Where Kenji meets the end of his quiet life... and a tennis ball to the face.
Kenji Nakamura was not built for drama.
He liked clean lines. Predictable schedules. Tennis played like a math problem: solve, strike, reset.
So when he transferred to Minato City Academy—a high-tier high school with championship tennis, futuristic vending machines, and student council debates that required PowerPoint—he had a plan.
Stay low. Play well. Don't get hit in the face.
Naturally, life chose to start with exactly that.
THWAP.
Pain bloomed across his forehead.
Kenji stumbled, vision flickering. He staggered back a step, clutching his skull, dignity leaking out like loose change.
A tennis ball rolled dramatically to a stop beside his foot.
From somewhere ahead came a cheerful, utterly unrepentant voice:
"Oops. Direct hit. My bad. Great forehead, though."
Kenji blinked through the pain.
There, standing just outside the baseline like she owned it, was a girl with a red ribbon tied in her hair and mischief practically radiating off her.
She wore the standard school uniform with just enough rebellious flair—sleeves rolled, shirt slightly untucked, collar charmingly crooked. She looked like the main character of someone else's story.
"Are you okay?" she asked. "You look like a philosophical question mark."
Kenji straightened. "I've had worse."
"From tennis balls?"
"From uncles trying to teach me how to drive."
She grinned, walking over and scooping up the ball with her racket like a street performer. "Name?"
"Kenji Nakamura. Transfer student. I'm here for tennis."
"Ah," she said. "A freshman sacrifice. You're standing on my court."
He glanced down. Court 2. Blue, pristine, and—as far as he could tell—public property.
"Didn't realize it was claimed land."
"Everything here is claimed," she said. "Even the vending machine corner. Especially the vending machine corner. Blood was shed."
Kenji sighed. "Do you challenge everyone who walks on your territory with a ball to the skull?"
"Only the interesting ones."
Before he could retort, she tossed the ball in the air and caught it behind her back like a magician. "One point match. Winner keeps the court."
Kenji frowned. "That's not regulation."
She tilted her head. "Neither is existing in this school without making a little noise."
There was something about her—electric, insistent, the kind of presence that made you say yes before your brain caught up.
"…Fine," he muttered.
"Attaboy." She walked to the baseline with the casual grace of someone who had already decided she'd win.
Kenji shook off the sting on his forehead and took his position.
It's just one point, he told himself. Serve, return, win. Get on with your life.
She served.
The ball floated high.
Not a smash. Not a spin. Just a soft, ridiculous arc, like a balloon at a child's birthday party.
Kenji hesitated. What is that? A lob? A joke? A trap?
Then, just before it crossed the net, she twirled.
Twirl. On a tennis court.
And dropped the ball just over the net with the gentlest touch imaginable.
Plop. Bounce once. Twice. Done.
Kenji stared. His legs hadn't moved. His pride had, however—directly into the trash.
"Love game," she said, slinging her racket over her shoulder. "Thanks for playing."
He blinked. "What… was that?"
"Style," she said. "You should try it."
She was already halfway off the court before turning back and flashing a grin that hit harder than the ball. "Practice is tomorrow. Be there. Or don't. But you'll be thinking about this either way."
Kenji stood alone on the painted blue court as her voice faded into the chaos of after-school clubs and fading sunlight.
Somewhere inside him, something shifted.
He had just been outplayed by someone who looked like she fought raccoons for fun.
He wasn't sure if he wanted revenge… or another match.