The echoes of the shots still rang in the park as I walked away that night. Behind me, Mitsui's crew gathered around him, laughing, kicking rocks, still talking tough.
One of them muttered, "We didn't know you could play basketball, Mitsui."
Mitsui didn't even look at them. His face was calm, unreadable. "I don't play."
The words ended the conversation. His boys shrugged and went back to joking, but Mitsui's mind was elsewhere.
It felt good, he admitted silently. Too good. Like a piece of me I buried came back for a second.And that red-haired kid… If he kept training like that, he'd turn into a monster.
Mitsui clenched his fists. What a waste…
The Next Day
At school, my mind couldn't let it go. During lunch, I leaned toward Yohei.
"Hey, do you know a guy named Hisashi Mitsui?"
Yohei nearly dropped his chopsticks. "Mitsui? Yeah, of course I know him. He's the leader of a high school gang around here. Why? Did you cross him?"
I blinked, surprised. "Leader of a gang?"
Yohei nodded seriously. "He's trouble. Older than us, already in high school. People say he runs with delinquents, dangerous ones."
That caught me off guard. The Mitsui I'd seen yesterday wasn't just a thug—his shot was clean, disciplined, refined. Not something you get from street life.
"Do you know anything else?" I pressed.
Yohei shook his head. "Not really. But if you want, I can dig around. Ask a few people."
"Do it," I said firmly.
The Truth About Mitsui
That afternoon, during lunch break, Yohei came back with narrowed eyes and a low voice.
"I found something. Mitsui wasn't just a delinquent. Back in junior high, he was a basketball star. Won the national championship with his team. People said he was the best player in Tokyo for his age. Then he went to Shohoku High. But…" Yohei's voice trailed off.
"But what?" I asked.
"He got injured. Knee, I think. After that, he never came back. Quit basketball completely. That's when he turned into what he is now."
I sat back, my mind racing. So he wasn't just some punk. He was the real deal. A champion. A player with potential.
And now he was wasting it all away.
If I see him again… I'll talk to him.
Days Later
The weeks rolled on. Training before dawn, studying at night. My shot was cleaner now, my body sharper. But fate had other plans for me.
One afternoon, as I was heading home, I heard shouting near a narrow alley by the shopping district.
Curiosity pulled me closer. A group of high school delinquents had circled a smaller student, shoving him around, laughing. The boy's face was tense, fists clenched, ready to fight back despite the odds.
And at the center of the circle—Mitsui.
My eyes narrowed.
Before I could move, Mitsui barked at the boy, his voice full of anger. "Ryota, you're gonna pay for what you did!"
Ryota—small, fast-looking, sharp eyes—launched himself forward with a punch aimed straight at Mitsui.
But I stepped in, my voice cutting through the chaos. "Hey! I saw the police just around the corner."
The gang froze. Panic spread. Within seconds, the delinquents scattered like rats, sprinting down the alley until only three of us remained: Mitsui, Ryota, and me.
They both turned, glaring at me, their pride bristling.
"What the hell do you want?" Mitsui snapped.
"This has nothing to do with you," Ryota growled.
I stepped forward, grabbed both their wrists in my hands, and tightened my grip. Their eyes went wide as they realized—no matter how much they struggled, they couldn't break free.
"Enough," I said firmly. "Instead of tearing each other apart, how about we sit down… and talk."
Shocked into silence, both Mitsui and Ryota looked at me, then at each other. Finally, grudgingly, they nodded.
We sat on the curb, the tension thick as smoke.
"What do you want from us?" Mitsui finally muttered.
Ryota's voice followed, rough but tired. "Yeah… what's your deal, redhead?"
I looked at them both, serious. "What I want… is simple."
And that's where it began.