The apartment was dark except for the laptop's pale glow.
Zen sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, watching pixels move across the screen with the detached intensity of someone studying a crime scene. The video was grainy—recorded on someone's phone from the bleachers—but the action was clear enough.
Middle school nationals. Semifinals. Third quarter, 2:47 remaining.
His younger self brought the ball up the court, and even through the low-quality footage, Zen could see the calculation in his own eyes. Scanning. Processing. Finding the optimal path.
He watched himself drive left, drawing two defenders, then kick the ball to his power forward in the corner. Wide open. Three-point attempt.
Brick.
The ball caromed off the rim, and Teikō secured the rebound. Fast break the other way. Bucket.
Six-point swing in fifteen seconds.
Zen's jaw tightened.
He rewound the clip. Watched it again. The pass had been perfect—on time, on target, giving his teammate rhythm. Everything Zen could control, he'd controlled.
And still, the result was failure.
Not my fault, the familiar refrain whispered in his mind. I did everything right.
But another voice—quieter, more insidious—asked: Did you?
Zen clicked forward in the timeline. Fourth quarter now, 6:12 remaining. He watched himself call for an isolation, wave off his teammates, attack the basket one-on-three. The shot fell—barely—but the defensive scramble left his team vulnerable on the next possession.
Teikō scored easily.
He paused the video.
In the frozen frame, his younger self was turned away from four teammates, all of whom were calling for the ball with varying degrees of desperation. One had his hand up. Another was pointing to his open position. A third was gesturing frantically.
All ignored.
And in the corner of the frame, barely visible, was his own face—focused not on his teammates but on the defender in front of him, seeing only the challenge, only the obstacle, only the path that required no trust.
I was alone even then, Zen realized. Even surrounded by teammates, I was playing by myself.
The thought should have felt validating. Instead, it sat in his stomach like lead.
He clicked to another clip. This one was from the same game, late fourth quarter. Kuroko had the ball—or rather, the ball appeared to materialize in Kuroko's hands, misdirection making the pass invisible. Zen watched his younger self react, tracking Kuroko's shoulder rotation, anticipating the next pass.
There.
Zen's hand flashed out, intercepting the ball mid-flight. Clean steal. The crowd audible even through tinny phone speakers.
But the camera stayed on Zen's face for a moment after the steal, and what he saw there made him pause the video again.
Pride. Vindication. But also something else. Something that looked almost like fear.
I proved I could see him. But what did that prove?
That he was observant? That he could counter misdirection through pure analytical focus? That he was capable of individual excellence?
All true. All insufficient.
Because they'd still lost that game.
Zen closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. The laptop's fan hummed in the silence, a white noise that did nothing to quiet his thoughts.
"Then perhaps you were looking at the wrong paths."
Kuroko's words from two days ago. They'd been circling in Zen's mind like vultures ever since, picking at the certainty he'd built around his middle school failures.
What if the paths had been wrong? What if demanding perfection from imperfect players was itself a flawed strategy? What if—
No.
Zen opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't afford to second-guess himself. Not now. Not when he'd worked so hard to understand what went wrong, to identify the problems, to ensure he wouldn't repeat the same mistakes.
Except he was repeating them.
Fukuda's expression flashed through his mind—shoulders slumped, hand still raised in the shooting position, waiting for a pass that never came.
He missed twice. That's data. That's evidence. Why would I ignore evidence?
But evidence of what? That Fukuda was a bad shooter? Or that he was a human being having a rough shooting day?
Zen pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to banish the thoughts.
The laptop screen had gone dark from inactivity. He reached out, tapped the trackpad, and the video resumed—his younger self screaming at a teammate during a timeout, face flushed, finger jabbing the air.
The teammate's expression was familiar.
Defeated. Disconnected. The look of someone who'd stopped believing they could contribute.
Just like Fukuda.
Zen closed the laptop harder than necessary.
Across town, Maji Burger was experiencing its usual evening rush.
Kagami Taiga sat in his customary booth—or rather, had commandeered the booth through sheer presence—with six empty burger wrappers stacked beside his tray and a seventh burger halfway to his mouth. Across from him, Kuroko sipped a vanilla shake with the slow, deliberate pace of someone who found joy in making food last.
"So what's his deal?" Kagami asked around a mouthful of beef and cheese.
"Whose deal?"
"You know whose. Tanaka." Kagami swallowed, grabbed his soda. "Guy's clearly got skills, but he's so—I don't know—cold about it. Like basketball's math homework instead of a game."
Kuroko set down his shake, considering. "That's not entirely inaccurate."
"Yeah? So what happened to him? Nobody gets like that without a reason."
"I don't know his full history," Kuroko said carefully. "But I know he played against Teikō's third string at nationals. And I know he lost despite playing exceptionally well."
"Third string?" Kagami frowned. "You guys had a third string?"
"Teikō's roster was deep. The Generation of Miracles were the first string. The regulars who couldn't compete with them became second string. And I..." Kuroko paused, something complicated crossing his face. "I played with whoever needed me. That day, it was the third string."
Kagami processed this, then leaned forward. "And Tanaka's team lost to the third string? That must've been rough."
"It was close. His team wasn't weak—he made sure of that. But they lacked cohesion. Every possession felt like five individuals rather than one unit." Kuroko's fingers traced patterns in the condensation on his cup. "Tanaka-kun played brilliantly. His court awareness was extraordinary. He saw passing lanes before they opened, predicted rotations before they happened. In many ways, he reminded me of Akashi-kun."
"The Teikō captain? That scary dude?"
"Yes. Though Tanaka-kun lacks Akashi-kun's absolute confidence. There's something... uncertain beneath his precision. As if he's trying to prove something rather than simply playing."
Kagami grabbed another burger from the pile. "So what's this 'Path to Victory' thing he supposedly has?"
"Ah." Kuroko's expression became thoughtful. "That's difficult to explain. Have you ever watched a chess grandmaster play?"
"Can't say I have."
"They see several moves ahead. Not just one possibility, but entire trees of possibility. They anticipate their opponent's responses and plan accordingly." Kuroko leaned back. "Tanaka-kun does something similar with basketball. He sees sequences—chains of passes, cuts, and shots that lead to scoring opportunities. He understands spacing and timing at a level most players never reach."
"So he's smart. Got it."
"It's more than intelligence. It's intuition refined into something approaching precognition." Kuroko's voice carried a note of admiration. "When I played against him, he intercepted my misdirection passes twice. Do you understand how rare that is? Most players never see me at all, let alone predict where I'll pass."
Kagami stopped chewing. "He saw through your misdirection?"
"Not exactly. He couldn't see me—misdirection still worked. But he tracked the ball's trajectory by reading my teammates' movements and the defensive spacing. He understood that even invisible passes must follow geometric principles." Kuroko smiled faintly. "It was the first time I'd faced someone who could counter misdirection through pure analysis."
"Damn." Kagami leaned back, whistling low. "So why's he at Seirin? Guy like that could've gone anywhere."
"I don't know his reasoning. But I suspect he chose a school without an established ace deliberately."
"Why?"
"Because," Kuroko said quietly, "he doesn't want to share the spotlight. He wants to prove he can carry a team alone."
Kagami's expression darkened. "That's stupid."
"It's human." Kuroko's gaze was distant, focused on something beyond the burger joint's fluorescent lights. "Tanaka-kun sees victory. He sees the destination clearly, understands the path to reach it. But he doesn't see the team—the people who must walk that path with him. To him, teammates are variables in an equation. And when they don't produce the expected result, he believes the variable is flawed rather than considering the equation might be wrong."
"Heavy stuff for a guy who just transferred in."
"Perhaps. But I recognize the symptoms." Kuroko's voice was soft. "I've seen what happens when talented players stop trusting their teammates. I watched it destroy Teikō from the inside."
Kagami unwrapped his eighth burger, but didn't bite. "You think he's gonna be like them? The Miracles?"
"No. The Miracles stopped trusting teammates because they outgrew them—they became so talented that cooperation felt limiting. Tanaka-kun is different. He never trusted them to begin with."
"What's the difference?"
"The Miracles chose isolation from a position of strength. Tanaka-kun chose it from a position of fear."
Kagami blinked. "Fear?"
"Yes." Kuroko's eyes met his directly. "He's afraid. Not of losing—though he hates it. He's afraid of hoping. Afraid that if he trusts his teammates, if he allows himself to believe they'll succeed, and they fail anyway... then the failure becomes partially his fault for trusting. It's safer to assume they'll fail and act accordingly."
"That's..." Kagami struggled for words. "That's really messed up."
"It is. But it's also understandable. Repeated disappointment creates emotional calluses. After enough times watching teammates miss, watching plans fall apart, watching victory slip away because someone else couldn't execute—you start protecting yourself. You stop hoping because hope hurts too much when it's crushed."
Kagami was quiet for a long moment, burger forgotten.
"So what do we do?" he asked finally. "Just let him keep playing like that?"
"No." Kuroko's voice carried quiet determination. "We show him an alternative. We prove that trust isn't weakness—it's strength. That relying on teammates doesn't make you vulnerable—it makes you unstoppable."
"How?"
"By being worthy of his trust." Kuroko's slight smile returned. "You declared you'd force him to pass through sheer dominance. That's actually not a bad approach."
"Yeah?" Kagami's competitive fire rekindled. "So I just gotta be so obviously open, so clearly the right choice, that he can't justify not passing?"
"Essentially. Though I suspect it will take more than one or two successful possessions. He's been building these defensive patterns for years. They won't break easily."
"Good." Kagami grinned, finally biting into his burger. "I like challenges."
Kuroko watched his partner eat with something approaching fondness. "Kagami-kun, may I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"Why do you care? About Tanaka-kun, I mean. He embarrassed you in that one-on-one. He's clearly not interested in friendship. Why invest energy in reaching him?"
Kagami swallowed, considering. "Because he's strong. Really strong. And if we're gonna beat the Generation of Miracles—if we're gonna make it to the top—we need everyone at their best. Including him."
"That's practical reasoning."
"Yeah, but that's not the real reason." Kagami leaned forward. "The real reason is I've seen that look before. In the mirror. Back when I was in America, playing street ball, getting destroyed by guys bigger and stronger than me. I stopped trusting my teammates too. Figured if I was gonna lose anyway, might as well lose on my own terms."
"What changed?"
"I met someone who kept passing me the ball anyway. Even when I missed. Even when I screwed up. He kept believing I'd figure it out, and eventually..." Kagami's voice softened slightly. "Eventually I did. And I realized basketball's more fun when you're not carrying everything alone."
Kuroko's smile widened fractionally. "You're more thoughtful than you appear, Kagami-kun."
"Don't spread that around. Got a reputation to maintain." But Kagami was grinning. "So we gonna help this guy or what?"
"We're going to try. Though I suspect the person who reaches him ultimately will be neither of us."
"Who then?"
"Himself." Kuroko finished his shake, the straw making that hollow rattling sound against ice. "We can provide opportunities and examples. But Tanaka-kun has to choose to trust. And that choice has to come from him recognizing that isolation hasn't worked—and probably never will."
Kagami nodded slowly. "Heavy stuff for a Wednesday."
"Indeed."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the ambient noise of the burger joint washing over them—the hiss of the fryer, conversations from other booths, the periodic ding of the register.
"Hey, Kuroko?"
"Yes?"
"When you faced him at nationals... did you think he could've won? If his teammates were better?"
Kuroko thought about this carefully. "No. Even with better teammates, I don't think he would've won. Because 'better' wasn't what he needed. He needed teammates he could trust. And as long as he viewed them as obstacles rather than allies, no amount of skill would've changed the outcome."
"Damn. Poor guy."
"Yes," Kuroko agreed quietly. "But he doesn't want pity. He wants victory. And the tragedy is he doesn't understand they're incompatible given his current approach."
"Yet," Kagami amended. "He doesn't understand yet."
Kuroko's expression warmed. "I appreciate your optimism."
"Not optimism. Just fact." Kagami stood, gathering his tray. "Nobody comes to Seirin unless they're ready to change. Even if they don't know it yet."
Zen's apartment remained dark.
He'd moved from the laptop to his training routine—the same routine he'd performed every night for three years. Ball handling in the narrow hallway, dribbling between furniture. Wall passes, catching and immediately releasing. Shadow shooting with perfect form, ingraining the muscle memory deeper with each repetition.
But tonight, the routine felt hollow.
Each dribble echoed in the empty apartment. Each imaginary shot fell through an imaginary hoop. Each movement was solitary, isolated, disconnected from anything larger than himself.
This is how I get better, he told himself. This is how I sharpen my tools.
But tools needed purpose. And right now, standing alone in his dark apartment, Zen couldn't remember what purpose felt like.
He thought about tomorrow's practice. Riko's assignment: partner with Fukuda, set him up for fifteen shots minimum.
The idea made his skin crawl. Not because he couldn't do it—the technical execution was simple—but because it required something he'd spent years avoiding.
Hope.
Hope that Fukuda would make the shots. Hope that trust would be rewarded. Hope that relying on someone else wouldn't end in the familiar sting of disappointment.
"Tanaka-kun is afraid. Not of losing—but of hoping."
How had Kuroko known? How had he looked at Zen and seen straight through the analytical exterior to the wounded thing underneath?
Zen stopped dribbling, catching the ball against his chest.
In the window's reflection, he could see himself—tall silhouette backlit by city lights, alone in an empty apartment, holding a basketball like it was the only solid thing in a shifting world.
Is this who I want to be?
The question arrived unbidden, and with it came a cascade of other questions he'd been avoiding.
Do I even enjoy basketball anymore? Or is it just a burden I'm too stubborn to put down?
When was the last time I celebrated with teammates? When was the last time victory felt like more than just relief?
Am I training to get better, or training to avoid feeling inadequate?
The reflection didn't answer. It just stared back, silent and judgmental.
Zen turned away from the window and walked to his makeshift shooting area—a taped square on the wall at regulation hoop height. He'd drawn it himself his first night in the apartment, muscle memory ensuring perfect dimensions.
He took his shooting stance. Ball at his waist. Knees bent. Shoulders square.
But instead of releasing, he just stood there, frozen in the gather.
What if I pass tomorrow and Fukuda misses?
The question sent anxiety spiking through his chest.
What if I trust him and he fails and everyone sees it was the wrong choice and I should've just taken the shot myself?
His breathing quickened.
What if giving up control means losing everything?
But a quieter voice—one that sounded suspiciously like Kuroko—whispered: What if keeping control means never winning anything that matters?
Zen released the ball. It bounced off the wall, rolled across the floor, came to rest against the far baseboard.
He didn't chase it.
Instead, he sank to the floor, back against the wall, and let the exhaustion wash over him. Not physical exhaustion—that was manageable, familiar. This was something deeper. Soul-deep weariness from carrying expectations he'd never asked for but couldn't set down.
His phone buzzed. A message from his mother.
How's basketball going? Are you making friends?
Zen stared at the screen for a long time before typing:
Basketball is fine. Still adjusting to the team.
Not technically a lie. Just incomplete.
He set the phone aside and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he'd go to practice. He'd partner with Fukuda. He'd attempt to set him up for fifteen shots, even though every instinct screamed it was inefficient, suboptimal, dangerous.
He'd try to trust.
And if it failed—when it failed—he'd at least know for certain that his way was right. That isolation was practical rather than fearful. That he'd been correct all along.
Please let me be wrong, he thought suddenly, surprising himself. Please let them be right about trust.
Because if they were wrong, if his cynicism was justified, then this was all there was. Empty apartments and hollow routines and victories that felt like losses because there was nobody to share them with.
And Zen didn't think he could live like that forever.
The basketball sat across the room, orange sphere glowing faintly in the ambient city light.
Zen didn't retrieve it.
Instead, he sat in the darkness, letting the weight of legacy—his own and others'—press down on his shoulders, wondering if he'd ever figure out how to set it down.
Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow I'll try.
But tonight, he just sat with the fear.
And that, somehow, felt like progress.