The Reset
Another game had ended.
But the air didn't feel like victory yet.
The crowd—once thunder—was now only soft murmurs, footsteps on hollow bleachers, fading echoes as fans filtered out into the hallway light.
Above the silence, the sharp shrill of the referee's whistle sliced through.
A final signal.
Both teams moved toward center court.
No words.
Just the hush of sneakers, the creak of joints, and the weight of exhaustion folding over the moment.
They lined up—bowed.
One last gesture of respect.
Then—just like that—it was over.
Players turned. Some smiling. Some silent. Some dragging their feet.
Back to the bench.
Except two.
…
Kaito and Taniguchi remained.
Still at center court.
Still locked in something that went deeper than scores.
Taniguchi stepped forward, wiping sweat from his brow.
His voice was casual, but there was a gravity beneath it.