The St. Jude’s National Stadium was a cathedral of light and noise. For Mikoto, the walk through the tunnel felt like a descent into a past life. The smell of fresh tennis balls and ozone, the dull roar of ten thousand spectators, and the blinding glare of the overhead floodlights hit him like a physical blow.
His watch gave a sharp, frantic beep: 138 bpm.
"Deep breaths, Mikoto," Shino’s voice crackled in a tiny earpiece he’d hidden under his hair. She was in the stands, her laptop tracking his vitals in real-time. "Your cortisol is spiking. Remember the script. You are an actor today. Nothing more."
Mikoto stepped out onto the court. He wasn't wearing his tennis whites. He was wearing the drab, navy blue tracksuit of the ball-crew. He kept his head down, his eyes fixed on the white lines that had once been the boundaries of his world.
Across the net, Ren Kurosawa was already waiting. She looked like a predator in her neon-yellow kit, her racket spinning rhythmically in her hand. When she saw Mikoto, her smile widened, flashing teeth that looked too sharp for a human.
"Look at that," Ren’s voice projected through her lapel mic, echoing across the stadium speakers for the televised pre-match. "The great Mikoto Asada. From National Finalist to... fetching my stray shots. Life is poetic, isn't it?"
A wave of whispers rippled through the crowd. Phones were held high. The "Ghost" was no longer a myth; he was a spectacle of humiliation.
"Ball," Ren commanded, pointing to the corner.
Mikoto didn't say a word. He jogged to the corner, scooped up a stray ball, and tossed it to her. He did it with the mechanical precision of a servant.
"Lower," Ren sneered, deliberately hitting her next practice serve into the net. "Go get it, Ghost. And try not to trip over your own shame this time."
Mikoto knelt by the net. As he reached for the ball, he didn't look at Ren’s face. He looked at her feet. He looked at the way her left toe flared outward just before she tossed the ball. He looked at the tension in her forearm.
145 bpm. His vision blurred. The "Panic" was a dark tide, rising.
"Mikoto, look at me!" Karen’s voice cut through the noise.
She was standing at the baseline of the opposite side, her racket held high. She wasn't looking at Ren. She was looking at him. Her eyes were fierce, burning with a protective rage that acted as a lightning rod for his fear.
"I'm ready," Karen said, her voice carrying across the court.
Ren laughed. "Ready to lose? Let’s begin the warm-up, then. Ball-boy! To your station!"
For the next ten minutes, Ren put on a show of cruelty. She intentionally hit balls into the furthest corners of the court, forcing Mikoto to sprint back and forth. She made him wait while she adjusted her strings, mocking his "clumsy" posture.
But every time Mikoto ran, he was counting.
One... two... toss. Flat serve.
One... two... three... toss. Kick serve.
He wasn't a ball-boy. He was a human computer, mapping every glitch in Ren’s "Perfect" game.
"She’s over-rotating on the slice," Mikoto whispered into his collar, gasping for air as he knelt to pick up another ball. "Shino, did you get that?"
"Captured," Shino’s voice replied. "Karen, adjust your stance three inches to the left when she looks at the umpire. That’s her tell for the wide-angle ace."
The buzzer sounded. The warm-up was over.
Ren walked to the net, leaning over it to look Mikoto in the eye. "Thanks for the exercise, servant. Now stay in the shadows and watch a real winner take your friend's title."
Mikoto stood up. He didn't look broken. He didn't look humiliated. He looked at Ren with a calm, terrifying clarity that made her smile falter for a fraction of a second.
"You should have kept the footage, Ren," Mikoto said, his voice low enough only for her to hear. "Because after today, no one is going to remember your name. They’re only going to remember the girl who got picked apart by a 'failure.'"
He walked off the court, his heart rate finally beginning to drop. He took his seat on the sidelines, right next to Marin and Shino.
The umpire called the start of the match.
Karen stepped to the line. She didn't look like an "Iron Ace" anymore. She looked like a storm. She threw the ball up, and for the first time in her career, she didn't hit a "Kodakawa" serve.
She hit a "Ghost" serve—a low, biting slice that hit a dead spot on the court and skidded past a stunned Ren.
"15-Love," the umpire called.
The stadium erupted. The "Nightmare" had officially begun for Ren Kurosawa.
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