Setting: Evening. A quiet city park near Ayumi's apartment. Empty tennis court under streetlight.
Ayumi wandered into the park near her apartment with her racquet slung over one shoulder like a rebellious violinist.
The court was empty, half-lit, the kind of place that whispered you shouldn't be here but also go ahead, we're rooting for you.
She bounced a ball idly, letting it echo in the still night.
Ryota and Hana.
They'd gotten under her skin.
Not just because they were good—she could handle "good." But because they were clinical. Like they played with surgical gloves and backup plans and backup-backup plans.
Ayumi didn't have plans. She had instincts, ideas that sounded good mid-sprint, and the stubborn belief that if you kept moving forward, the universe had to catch up eventually.
She served the ball into the dark.
It thudded off the far fence and rolled back weakly.
"Still terrifying," she muttered to herself, jogging to retrieve it. "Still not impressed."
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Kenji [8:44PM]:Don't forget tomorrow. Coach wants us sharp.
Kenji [8:44PM]:Rest is part of training.
Ayumi stared at the screen, then typed:
Ayumi [8:45PM]:I'm communing with the spirits of dead tennis balls. It's spiritual.
No reply.
Then—
Kenji [8:47PM]:Tell them our footwork needs divine intervention.
She grinned. Small. Real.
Then served again—into the night, into the unknown, into whatever came next.