The room smelled faintly of rust and disinfectant. Metal bars cast shadows across the concrete floor as Dranred sat opposite his grandfather. The old man's once-commanding presence was now reduced to a wrinkled frown behind a glass panel.
"What are you doing here?" the old man snapped, his voice edged with bitterness. "Are you satisfied with what you see? You gave them money, property—and look what they did. They used it to—"
"Don't blame them for what happened to you," Dranred interrupted, his tone calm but firm. "It's sad to see you here, Lolo, but even now, you still have no remorse. You still hold your head high, as if nothing was your fault. Have you ever thought about the people you stepped on to get your power?"
The old man's eyes hardened. "I don't care about them. I am a senator. And I won't stay in this prison for long."
"Stop being stubborn," Dranred said quietly.
The old man leaned forward, sneering. "Why do I feel you had something to do with this? Wasn't it enough that you gave them everything I built? You're too soft, Dranred—too soft for people who will only take advantage of you."
"Don't call them that," Dranred replied, his voice rising for the first time. "What I gave them can never repay what you took from them. You stole lives. You can't buy forgiveness with money. Maybe while you're here, you can use the time to think—to finally understand what you've done."
The old man slammed his palm on the table. "I'll get out of here! And when I do, I'll make sure they all—"
"Stop it already!" Dranred burst out. His voice echoed in the cold room. "Even now, you'd rather talk about revenge than regret. Haven't you learned anything?"
The old man glared at him, but Dranred stood slowly, his disappointment heavier than anger. "Goodbye, Lolo," he said softly, and walked away.
The guard opened the door. The clang of metal followed him down the corridor.
MONTAGE – NEWS REPORTS AND FLASHES OF LIGHTS
"After the senator's conviction, the nation's attention turned to the return of the 'Shooting Star,' Dranred Castillo, to the basketball court."
"Fans are eager to see his comeback, despite rumors that he benefited from his grandfather's wealth…"
A crowded stadium. Camera flash. Dranred stands on the court in his team jacket. The crowd cheers—until he raises the microphone.
"I'm grateful for every cheer and every game," he says, voice steady. "But tonight, I'm announcing my retirement from basketball."
A hush falls.
"This isn't about the past or the case. It's about a promise I made—and a dream I've carried for a long time. I'm joining the national baseball team. It's not as famous, maybe not as glamorous, but it's where my heart belongs."
The crowd murmurs—shock, sadness, pride.
Rosette is in the audience. She watches him smile, a quiet, peaceful smile, as though he's finally free of every shadow that once followed him.
The sun was already high when Dranred stepped onto the baseball field. The air buzzed with voices — players stretching, gloves snapping, the sharp crack of bats hitting balls.
On the far side of the field, the national team waited, alongside another familiar group — Charlie's team, freshly back from an overseas tournament.
After that intense Game 7 of the basketball finals, Charlie had flown abroad with his team for an exhibition series with the national squad. They'd helped the national team prepare for the international games — but lost their first match. Now, three months later, they were back, honoring a promise for a rematch and to scout new players for the roster.
Charlie spotted him first. A smile tugged at his lips.
"So, you decided to show up," he called out, walking toward the bullpen where Dranred was warming up.
Dranred looked up from his stretch. "You said you wanted a showdown," he said. "I'm just keeping my end of the deal."
Charlie chuckled. "Good. I've been waiting for this since I left. Let's see if that 'shooting star' arm of yours works as well with a baseball."
Dranred grinned faintly. "You'll find out soon enough."
Around them, murmurs rippled through the crowd. Players from the national team turned their heads — some whispering, some openly staring.
They knew who he was. The fallen basketball star. The senator's grandson. The athlete switching sports like it was nothing.
Dranred felt the weight of their eyes — the doubt, the quiet judgment. He tightened his grip on the ball, trying to ignore it.
Romeo, one of the national players, approached with a smirk. "Mr. Shooting Star," he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. A few players laughed under their breath.
Dranred straightened but stayed calm.
"I'd love to play alongside you," Romeo continued, "but—"
Charlie cut in, smiling coolly. "It's fine. Better this way. We'll see what he can really do."
He turned to Dranred. "Don't expect me to go easy on you just because you're my nephew."
"That's exactly how I want it," Dranred said, his eyes sharp now. "Let's see who's the better pitcher."
Romeo laughed, tossing his glove into the air. "I like the sound of that."
Charlie chuckled too, but behind his grin was something else — pride, maybe, or a quiet challenge. He knew his nephew was good. He also knew that losing to him would sting.
The camera would pan upward then — the sky bright, the sound of the crowd rising — as two generations of athletes took their place on the field.
The dugout buzzed with quiet chatter, the air thick with heat and tension. Players leaned against the benches, watching the field where drills were underway.
"Superstars really are something else," one of the applicants muttered as Dranred returned to the dugout after talking to Charlie and Romeo. "Even the major league guys know him."
Dranred ignored the remark. He'd learned that responding to every jab led nowhere. Instead, he set his glove down beside him, took a sip of water, and waited for the coach.
A few moments later, the national team coach entered, clipboard in hand. His presence immediately silenced the room.
"Alright," he said briskly. "Here's the lineup for the first scrimmage. This group will face Charlie's team."
He began reading off names, and players straightened as they were called.
When he reached the end, he looked up.
"Starting pitcher: Dranred."
A ripple of surprise swept through the dugout.
"What? He's the pitcher?" someone scoffed. "What does he even know about this game?"
Another player, from the national team, stepped in. "He played with us during the exhibition match, remember? He—"
"Yeah, I saw that game," interrupted a tall catcher, arms crossed and eyes sharp with doubt. "He only looked good because the catcher carried him. If I were behind the plate, he'd be useless. Bet he can't even read the signs."
The others chuckled quietly.
Dranred finally looked up at the man. His tone was calm but firm.
"Just hold your mitt where you want the ball," he said. "I'll take care of the rest."
The catcher blinked, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Cocky, aren't you?"
Before the tension could rise any further, the coach's voice cut through the air.
"If you don't like who you're playing with," he said, eyes narrowing at the catcher, "you're free to leave. The purpose of this match is to measure your ability and your attitude. If you can't play as part of a team, you don't belong here."
The dugout fell silent. Even the sound of practice outside seemed to fade for a moment.
The catcher looked away, his confidence deflating. "Yes, Coach," he muttered.
The coach gave a curt nod and turned to leave. "Get ready. We start in ten minutes."
Dranred said nothing. He simply stood, stretched his arm, and picked up his glove. The ball sat in his hand, familiar and steady.
As he rolled it between his fingers, he could feel the weight of every doubt in the dugout — and the quiet determination rising to answer them all.