The National Championship trophy sat on the kitchen island of the Grand Zenith, reflecting the morning sun like a golden sun. But Karen wasn't looking at it. She was sitting on the floor, leaning against Mikoto’s legs as he prepped breakfast, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee.
"You know why I actually started, Mikoto?" Karen asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "It wasn't because of Father. It wasn't even because I was good at it."
Mikoto paused, the whisk still in his hand. "I assumed you were born with a racket in your hand."
"I was eight," Karen said, her eyes drifting to the window. "Father took me to a regional junior qualifier. I hated it. I wanted to be at home climbing trees. But then I saw this boy on Court 4. He was small, maybe ten, but when he hit the ball... it wasn't just a sport. It was like he was set on fire. Every shot was full of this... beautiful, desperate fuel. Like he was playing for his life and loving every second of the danger."
She looked up at Mikoto, a smirk tugging at her lips. "He had this messy black hair and a 'C' logo on his headband. I went home that day and told Father I wanted to play. I didn't want the trophy. I wanted to feel that fire. I wanted to find that boy again."
Mikoto felt a strange tug in his chest. "He sounds like a reckless kid."
"He was a legend," Karen laughed, standing up and stretching. "And he's a pretty decent cook, too."
As Karen headed to the shower, the sliding glass door to the balcony creaked open. Shino stepped in, looking paler than usual. She wasn't wearing her lab coat; she was draped in a heavy shawl, her eyes fixed on the digital watch on Mikoto’s wrist.
"The 'fuel' Karen describes is biologically expensive, Mikoto," Shino said, her voice devoid of its usual rhythmic certainty. "Adrenaline, dopamine, cortisol—a constant state of high-combustion emotional output. It’s what made you the 'Ace.' It’s also what caused the 'Ghost' to manifest."
"It's in the past, Shino," Mikoto said, turning back to the stove.
"Is it?" Shino stepped closer, her tablet beeping. "I've been monitoring your 'Panic Data' from the match. During the tie-breaker, your neural activity didn't just spike; it harmonized with Karen’s. You weren't just coaching. You were co-processing."
She turned the tablet toward him. It showed two brain scans, glowing with identical heat maps of gold and violet.
"My research sponsors at Aethelgard Pharma saw the live feed," Shino whispered, her hand trembling slightly. "They don't care about tennis. They care about the fact that a 'broken' subject managed to reach peak performance without a total collapse. They want the data, Mikoto. They want to map your brain to finalize their new drug—Lethe-9."
"What does it do?"
"It suppresses the amygdala," Shino said, her eyes filling with a rare, clinical fear. "It doesn't 'cure' panic. It deletes the capacity for extreme emotion. No fear. No anxiety. But also... no 'fuel.' No fire."
Mikoto looked at the scans. "And if you give them the data?"
"They fund my lab for ten years," Shino said. "I become the youngest Chief of Neurobiology in the country. I finally 'win' in Father's eyes."
She looked at him, the "Smartest Sister" suddenly looking very small. "But to get the final mapping, they need you to come to the facility. They want to put you back in a high-stress simulation. They want to break you one last time to see how the 'Lethe' stops it."
The kitchen went cold. The "Nightmare" wasn't a rival player or a paparazzi lens anymore. It was a needle and a laboratory.
"Are you going to give me to them, Shino?" Mikoto asked quietly.
Shino didn't answer. She just stared at the watch on his wrist, the green light blinking like a steady, trusting heart.
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