Chapter 4 The Scoundrel, Mitsui Hisashi
The sky had quietly shifted to dusk. Warm orange bled into deep purple, clouds stretching like smeared paint across the horizon.
Inside Shohoku High's gym, the earlier chaos of first-day practice had faded. Only the echo of mops on polished floorboards remained.
Sakuragi Hanamichi rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly. His body—absurdly resilient—had already shaken off most of the strain, but the unfamiliar intensity of real basketball training still left a faint soreness in his muscles.
He waved lazily at the teammates he'd just begun to recognize—Miyagi bouncing away with endless energy, Akagi already reviewing drills, Rukawa silently toweling off without sparing him a glance—and headed out alone.
As for Sakuragi's gang? They'd vanished halfway through practice, lured away by the glittering siren call of a pachinko parlor. Typical.
His apartment greeted him with stale air and silence.
Bare walls. A single light bulb. A refrigerator that hummed louder than the room itself.
Sakuragi opened it. Bread. Milk. A half-used jar of mayonnaise. A couple of cheap mineral water bottles.
"So this is the great protagonist's life, huh…" he muttered.
He slapped together toast, fried eggs, drowned them in mayonnaise, and ate standing up. Fast. Efficient. Habitual.
Being reborn as Sakuragi Hanamichi sounded glorious in theory. In reality, the legendary red-haired genius of Shohoku was also a broke high school delinquent surviving on part-time work and free food from friends.
When he finished, the ticking of the cheap wall clock reminded him of reality.
Night shift.
He grabbed his worn jacket and headed out again.
At the Akagi household, the atmosphere was entirely different.
"Brother! Brother! Did you see him today?!"
Haruko Akagi bounced around the living room, eyes shining like fireworks.
"He said he didn't like basketball! I was so shocked! But then he ran to the gym anyway! And then he dunked! A real dunk, on his first day!!"
In the corner, Takenori Akagi lifted a heavy dumbbell with slow, controlled breaths. Veins stood out on his forearm.
"Is that so…" he murmured.
But his mind was far from calm.
Sakuragi Hanamichi — monstrous physical talent.
Rukawa Kaede — refined skill and instinct.
Shohoku's future flashed before his eyes.
Nationals.
He raised the dumbbell higher, as if lifting the weight of that hope itself.
"This year… we will go."
The convenience store shift dragged on.
"Welcome."
"Thank you."
Beep. Bag. Repeat.
By the time the clock hit closing, Sakuragi changed out of his apron faster than someone released from prison.
The shop owner, a balding middle-aged man, handed him a plastic bag.
"Here. Usual leftovers. Don't waste them."
Inside were discounted bread, a milk carton near expiration, and leftover oden.
"Thanks, old man."
Sakuragi slung the bag over his shoulder and walked home under dim streetlights, his shadow stretching long over the pavement.
As he passed a small park, laughter drifted out.
He slowed.
A group of delinquents loitered near the swings—loud clothes, dyed hair, cigarettes. Among them, a tall boy with long hair sat on a bench, quietly smoking.
Mitsui Hisashi.
Not yet the legendary three-point shooter of Shohoku.
Just a lost former MVP who had walked away from basketball.
Sakuragi exhaled softly through his nose.
"Right on schedule…"
Suddenly, one of the delinquents turned. A huge guy in a red vest, thick curly hair, eyes sharp like a hunting dog.
Tetsuo.
He locked onto Sakuragi immediately.
Their eyes met.
Tension snapped taut.
Before Tetsuo could speak, one of his lackeys swaggered forward—the same idiot who would later crack Rukawa's head in canon.
He leaned in, spitting his words.
"Oi, red hair. You got a staring problem?"
Sakuragi stared back, expression flat.
Trouble again. Of course.
The thug raised his hand—
Sakuragi moved first.
One step. One pivot. A clean, powerful kick straight into the man's stomach.
The delinquent flew backward and collapsed, gasping for air.
Silence hit the park.
Mitsui's eyes widened.
Tetsuo's expression twisted into fury.
Sakuragi didn't wait.
He turned and sprinted.
Not random running—basketball footwork, explosive acceleration. In seconds, he shot down an alley, then another, weaving through the neighborhood like he'd lived here for years.
"Catch him!" Tetsuo roared.
They tried.
They failed.
By the time they reached the alley exit, Sakuragi was already a shrinking red silhouette disappearing under distant streetlights.
Tetsuo slammed a fist against the wall.
"Damn red-haired bastard…"
Mitsui stared after the vanished figure, cigarette forgotten between his fingers.
"…Fast," he muttered.
Sakuragi slowed only when he reached the main road again. He steadied his breathing, adjusted the plastic bag on his shoulder, and glanced back at the dark maze of alleys.
A crooked smile tugged at his lips.
"Part-time job by day. Running from delinquents by night. Yeah… being reborn as Sakuragi Hanamichi isn't exactly easy mode."
He turned toward home, red hair glowing under the streetlight.
Tomorrow, basketball again.
And this time—
things would really begin.