Location: Tournament venue – benches just off the court, early match energy hanging thick in the air.
Coach Sora stood courtside with arms folded and a scowl that could curdle milk. His clipboard was tucked under one arm like a prop he forgot how to use.
"She's twitching," he muttered, eyes fixed on Ayumi's increasingly erratic warm-up routine.
"She's dynamic," replied Rin, the ever-unbothered team manager, sipping her boxed iced coffee like a critic at a slow-burn opera. "That's how you know it's working."
Sora frowned deeper. "That's how I know she's three energy drinks away from speaking in Morse code."
"She's had four, actually," Rin said. "Matcha-latte-adjacent."
Sora sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Perfect. Maybe she'll ascend."
Behind them on the bleachers, Minami leaned toward Shun, her phone half-raised but recording nothing.
"Okay, wait—did Ryota flinch when Ayumi talked back at the net?"
Shun nodded slowly. "Like a guy watching someone set fire to his color-coded calendar."
Minami whispered, excited: "What if we win just by giving them an existential crisis?"
"Then that," said Shun, "is the true sport."
Across the court, Ayumi was doing lunges like a confused flamingo on fast-forward.
Kenji stood beside her, adjusting his wristband with quiet precision. Calm, unreadable, the eye of the neon hurricane.
"Look at them," Shun said, pointing. "Pure chaos and calculus."
Minami made a little heart with her fingers. "It's beautiful. Like art school falling in love with a spreadsheet."
Coach Sora exhaled through his nose like a kettle thinking about screaming. "They're either going to evolve mid-match," he said grimly, "or combust in public."
"I'm good with either," Rin replied. "Either way, the crowd's about to get a show."