The sound of the smartphone shattering against the wall was the only warning.
Shino was the first to hear it. Her room was adjacent to Mikoto’s, and her sensitive acoustic monitors—usually tuned to white noise for sleep—picked up the violent spike in his respiratory rate. She didn't knock. She overridden the door lock with her master key, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The room was a cavern of shadows, illuminated only by the frantic, rhythmic red pulse of the watch on Mikoto’s wrist.
"Mikoto!" Shino gasped, dropping to her knees beside him.
He was curled in the corner, his hands over his ears, his chest heaving in shallow, jagged hitches. He wasn't in the room anymore; he was back on the court, under the scorching sun of his failure, with his father’s voice echoing from every corner.
"175 bpm... 180..." Shino whispered, her fingers ghosting over his neck. His skin was ice-cold and clammy. "Mikoto, look at me! It’s an illusion! The 'Ghost' is an illusion!"
But he couldn't hear her. He was losing control of his motor functions, his limbs twitching as the neural overload peaked.
"MARIN! KAREN!" Shino screamed, her voice breaking. "GET IN HERE! NOW!"
The sisters burst into the room. Karen took one look at the shattered phone and the broken man on the floor, and her "Iron" facade vanished. She gathered him into her arms, ignoring the way he flinched.
"We’re taking him to the clinic," Shino commanded, her Architect brain switching into emergency triage mode. "Not a public one. The private wing at Kodakawa General. It’s the only place with the neural-dampening equipment he needs."
The White Hallways
The drive was a blur of rain and sirens. They bypassed the ER, heading straight to the VIP Neurology wing.
Mikoto was on a gurney, his eyes rolled back, his breath coming in whistling gasps. As the nurses wheeled him toward a stabilization suite, the automatic glass doors at the end of the hall hissed open.
A man stepped out. He was tall, silver-haired, and wore a white coat that seemed to radiate a cold, sterile authority. Behind him stood another man—sharper, younger, with a face that was a mirror image of Mikoto’s, but twisted into a mask of disappointment.
Dr. Kodakawa and Satoshi Asada (Mikoto’s Father).
"Father?" Karen gasped, sliding to a halt.
"Girls," Dr. Kodakawa said, his voice a low rumble. "I received a notification that a high-priority patient was being brought in under our family name. I didn't expect to see you three acting as paramedics for a... disgraced athlete."
Satoshi Asada stepped forward, his eyes landing on the unconscious Mikoto with absolute disdain. He didn't look like a grieving parent; he looked like a businessman viewing a faulty product.
"He’s mine," Satoshi said, his voice like dry parchment. "I saw the video. He’s been playing 'coach' with my legacy. He’s clearly had a total systemic breakdown. I’m here to take him back to the private facility in the mountains. He belongs in a controlled environment, not a penthouse with three distractions."
"He's not a 'product,' Satoshi!" Marin shouted, her eyes blazing. "He’s a person! And he’s our caregiver!"
"He is a ward of the Asada estate," Satoshi replied, pulling a legal document from his briefcase. "And given his current state—which you clearly caused—I have the legal right to commit him for 'mandatory recovery.' Dr. Kodakawa has already signed the medical necessity form."
The sisters looked at their father. Dr. Kodakawa didn't look away. "It’s for the best, girls. He’s a liability to the Kodakawa brand now that the video is public. We cannot have the National Champion associated with a 'Broken Ghost.'"
Mikoto’s hand suddenly twitched on the gurney, his fingers brushing against the pocket where his wallet—and the photo of their mother—still sat.
The battle lines were drawn in the middle of the sterile white hallway. The two fathers who built empires out of their children’s pain were standing together, and the three sisters were the only thing standing in their way.
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