The sun is already high when Aoi Kisaragi begins her laps.
The track shimmers with heat, the air rippling like glass. Sweat trickles down her neck, gathering on the curve of her collarbone, but she doesn't slow down.
Her body knows these movements by heart.
Push off — breathe — lean in — drive forward.
Around her, teammates are talking, laughing, adjusting blocks. She hears none of it. For her, there's only the pulse in her ears and the wind that cuts past her face.
Running is supposed to be freedom.
But lately, it feels like running away.
"Faster, Aoi!" someone calls.
She nods without looking back, tightening her jaw. Her father's voice echoes instead — Keep improving. Technique first. Speed second. Win.
Her legs blur. The burn in her calves tells her she's alive, and that's all that matters.
On the sideline, Coach Minobe watches in silence, arms crossed. He doesn't shout, doesn't clap. He's watching the rhythm, not the speed. Behind him, the sports-med assistant, Ren Hayama, kneels by the water crates, refilling bottles. He glances up once — long enough to notice how Aoi's stride shortens, her right leg slightly stiff.
He says nothing. It isn't his place.
Aoi finishes her lap and bends forward, hands on knees, gasping. Her teammates cheer, but her breathing feels wrong — too sharp, too heavy.
She straightens up, brushing it off.
Another run. One more.
The coach opens his mouth as if to say something, but she's already back on the line.
Why stop now?
She's always been ahead of the curve — quick, precise, reliable. Her parents tell people she was "born to run." She tells herself she's just living up to that.
The whistle blows.
She launches.
Halfway through the curve, the pain blooms — sudden, white-hot, behind her knee. Her rhythm collapses mid-stride.
Her foot lands wrong.
She stumbles, catches herself, then the world tilts sideways.
The thud echoes across the field.
Her teammates freeze.
"—Aoi!"
The coach is already moving, but Ren is closer. He drops the bottle he's holding and runs — not fast, but steady, controlled. His steps are quiet on the rubber.
By the time he reaches her, Aoi is sitting upright, clutching her leg.
"I'm fine," she says between clenched teeth.
"Don't move," he answers. His voice is calm, practiced.
He kneels beside her, checking the joint gently. "Where's the pain?"
"Back of the knee," she mutters.
He presses lightly; she winces. "Strained," he says. "You should ice it."
"I said I'm fine."
Ren looks at her — really looks — and sees something he recognizes: not pride, but fear. The kind he used to feel right before losing everything he thought made him matter.
Coach Minobe arrives a moment later. "That's enough for today. You pushed too hard."
"I can still run!"
Her voice cracks. Everyone hears it.
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the wind brushing against the lane markers.
Minobe exhales. "Tomorrow, see the school physician. Hayama, help her back to the infirmary."
Aoi looks away, humiliated. "I can walk."
"Then walk," Ren says quietly, standing. He stays one step behind her all the way off the field, ready if she falls.
She doesn't thank him.
He doesn't expect her to.
The infirmary smells faintly of antiseptic and summer rain.
Ren hands her an ice pack and writes notes on a clipboard.
"You're the assistant, right?" she asks, voice flat.
"Yeah."
"You sound like a doctor."
"I've just been here a while."
She narrows her violet eyes at him — sharp, evaluating. "Do you always sound that bored?"
He doesn't answer.
Minutes pass in silence. The ice melts slowly in her hands.
Outside, she can still hear the faint sound of cleats hitting track. The team's laughter feels miles away.
"I hate sitting still," she mutters.
"I know," he says without looking up.
She glances at him. "What do you mean, you know?"
"Because I used to be you."
She stares, unsure whether to be offended or curious.
But when she looks at him again, she notices the way his hand tightens slightly on the pen. There's no pride in his tone — just quiet understanding.
The door slides open. Coach Minobe steps in, his expression unreadable. "You'll rest tomorrow. Hayama, make sure she gets the rehab forms."
Ren nods. "Understood."
When the coach leaves, Aoi sighs.
"Guess I really overdid it, huh?"
"Everyone does eventually," he says. "The trick is stopping before it breaks you."
She scoffs. "That's easy to say for someone who doesn't run."
Ren doesn't reply. He finishes writing, sets the clipboard down, and leaves without another word.
Outside, the track is empty again.
Ren stops by the bench where she fell earlier. The baton from the morning still lies near the lane divider, left behind by someone rushing to the locker room.
He picks it up.
The same weight. The same silence.
A gust of wind stirs the flags near the bleachers, carrying the faint echo of Aoi's voice — "I can still run!"
He looks down at his hand, then lets the baton fall back to the ground.
The wind moves on.