The Grand Zenith was unusually quiet on Tuesday afternoon. Shino was at a lecture, and Karen was at a mandatory physical therapy session for her post-championship recovery. That left Marin alone in the apartment with a mountain of laundry and a distracted Mikoto, who was busy scrubbing the balcony windows.
"I'll handle the darks, Mikoto!" Marin called out, her "Perfect Sister" mask slipping into a genuine, helpful smile. She reached for his discarded tracksuit jacket on the sofa, but as she lifted it, his old leather wallet slid out of the pocket and landed with a heavy thud on the rug.
Marin froze. The secret of the "Coach" was still burning in the back of her mind. She knew she should just put it back, but the actress in her—the one who lived for subtext and hidden motives—couldn't resist.
She picked it up. The leather was cracked and smelled like old tennis balls and cedar. She opened the main flap, seeing the photo of her mother and young Mikoto. Her heart ached with a bittersweet recognition.
But then, she noticed something. A tiny, silver corner of another photo was peeking out from behind a hidden sleeve in the billfold.
Marin’s breath hitched. She slid it out.
It was a candid shot, blurry and overexposed. It showed a six-year-old girl with a messy ponytail, wearing a headband with a hand-drawn "C" logo. She was mid-swing, her face a mask of pure, concentrated fury, a tennis ball frozen in the air just inches from her racket.
Marin gasped. It wasn't her. It wasn't Shino.
It was Karen.
On the back, in fading ink, were the words: "My First Rival. Don't let her catch up."
"He remembered her," Marin whispered, her eyes stinging. "Even back then... even before the 'Nightmare' started... it was always Karen."
The realization hit her like a script twist she hadn't prepared for. Mikoto hadn't just loved their mother; he had been inspired by the youngest sister long before they ever officially met in this apartment. Karen was the "Fuel" he had forgotten, the spark that started the fire he eventually lost.
Suddenly, the front door clicked open.
"I'm back!" Karen’s voice boomed through the hallway, followed by the heavy thud of her gear bag. "The trainer says my Achilles is—Marin? What are you doing with Mikoto's wallet?"
Marin jumped, nearly dropping the photos. She looked at the secret photo of the six-year-old "Iron Ace," then at her very real, very present sister standing in the doorway.
"Karen," Marin said, her voice trembling. "You need to see this. And we need to talk. Because I think we’ve been wrong about who Mikoto is protecting."
She held out the photo. Karen walked over, her eyes widening as she recognized her own childhood headband. Her face went from pale to a deep, radiating red.
"That's... that's the day at the qualifiers," Karen whispered, her hand shaking as she took the photo. "The day I saw the boy on Court 4. He... he kept a photo of me?"
"He didn't just keep it, Karen," Marin said, her competitive sisterly jealousy softening into something like awe. "He kept it in the hidden sleeve. The place for things you don't want to lose, but you're too afraid to look at."
From the balcony, they heard the sound of the sliding door opening. Mikoto stepped inside, wiping his forehead with a towel, looking tired but content.
"Hey, you're back early," Mikoto said, then stopped as he saw the two sisters standing over his open wallet. His eyes dropped to the small, blurry photo in Karen’s hand.
The silence in the room was deafening. The green light on Mikoto's watch began to flicker toward yellow. 92 bpm.
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and then Add to home screen.