Ririn stepped closer, ignoring the dust swirling from Andrew's shoes on the cracked concrete floor. The distance between them was now less than two meters. Andrew held the worn basketball in both hands—his posture relaxed, but his eyes, as Ririn had seen before, burned with a hidden fire.
"You said you valued the process. What kind of process is this? Hiding out in some broken backyard court while Almorus has the best gym in town?"
Andrew gave a faint smile, one that reached his eyes and softened the tension on his face. He tossed the ball toward her.
"Play. We'll talk while we play."
Ririn caught the ball out of reflex. The scent of old rubber and sweat hit her nose instantly.
"I didn't come here to fool around," she replied, bouncing the ball once. The sound wasn't as clean as it would've been on a wooden court.
"But you came anyway. Why?" Andrew replied casually, walking toward the hoop. He took a defensive stance, as if they were about to start a real one-on-one. "If you truly want to know, you'll have to make me talk. And the only language I understand here… is basketball."
Ririn tightened her grip on the ball. The challenge felt like a surge of electricity—like the push to score before the buzzer.
"Fine," she said, her voice cold and focused again. She pointed at the faint three-point line.
"First to three. You take the ball."
Andrew shook his head. "No, Ririn Nataya. You take it. I want to see what the 'Almorus Girls' Basketball Star' has learned from her perfect court."
Ririn fell silent. She bounced the ball, feeling its rough texture under her palms. Her eyes studied Andrew—his form was flawless. Knees bent, arms out, every muscle ready to react.
He knows defense.
Ririn made her move. A quick crossover to the left, followed by a threatening jab step. Andrew didn't move. Only his eyes tracked the ball. Ririn decided to drive right, hoping to bait him into reacting—just enough for a spin move.
Andrew reacted—but faster than she expected. He slid sideways, cutting off her lane perfectly. Ririn stopped abruptly, the squeak of her shoes echoing sharply. Andrew didn't foul. He didn't even touch her. He simply stood there like a wall.
She went for a mid-range fadeaway, a shot she usually nailed.
Smack!
Andrew leapt high. His long fingers slapped the ball hard before it reached the rim. It bounced far off to the side.
Ririn froze, her usually calm face breaking into raw surprise.
Andrew walked over, retrieved the ball, and bounced it back to her. His eyes were calm—as if nothing unusual had happened.
"Your defense is slow," Andrew said between shallow breaths. "But that's not your main problem. You're too predictable. You move like a textbook, but out here—or in a national tournament—no one plays by the book."
His words hit deep. They weren't from a coach. They were the sharp insight of an equal—or maybe someone above her level.
Ririn caught the ball again, anger and adrenaline mixing inside her. She hated that feeling.
She charged again, faster this time, fiercer. She tried a streetball trick she'd seen in clips—a hesitation move, followed by a tight spin, aiming to slip past Andrew's left side.
Andrew reacted again—but instead of blocking, he simply stole the ball with a light, effortless touch, as if it belonged to him.
"You're too focused on your hands and feet," Andrew said, letting her chase him.
"You forget—defenders read your eyes. Your eyes betray you, Ririn."
Then he showed her how it was done. A smooth behind-the-back dribble, a quick burst toward the rim, and—without looking—a no-look pass tossed into the air right above the basket. The ball hit the rim, bounced, and Andrew caught it himself for an easy layup. No teammate needed.
"No-look pass," Ririn muttered.
"You get it," Andrew nodded. "It's about creating illusion. I made you believe I'd shoot, then I passed. You made me believe you'd drive, but your eyes had already chosen the spin move. Your body followed, but your eyes—they were already there first."
Ririn stood tall, studying him with a new intensity. His speed, his movement, his eyes—all told her this wasn't just some ex-captain.
"Why did you quit?" she asked, ignoring the ball in her hands. The question that mattered most.
Andrew stopped dribbling. Silence returned, broken only by the wind whispering through the trees.
"Because I got tired," he said quietly, his tone suddenly heavy with honesty. "You know why I transferred. That fight. I don't regret protecting that junior player. But after that, I had to face a fame-obsessed principal, a team that fell apart, and friends who blamed me for losing our shot at nationals. I got tired of being the reason for everything."
He looked at her, eyes usually calm now clouded with sorrow.
"I just wanted to play. That's all I ever wanted. But over there, basketball got mixed with politics, violence, and impossible expectations. When I held the ball, I didn't feel joy anymore—only weight. So I quit. I came to Almorus to find peace."
Andrew glanced at the ball in her hands. "But then I saw you. You—training, over and over again. Playing for the sake of it. You had that pure passion I used to feel. You only cared about the ball and the rim. It was… beautiful. It reminded me of the 'process' I lost."
Something warm stirred in Ririn's chest—not admiration, but empathy, a protective ache for someone who'd been strong for too long.
"They call Harran a delinquent school," Ririn said softly.
"Harran's just a broken place," Andrew replied with a bitter smile. "I only tried to clean up my part of it."
"I understand now," Ririn murmured. "Why you watched me from the stands. You didn't want to interfere. You just wanted to observe… the purity you once had."
Andrew nodded slowly. "I saw my old self. The one who only cared about the game. I saw you, and for the first time in a long while… I felt calm."
Ririn stepped closer until she stood right before him. She bounced the ball once, then stopped.
Her eyes gleamed. "You're incredible. Your technique, your vision—they're things no coach can teach. You should use them."
Andrew looked down. "For what? I can't join the school team. I'm banned from national tournaments."
"Not for the team," Ririn said quickly. "For yourself. Don't let foolish things steal your passion. You said you valued the process. That process belongs to you—not anyone else."
•••
[The Next Morning]
6:10 a.m.
A soft voice echoed.
"And…"
"Andrew…"
"Andrew, wake up!" The last shout thundered through the room, jolting Andrew Swan from his sleep, eyes snapping open as he clutched his pillow like a lifeline.
"Huh? What is it, Mom?" he mumbled, still hugging his pillow.
Before him stood a woman—older, her beauty faded yet still present. Black hair, brown eyes, a white blouse paired with black jeans.
"You're getting worse by the day. You can't keep waking up late like this. You have to be disciplined, manage your time. If this keeps up, what will happen if I'm no longer—"
"Stop! Okay, okay. I promise I'll wake up earlier next time! Just stop saying weird things!" He tossed aside his pillow and got up, brushing past his mother to grab the towel hanging on the wall by the door.
"I made breakfast," his mother said from behind him. "After your shower and getting dressed, eat before you leave."
"Yeah," Andrew replied shortly.
His mother—Joanna Art—watched his back as he walked away, her eyes dim. Her right hand lifted halfway, then fell, as if surrendering, as if reaching him was impossible. "If only time could turn back," she whispered, voice tinged with regret. "I would have supported both of you… instead of forcing you apart."
•••
Water gushed from the shower, streaming down Andrew's body. He turned his head to the right, eyes landing on the large mirror fixed to the bathroom wall.
In that mirror, he could see himself—the reflection of the person he had tried so long to forget, slowly awakening the pain he had buried...
...