"And that's the end of the third quarter! The North Wolves… have bared their fangs."
"Led by their Shepherd, they've controlled the tempo, dismantled Horizon's rhythm, and built an eight-point lead. Is this just experience? Or the difference between hunters… and prey?"
"Maybe. But Horizon clawed back late. They're still breathing. The fourth quarter… is a battlefield."
…
Horizon Bench
The buzzer faded.
The gym dimmed just a fraction.
Dirga dropped onto the bench, sweat soaking through his jersey. His jaw tight. His fingers clenched around Ayaka's wristband.
Sayaka approached with a towel and water bottle. Silent. Supportive.
Aizawa sat beside him—shoulders sagging, hands trembling.
He stared at nothing.
Breathing hard.
But not from exhaustion.
He couldn't breathe. Not because he was tired. But because every time he jumped… it felt like the past dragged him down.
He wasn't losing a game.
He was losing a life.
Why can't I beat him?
