The week following their fight was the quietest Yori had ever known. She had signed the preliminary papers with Ms. Sato, but her guitar felt like dead weight. Every time she tried to sing, her voice felt thin and hollow. She had the "mystery" the agency wanted, but she felt more like a ghost than a star.
Meanwhile, the school was buzzing. It was the night of the Prefectural Basketball Finals.
Yori stood at the school gates, her bass case slung over her shoulder. She was supposed to be heading to a "branding" meeting with Ms. Sato, but her feet wouldn't move toward the silver car waiting down the street. Instead, she heard the muffled, thunderous roar of the crowd coming from the gymnasium.
“I’m just a fan,” she whispered, repeating the words that had hurt him. She realized then how wrong she was. George wasn't just a fan of her music; he was the person who made her feel brave enough to make it.
She turned her back on the silver car and ran toward the gym.
The atmosphere inside was electric. The score was tied with only two minutes left on the clock. George was on the court, his jersey soaked with sweat, his face set in a mask of intense concentration. He looked different—serious, fierce, and a little bit lonely.
He went for a layup, but a defender clipped his arm. The ball bounced off the rim. The referee whistled a foul, but the momentum had shifted. The opposing team’s fans were screaming, a wall of sound designed to break his focus.
George stood at the free-throw line. He looked exhausted. He bounced the ball—thump, thump, thump—but his eyes weren't on the rim. They were flickering toward the empty spot in the bleachers where Yori usually sat.
Yori pushed through the crowd until she reached the front railing. Her heart was hammering harder than it did during her solo at The Blue Basement. She realized she couldn't just stand there.
She took a deep breath, ignored the "Cool Beauty" persona, and yelled at the top of her lungs.
"KINO-KUN! LOOK AT ME!"
The sound of her voice—the voice that usually required a microphone to be heard—pierced through the noise of the gym.
George froze. He looked up, his eyes widening as he spotted Yori. She wasn't hiding behind her hair. She was standing tall, her face flushed, her eyes locked onto his.
"EYE CONTACT CHALLENGE!" she screamed, a wild, desperate grin on her face. "FIVE SECONDS! DON'T YOU DARE MISS!"
A ripple of confusion went through the crowd, but George… George started to laugh. It wasn't his loud, boisterous laugh, but a small, relieved huff. He looked at her—one, two, three, four, five seconds. The noise of the gym faded away for him. He felt the "human sun" energy rushing back into his limbs.
He turned back to the hoop, calm and steady. Swish. The first free throw went in. Swish. The second followed.
The buzzer sounded moments later. George’s team had won by a single point.
In the chaos of the post-game celebration, Yori tried to slip away, her old shyness returning now that the adrenaline was fading. But she didn't get far.
A large, sweaty hand caught her wrist. George was there, breathless, his medal swinging around his neck. He didn't say anything at first; he just pulled her into a messy, rib-crushing hug that smelled like Gatorade and victory.
"You came," he breathed into her hair.
"I'm a terrible student, remember?" Yori whispered into his jersey, her hands finally coming up to grip his back. "I couldn't let my teacher fail."
"Yori," he pulled back just enough to look at her. "I don't care about being 'just a fan.' I don't care about the agency. I just want to be the guy who hears you sing."
"I told the scout no," Yori said, her voice gaining strength. "I don't want to be a 'Lone Wolf.' I think... I think I play better when I'm part of a team."
George beamed, and for the first time, Yori didn't look away from the light.
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and then Add to home screen.