Post-defeat. Pre-denial. Mid-crisis.
Kenji lay on his bed like a chalk outline.
The ceiling above him was plain white, methodically smooth, probably built to calm the human mind. It failed spectacularly.
He'd gone through all the usual motions: changed clothes, unpacked his bag, arranged his rackets by tension level, reorganized his socks (by thickness and frequency of betrayal). He even synced his meal tracker.
The numbers added up.
His feelings didn't.
He hadn't even been at this school for a full day, and already some reckless, ribbon-wearing chaos elemental had drop-shotted his dignity into orbit.
He touched his forehead.
Still tender.
Still ridiculous.
"Great forehead," she'd said. With actual admiration. Like she was complimenting bone structure instead of apologizing for assault.
Her name was Ayumi. He'd overheard it in the locker room. Second-year. Varsity. Undefeated in matches that mattered, which, according to Coach Sora, were "any match she doesn't forget to show up to."
Kenji exhaled slowly through his nose.
He should've seen it coming. Not the forehead ambush, maybe—but the type. She was exactly the kind of person who confused "tennis" with "theater."
The kind who played for the moment, not the point.
And yet—she won.
With a twirl.
On match point.
He sat up. Then lay back down. Then groaned and grabbed a pillow, hugging it to his chest like it could absorb his confusion.
His brain looped through the scene again like a cursed highlight reel:
Her serve floating through the air like a soap bubble.
That drop shot with the force of a whisper.
Her walking away like she'd just solved a Rubik's cube blindfolded.
"Who does that?" he muttered aloud to his ceiling. "Who twirls in competition?"
And—worse—why did it work on him?
He hadn't even moved. His legs had frozen, like someone had unplugged his programming. She didn't beat him with power. Or strategy. Or footwork.
She beat him with style.
And now—now she was living in his head like she paid rent. Decorating the place with glitter and emotional confusion. Rewriting his thoughts with exclamation points and side comments.
Practice is tomorrow, she'd said.
He hadn't even told her he was coming.
He still wasn't sure if he was coming.
Except he definitely was.
Not for revenge. He didn't care about pride. Not technically. He just… needed to recalibrate. Ask some follow-up questions. Run diagnostics on his dignity.
That's all.
Kenji turned off the lights. Lay back down. Stared into the dark.
This school was supposed to be predictable. Competitive, sure. But sane.
Instead, his first day had introduced a girl who weaponized whimsy—and now lived rent-free in his mental tennis court.
"…I should've transferred to an accounting school," he whispered.