Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Dranred stood alone on the baseball field behind his house.
It was quiet there — the kind of silence that made him think too much. He stood on the mound, rolling a baseball slowly in his palm, feeling the faint roughness of its red stitches. His thoughts wandered to the finals, to Rosette, to the weight of expectation pressing against his chest.
He barely noticed when someone approached.
"You look like you're thinking too hard," a calm voice said.
Dranred turned and saw his uncle, Charlie, walking toward him.
"Uncle," he greeted softly. "When did you get back?"
"Yesterday," Charlie replied with a small smile. "You told me to save you a seat for Game Seven, remember?" He stopped beside him, eyes narrowing slightly. "But from the look on your face, I'm not sure you're happy about it."
Dranred said nothing. Charlie reached out and took the baseball from his hand. Turning it over, he noticed the signature inked across the white surface — Dranred 'Fire Ace' Phoenix.
A nostalgic smile tugged at Charlie's lips. "You still call yourself that, huh?"
"It's a reminder," Dranred said quietly.
Charlie studied him for a moment. "Have you finally decided what you're really playing for?"
Dranred's eyes flickered downward. "If you were in my place… would you do the same?"
"I don't know," his uncle answered after a pause. "But whatever you choose — it has to be your choice. You only get one shot, Dranred. Make it count."
He placed the baseball back into his nephew's hand and patted his shoulder.
"I'll be watching tomorrow. Give it everything you've got."
He smiled, his voice steady and sure.
"No regrets, Mr. Shooting Star."
Charlie turned and walked back toward the house, leaving Dranred alone beneath the fading light.
Dranred looked down at the baseball in his palm, his fingers tightening around it. The air was cool, the sky darkening into the deep blue of night.
"No regrets," he whispered to himself, the words echoing softly in the empty field.
The day before Game Seven — the most anticipated match of the season — was also the day Rosette would finally have the bandages removed from her eyes.
Inside her hospital room, the air was heavy with anticipation. Her doctors stood near her bedside, joined by James, Estelle, and Dranred, who quietly lingered by the doorway, his heart pounding harder than he wanted to admit.
The doctor approached, accompanied by a nurse.
"All right, Rosette. Let's take these off now," he said gently.
Slowly, carefully, he began to unwind the layers of bandage. The sound of each strip peeling away seemed to echo through the room.
When the last piece fell away, the doctor spoke again.
"Now, open your eyes — slowly."
Rosette did as told.
At first, everything was darkness. Then, faint light broke through — soft, blinding, like morning sunlight after a long night. Shapes began to form. A blur of white coats. The outline of faces. The movement of hands.
"Can you see my fingers?" the doctor asked, holding up his hand.
Rosette squinted, focusing on the shifting shapes. And then, gradually, her world came into focus — the doctor's reassuring smile, the nurse beside him, her sister's worried face, her brother's familiar figure, and… someone standing quietly by the door.
Her breath caught.
She could finally see them again — the people she loved.
Tears streamed down her cheeks before she could stop them. James and Estelle rushed forward, wrapping their arms around her. She could hear their muffled laughter through the sobs. For the first time in months, everything felt whole again.
The doctor turned to Dranred and spoke softly.
"Her vision will be slightly blurred for a few days. It's normal during recovery. But overall, the operation was a success. She can be discharged today."
Dranred nodded in gratitude. "Thank you, Doctor."
When everyone else stepped out, Rosette turned to him. Her voice trembled.
"Thank you, Red."
"Anytime," he said simply, smiling faintly.
Inside, though, he felt a rush of joy — stronger than any victory he had ever known. Seeing her see again… that was enough.
But he didn't dare step closer. James was there — and the distance between them was more than just physical.
Outside the hospital, as the siblings prepared to leave, James turned to Dranred.
His tone was calm but his words were sharp as glass.
"I'm grateful for what you did for my sister," he said, "but that doesn't erase what happened between you and my family. I will still seek justice."
Dranred met his eyes but said nothing.
"Tomorrow's the last game," James continued. "And I won't hold back. I'll give everything I have."
"I know the condition of your leg," Dranred said quietly. "Do you really have to do this?"
James gave a short, cold laugh. "Are you worried about me, or are you scared to lose?"
Dranred stayed silent.
"I didn't think so," James said. "This is my dream, Dranred. I'll fight for it — even if it means I'll never walk again."
Without another word, James turned and got into his car.
Dranred stood there on the curb, watching the car disappear down the road, the wind lifting the faint scent of hospital antiseptic around him.
Tomorrow, everything would end — one way or another.
"James!" Dranred called after him, but his friend didn't turn back.
He stood there, watching as the car door shut and the engine roared to life. Through the window, he caught a glimpse of Rosette looking back at him. She smiled faintly, and he managed a small wave in return.
They didn't know — neither Rosette nor Estelle — what condition James was really in. How fragile his leg had become. How dangerous tomorrow's game could be for him.
Dranred let out a quiet sigh. James had always been stubborn, but he understood why. This was his last chance to chase his dream — a dream that might end the moment the final buzzer sounded.
He looked at the fading taillights and whispered to himself,
"Just one last game... and then what happens next, no one knows."