Part 1: A Heavy Beginning
The sun had just begun to crawl behind Jakarta’s towering skyscrapers, casting a soft orange hue across the morning air. But for Jora Nakka, the morning felt heavy and full of pressure.
His steps were sluggish as he walked toward the large gate of Dermaga 2 Senior High School—a prestigious school he had only heard about through his father’s stories. Now, it was a reality he had to face.
Jora’s mind swirled with doubts and questions.
Was he really ready? Had all this effort been worth it?
Cold sweat began to drip as he stepped inside. This school was nothing like the quiet, orderly schools in Tokyo. It was loud, chaotic—children ran across the field, laughter and shouting collided in the air.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
"I’m not in Japan anymore," he whispered.
"This is my new home. I have to survive here."
Every glance that landed on him felt like a test. Curious faces, whispers behind hands, gazes that sometimes carried challenge. Jora knew—this wasn’t just about classroom lessons. It was a battlefield of social survival.
Part 2: A Tense Introduction
In Class 1 of Dermaga 2 High, the room fell silent just before the bell rang. Jora sat in the middle row, trying to hide his nervousness. The moment he had dreaded had arrived—the first impression.
The teacher walked in with a warm smile and a voice that filled the room.
“Today, we have a new student joining us. Let’s welcome Jora Nakka.”
The name echoed in the room, and all eyes turned toward him.
Jora stood, heart pounding. He opened his mouth, his Indonesian still hesitant.
“Hello, I’m Jora. I come from Japan. I’m happy to study here.”
Whispers immediately filled the room. Some students exchanged glances, a few smiled, others looked unsure.
A girl with bright eyes approached him, offering a kind smile.
“I’m Rina. Nice to meet you, Jora! Don’t worry, we’re friends.”
Jora nodded slightly, sensing a flicker of hope.
But in the corner of the room, a boy with a cold gaze stared intently—Dimas. The unofficial leader of the class. He raised an eyebrow, challenging.
“New kid? Let’s see how long you’ll last here.”
Jora looked back, undaunted.
“I’m not here to be a burden. I’m here to fight for my place.”
Part 3: A Meeting with Rina and Arif
During recess, Rina approached and held out her hand.
“I know this is hard. But you’re not alone.”
Suddenly, a curly-haired boy walked up.
“I’m Arif. If you want to survive here, you need friends.”
Jora gave a faint smile—for the first time, warmth touched his chest since arriving.
They walked together toward the cafeteria, through a sea of students that now seemed a bit less intimidating.
Part 4: Dimas’s Stare and the First Challenge
As they passed the basketball court, Dimas appeared with his group. Laughter and mocking whispers greeted Jora.
“If you think you can survive here with just smiles and words, you’re dead wrong.”
Jora looked straight ahead, voice calm but firm.
“I’m not here to be mocked. I’m here to prove myself.”
Dimas smirked, but a flicker of respect hid behind his eyes.
Part 5: Basketball Practice – The First Battle
That afternoon, the basketball court became a testing ground.
Arif held the ball, eyes gleaming.
“This isn’t just about brains. It’s about guts and grit. If you want to be accepted, show us.”
Jora felt all eyes on him—including Dimas’s from the sideline.
The ball was thrown to him. The pace was intense, but he didn’t give up. He moved, stumbled, fell, but kept getting up—stronger each time.
“Your hands are stiff, but your heart’s strong!” Arif shouted, laughing.
From a distance, Dimas watched silently, holding back a smile.
Part 6: Loneliness and Determination at Night
That night, Jora sat by his window at the boarding house. Jakarta’s glowing lights sparkled like distant dreams.
Tears welled in his eyes—homesickness gnawed at him.
“But I won’t give up,” he whispered.
“For my father, for my friends… for myself.”
Part 7: Sparks on the Court
That evening, the Jakarta sky darkened with shades of orange and gray. The basketball court at Dermaga 2 was alive with cheers and the sound of bouncing balls.
Jora stood at the edge of the court, breath heavy, shirt soaked in sweat. The basketball in his hand felt heavier—not from weight, but from the pressure of expectations.
Arif clapped his shoulder with a wide grin.
“You’re way better than yesterday, Jor. Your moves are quicker. But… watch your left foot. Still off position.”
Jora nodded, trying to catch his breath.
I’m still not used to it... the pace here is faster than I expected.”
From the sidelines, Rina chimed in while handing over a bottle of water.
“You’re amazing, Jora. Making it this far is already something.”
He smiled and accepted the drink.
“Arigatou…”
Then quickly corrected, “Eh, I mean—thank you…”
They chuckled softly, the moment warm. But suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from the stands.
Dimas walked forward, basketball in hand, flanked by two of his friends.
“Funny. A few drills and already getting applause?”
Jora turned, staring directly.
“This isn’t about applause. I’m here to learn.”
Dimas bounced the ball slowly, repeatedly.
“Learn? This ain’t Tokyo, Nakka. Here, the weak get left behind. You think people will wait for you to catch up?”
Rina stood, anger flashing in her eyes.
“Dimas, stop. Jora isn’t bothering anyone. He’s working harder than most of us.”
Dimas shrugged, eyes shifting to Arif.
“You too, Rif. Don’t regret helping someone who doesn’t know how to survive.”
Arif stepped forward. Calm, but firm.
“We help because we know how it feels to be the outsider. Maybe you forgot, Dimas... we were all ‘new kids’ once.”
Silence fell. The ball stopped bouncing. Dimas stared at Jora, then lifted the ball to his chest.
“If you think you’re ready, Jora... prove it. One-on-one. Right now.”
Jora swallowed hard. His fists clenched. Then, he nodded.
“Alright. I accept.”
Arif looked alarmed.
“Jora, you’re not ready—”
“Let him,” Rina interrupted gently. “He’ll never know if he doesn’t try.”
Students started to gather, buzzing with curiosity.
A showdown: Dimas vs Jora.
They stood across from each other. Dimas wore a mocking smile.
“First to five points. Loser steps aside.”
“Agreed,” Jora replied firmly.
The match began.
Jora’s first steps were stiff, but his eyes locked in. He followed Dimas’s every move. But Dimas was fast. A quick move, and the ball slid into the hoop. 1-0.
Cheers erupted.
Arif clasped his hands. Rina bit her lip.
Jora took a deep breath.
"Focus... ignore the crowd. It’s just you and the ball."
His turn. Jora dribbled. Dimas lunged—Jora faked left, spun right. Lay-up—clean. 1-1.
The crowd cheered louder.
Dimas’s expression shifted.
“Okay... so you’re not just guts.”
The game intensified. The score chased upward. Jora was tired, but his eyes burned with resolve.
4-4.
Final point.
Dimas shot from the three-point line—
Jora jumped, hand extended—perfect block.
The ball fell back into his hands. He dashed forward, leaped—
SWOOSH.
5-4. Jora wins.
A hush. Then a wave of applause. Arif cheered loudest. Rina jumped, laughing with joy.
Jora bent forward, panting, but a smile crept across his face—a smile born from struggle, from a hard-earned victory.
Dimas approached slowly. No more mockery in his eyes. Just a long stare.
Then a nod.
“You… deserve to be here.”
And he walked away.
Rina stepped up, tapping Jora’s shoulder.
“See? You can do it.”
Jora looked up at the darkening sky. For the first time, he felt… like this place was starting to accept him.