP is really left.
Those words stabbed into his heart again and again over these past few days.
Whenever he tried to numb himself with
"I don't care about basketball anymore,"
that voice would rise up and tear apart what little pride he had left.
Before he even realized it, he was standing at the entrance of the school gym.
His footsteps stopped.
From inside, the dull, rhythmic thump-thump of basketballs echoed—heavy, steady.
Mixed with sharp shouts, the screech of sneakers on the floor, and that unique, vibrant chaos that only came from people truly playing together.
The sounds cut through the cool evening air and slipped into his ears, like invisible fingers plucking at a long-sealed string in his heart.
A bitter ache and longing surged up his throat, choking him.
Why… had he come here?
It was as if his body had moved on its own.
By the time he noticed, he was already standing in front of the heavy sliding doors of Shohoku's gym.
The door was slightly ajar.
That familiar scent—sweat, rubber, polished wood—drifted out, wrapping around his nose.
His hand lifted, hovering inches from the door.
His fingers trembled.
Go in?
As what?
A ridiculous former middle-school MVP?
A self-destructive delinquent?
A failure mocked by his juniors—not even good enough to be a thug?
Don't go in?
Then why stand here?
Like a stray dog sniffing the scent of a home he'd lost?
Just as he stood trapped between advance and retreat—
"Mitsui?"
A familiar yet distant voice came from behind him, filled with disbelief.
Mitsui stiffened. Slowly, he turned around.
Kogure Kiminobu stood not far away, holding an empty sports bottle—clearly on his way to refill it.
His eyes were wide behind his glasses, his face a mix of shock… and cautious hope.
"It really is you, Mitsui…"
Kogure hurried over, looking him up and down.
Mitsui could feel that gaze linger on his deliberately long bangs… and the fading bruises on his face.
"Kogure… I…"
His throat was so dry he could barely make a sound.
He tried to look away, tried to leave—but his feet were rooted to the ground.
Kogure saw it all. Understanding flashed in his eyes.
He stepped closer, lowered his voice, gently probing like only an old friend could.
"Mitsui… you… want to come back, don't you?"
"Come back?"
Mitsui snapped his head up as if burned.
"What are you talking about?! Who'd ever want to come back to a place like this?!"
Kogure wasn't frightened. Instead, his certainty deepened.
"The prefectural tournament is about to begin. The team needs people.
We need you, Mitsui.
Akagi needs you. The team needs you.
You… don't really want to play basketball anymore?"
Basketball needs you.
Those words struck his heart like a sledgehammer.
His lips trembled. He tried to say something harsh, something proud—but what came out was weak.
"I—I'm here to find that bastard Miyagi!"
He forced his voice to sound fierce, but it rang hollow.
"He broke my front tooth! This isn't over! I—"
"Looking for me?"
The gym doors slid open with a loud clatter.
Miyagi Ryota stepped out, sweat still on his brow.
When he saw Mitsui, raw hostility flared in his eyes.
"Well, if it isn't Senior Mitsui Hisashi,"
Miyagi sneered.
"Oh right, I heard you got taken down by a bunch of first-years in some alley?"
"Miyagi!" Kogure shouted—but it was too late.
Mitsui's face burned. His ears rang.
Those words were salt rubbed into a barely healed wound.
Anger.
Shame.
And something deeper—regret he refused to admit—twisted together inside him.
"You…!"
He clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms.
He looked at Miyagi's taunting face, Kogure's helpless worry, and the open gym glowing behind him—
And suddenly, he felt unbearably tired.
What was he doing here?
Like a joke.
…Forget it.
Just leave.
Just as he turned to flee—
"Heh heh… what's going on here…?"
A low, gentle laugh drifted from behind him.
That voice…
His spine went rigid.
Slowly, he turned.
In the golden light of sunset stood a plump man in a white tracksuit, hands behind his back, smiling warmly.
Round glasses reflected the light.
That gentle smile.
That mountain-like presence.
Coach Anzai Mitsuyoshi.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly.
All sounds faded—the bouncing balls, the shouts, even his heartbeat.
Only that smiling figure remained.
Memories he had buried came flooding back.
Three years ago.
The middle school prefectural final.
When his team was losing, this man had said:
"Mitsui, until the very last moment, never give up hope.
The moment you give up, the game is over."
And he had won.
When he joined Shohoku as a first-year, carrying the title of "Takeishi Middle School MVP,"
it was this coach who corrected his flaws and told him:
"Basketball is a sport played by five."
And then…
The knee injury.
The long recovery.
Watching his teammates play without him.
Losing.
The growing emptiness.
He gave up.
He betrayed the coach.
His teammates.
And the boy who once loved the game.
Two years of drifting, fighting, drinking—numbing himself.
He thought time had erased it all.
But now—
He realized.
Nothing had faded.
Nothing had died.
The longing.
The love.
The regret.
All surged forth and drowned him.
"C-Coach…"
His lips shook. Tears blurred his vision.
Coach Anzai said nothing—only looked at him with quiet understanding.
No blame.
No disappointment.
The last wall collapsed.
"Coach…"
Mitsui dropped to his knees.
Tears poured freely as he cried out from the depths of his soul—
"Coach… I really want to play basketball…!"