The gymnasium smelled like every other gym Zen had ever walked into—rubber, sweat, and the faint tang of cleaning solution that never quite masked the first two. Late afternoon light slanted through the high windows, catching dust motes that drifted above the court like snow. The wooden floor gleamed under the fluorescents, polished to the point where Zen could see his reflection in the three-point line.
He was early. Deliberately so.
A handful of students were already present—upperclassmen, judging by their ease of movement and the worn quality of their practice gear. They moved through layup lines with efficient rhythm, the ball leaving their hands at the apex of their jumps, rotating perfectly before kissing off the glass. Fundamentals. Clean, practiced fundamentals.
Better than the pickup game from yesterday, at least.
Zen set his bag against the wall and began stretching, keeping his expression neutral even as he catalogued every player on the court. The shooting guard had decent form but released the ball a fraction too early on his jump shot—compensating with arc, probably, but it would cost him against taller defenders. The power forward had good hands but telegraphed his pivot foot. The point guard—
"You're Tanaka, right?"
Zen looked up.
The speaker was a girl, maybe a year older than him, with short brown hair and sharp eyes that held the particular intensity of someone used to being listened to. She wore a whistle around her neck and carried a clipboard, which meant coach or manager. Given Seirin's structure, probably both.
"That's right," Zen said, straightening from his hamstring stretch.
"Riko Aida. Coach." She extended her hand, and he shook it—firm grip, callused palm. "I've seen your name in the scouting reports. You played at nationals last year."
"I did."
"Semifinals, if I remember correctly. Lost to Tōō Academy." Her eyes narrowed slightly, not unkindly. "Close game."
"Close doesn't win championships."
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, or approval. She glanced down at her clipboard. "Well, let's see what you can do. We're starting with basic drills once everyone arrives. Nothing fancy. Just want to get a baseline."
"Understood."
She moved on to greet other arriving first-years, and Zen returned to his stretches, aware that several pairs of eyes were now tracking him. Whispers carried across the gym—his name, nationals, the Miracles—but he tuned them out. Let them talk. Words meant nothing.
The door banged open.
Kagami Taiga strode in like he owned the place, gym bag slung over one shoulder, that same fierce grin plastered across his face. He spotted Zen immediately, and the grin widened.
"Yo! You actually showed up."
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"Nah. Just figured you'd take longer to decide." Kagami dropped his bag next to Zen's and started his own stretching routine—less methodical, more instinctive. "Excited to see what you've got."
Zen didn't respond. He'd learned long ago that responding to provocations before the game started was a waste of energy. Better to let his play speak.
More students filtered in. Zen recognized a few faces from class, but most were unfamiliar. The veterans gathered near center court, clearly comfortable with their hierarchy, while the first-years clustered nervously near the baseline. Standard dynamics.
And then—
"Good afternoon."
Zen's head snapped toward the voice.
Kuroko Tetsuya stood three feet away, expression placid, hands at his sides. Zen hadn't heard him approach. Hadn't seen him enter. One moment the space had been empty; the next, Kuroko was simply there, as if he'd materialized from the air itself.
"Kuroko!" Kagami jumped, nearly losing his balance mid-stretch. "Dude, seriously, you gotta make some noise when you walk."
"I apologize, Kagami-kun." Kuroko's tone was perfectly flat, betraying nothing. His gaze slid past Kagami to Zen, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "It's a habit."
Zen held the stare, searching for recognition, for any indication that Kuroko remembered their clash at nationals. But Kuroko's face remained expressionless, unreadable as frosted glass.
"Everyone, line up!" Riko's voice cut through the ambient noise, commanding immediate attention. "We're starting with conditioning, then moving to shooting and passing drills. First-years, watch the veterans if you're unsure about form. We do things a certain way here."
The conditioning was brutal.
Suicide sprints—baseline to free throw, back to baseline, baseline to half-court, back to baseline, baseline to opposite free throw, back to baseline, full court and back—repeated until Zen's lungs burned and his thighs screamed. Around him, other first-years were gasping, some bent over with hands on knees.
Zen kept his breathing controlled. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Pace yourself. Don't peak too early.
Beside him, Kagami was barely winded, his American conditioning evident in the way he attacked each sprint like it was a fast break. On Zen's other side, Kuroko moved with surprising efficiency despite his slight frame, his footwork economical, wasting no motion.
"Time!" Riko barked. "Water break. Two minutes."
Zen grabbed his bottle, took a measured sip, and used the remaining time to observe. The veterans were clustered together, the camaraderie obvious in their casual banter. The captain—a shooting guard with intense eyes and taped fingers—was going over something with a point guard who wore glasses. Both of them glanced toward the first-years periodically, evaluating.
Zen caught the captain's eye. Neither looked away.
After a moment, the captain said something to his teammate and walked over.
"Tanaka, right?" His voice was rough, like he'd spent years shouting over crowds. "Hyūga Junpei. Captain."
"Nice to meet you."
"Heard you're good. Real good." Hyūga's gaze was assessing, clinical. "But good doesn't mean much if you can't mesh with the team. Keep that in mind."
It wasn't quite a warning, but it wasn't friendly either. Zen nodded once, and Hyūga returned to the veterans without another word.
Territorial, Zen thought. He's protecting his team culture.
Smart.Zen could respect that, even if he found the concern premature.
"All right, shooting drills!" Riko clapped her hands. "Form three lines at the three-point line. Catch and shoot, focus on your release point. Veterans, I want you demonstrating proper footwork for the first-years."
Zen joined the middle line. Ahead of him, an upperclassman—the point guard with glasses—received a pass, squared his shoulders, and rose into his shot in one fluid motion. The ball arced cleanly through the net with a soft swish.
"Good rotation, Izuki!" Riko called.
When Zen's turn came, he caught the pass at his chest, footwork already adjusted, and released in the same rhythm he'd practiced ten thousand times. The ball barely moved the net as it dropped through.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Twelve shots. Twelve makes.
The gym had grown quieter.
Zen barely noticed. He was in the motion now, that familiar space where thought and action merged. Catch, square, release. Catch, square, release. The world narrowed to the rim, to the ball's rotation, to the kinesthetic memory embedded in his muscles.
"Okay, stop showing off," someone muttered—not hostile, more awed.
Zen blinked, surfacing from his focus. Several players had stopped their own drills to watch. Even Riko was staring, pen frozen above her clipboard.
Kagami's eyes were narrowed, his jaw tight.
"Passing drills next!" Riko recovered quickly, but Zen caught the brief flash of excitement on her face. "Partner up. Chest passes, bounce passes, overhead passes. I want to see crisp delivery and soft hands on the catch."
Zen found himself paired with a quiet second-year whose name he didn't catch. They went through the progressions mechanically—chest, bounce, overhead, repeat—and Zen made sure each pass hit his partner's hands at the exact optimal angle for the next catch. No wasted motion. No floaters.
But his attention kept drifting.
Across the court, Kagami was paired with Kuroko, and the contrast was stark. Kagami's passes were rockets—fast, aggressive, more force than necessary. Kuroko's were the opposite: soft, almost weightless, appearing in his partner's hands as if they'd been there all along.
He's still doing it, Zen thought. The misdirection.
During middle school nationals, Kuroko's passes had been invisible. Not literally, of course, but close enough. He exploited blind spots, used teammates as screens, threaded lanes that shouldn't have existed. Zen had adapted during that game—tracking Kuroko's shoulder rotation, anticipating his tendencies—but it had taken an entire quarter to crack the pattern.
And now they were on the same team.
Zen wasn't sure yet if that was an advantage or a complication.
"All right, that's enough!" Riko blew her whistle. "Take five. Then we're doing some light scrimmaging so I can see how you move in game situations."
The water break stretched longer than five minutes.
Zen sat against the wall, hydrating slowly, while around him conversations bubbled up—nervous laughter, speculation about who'd make the rotation, complaints about the conditioning. He tuned it out, focusing instead on his breathing, on the dull ache in his calves that promised soreness tomorrow.
"You're pretty good."
Zen opened his eyes. Kagami stood over him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me. It wasn't a compliment." Kagami's jaw worked like he was chewing on something bitter. "It was an observation."
"Then I'll observe that you're pretty good too."
"Yeah, I know." No false modesty there. Kagami crouched down to Zen's level, forearms resting on his knees. "Let's play. One-on-one."
"Now?"
"Yeah, now. Unless you're scared."
Zen studied him. Kagami's eyes were bright with challenge, almost feverish. This wasn't about dominance or hierarchy—it was something purer. Simpler. I need to know where I stand.
Zen understood that impulse intimately.
"First to eleven," Zen said, standing. "Make it, take it."
Kagami's grin was sharp enough to cut. "You're on."
The gym quieted again as they took the court. Riko started to intervene—probably to remind them this wasn't authorized—but Hyūga put a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. Let them play. Better to see it now than wonder.
Zen checked the ball to Kagami.
For a moment, they stood in the stillness before the storm. Kagami's stance was wide, weight on the balls of his feet, eyes locked on Zen's chest to track his center of gravity. Textbook defensive positioning, if a bit aggressive.
Zen attacked.
Not explosively—he didn't need to. He took one dribble right, watched Kagami's hips shift, then crossed over left and accelerated into the lane. Kagami recovered quickly, sliding to cut off the angle, but Zen had already seen the opening. He planted his outside foot, rose into his gather, and finished with a soft floater over Kagami's outstretched hand.
Swish.
"One-zero," Zen said, catching the ball.
Kagami's expression hardened. "Again."
Zen checked the ball.
This time he went left immediately, forcing Kagami to backpedal. Kagami's lateral movement was excellent—better than most high schoolers Zen had faced—but his discipline wavered. He bit on a pump fake, just slightly, and that half-second of recovery time was all Zen needed to create space for a mid-range jumper.
Swish.
"Two-zero."
"Damn it." Kagami's voice was tight.
Check.
Zen drove right, but this time Kagami overcommitted to cutting off the lane. Zen stopped on a dime, dribbled between his legs, and stepped back into three-point range. Kagami lunged forward, hand extended, but Zen had already released.
Swish.
"Three-zero."
The gym was silent except for the sound of the ball bouncing. Even the veterans had stopped their own drills to watch.
Zen checked the ball again.
Kagami was breathing harder now, frustration bleeding into his stance. His defensive positioning had deteriorated—too upright, too reactive. Zen could see at least four different paths to the basket, each one painted in his mind like neon signs.
Path one: Drive left, euro-step, finish with the right hand.
Path two: Hesitation dribble, pull-up from fifteen feet.
Path three: Quick right, spin move, bank shot off the glass.
Path four: Step-back three.
He chose path one.
The euro-step caught Kagami flat-footed, his momentum carrying him past the play. Zen laid it in gently, barely disturbing the net.
"Four-zero."
"God damn it!" Kagami slapped the floor, then immediately pushed himself up. His face was flushed, but there was something else in his eyes now—not just frustration, but hunger. "Again."
Check.
Zen scored.
"Five-zero."
Check.
Zen scored.
"Six-zero."
Check.
Zen scored, and scored, and scored.
By the time Zen's final bucket dropped through—an unhurried mid-range jumper from the elbow that Kagami couldn't contest because his legs were too tired—the score was 11-2.
Zen caught the ball as it fell through the net and tucked it under his arm.
"Good game," he said quietly.
Kagami was bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving. For a long moment, he didn't respond. Then, slowly, he straightened and met Zen's eyes.
"You're strong," Kagami said, voice rough. "Real strong."
"So are you."
"Don't patronize me." But there was no venom in it. Just exhaustion and grudging respect. "I got destroyed."
"You're raw," Zen said. "But your instincts are elite. With refinement—"
"I don't need refinement advice from you." Kagami grabbed his water bottle and took a long drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Next time, I'll win."
"Maybe."
Kagami's eyes flashed, but before he could respond, a quiet voice cut through the tension.
"Impressive."
Zen turned.
Kuroko stood at the three-point line, hands in his pockets, expression as neutral as ever. But his gaze was fixed on Zen with an intensity that belied his calm exterior.
"That level of court awareness is rare," Kuroko continued. "You see the optimal path before the defense can adjust."
Zen's pulse kicked up, but he kept his face blank. "Just experience."
"No." Kuroko took a step closer. "It's more than that. You process defensive rotations in real time and exploit windows that close in seconds. I've only seen that ability in one other place."
He paused.
"At Teikō."
The gym felt suddenly smaller.
Zen forced himself to breathe evenly, to maintain eye contact, to not let the tremor in his chest reach his voice. "We've played before."
It wasn't a question.
Kuroko tilted his head slightly. "Yes. Middle school nationals. Semifinals. Your team versus Teikō's third string—the team I joined after the regulars stopped needing me."
"I remember."
"Do you?" Kuroko's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Because I remember you. You intercepted two of my passes that game. Most players never see me coming, but you tracked me like I was visible."
Zen's jaw tightened. That game had been humiliating in a different way than losing to Aomine or Midorima. Not because Teikō's third string was weak—they weren't—but because Zen had known, even while executing his game plan, that he was facing a shadow of what Teikō could have been. The Miracles hadn't even dressed for that game.
"You cost us three possessions," Zen said quietly. "Enough to turn the momentum."
"And you created seven opportunities your teammates couldn't finish." Kuroko's tone was clinical, factual. "I watched you during timeouts. The way you looked at them. Like they were obstacles instead of allies."
Zen's hands clenched into fists.
"I'm not here to judge," Kuroko continued. "I'm just observing. You have extraordinary talent. But talent without trust is—"
"I don't need a lecture on teamwork from someone who hides in shadows."
The words came out sharper than Zen intended, and he regretted them immediately. Kuroko's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes—hurt, maybe, or disappointment.
Before either could speak again, Riko's whistle pierced the air.
"All right, enough standing around! Everyone, back to drills. We're running a mock scrimmage in ten minutes, so hydrate and get your heads right."
The spell broke.
Kuroko turned and walked away without another word, his footsteps silent against the polished floor. Zen watched him go, something cold and uncomfortable settling in his stomach.
Kagami, still catching his breath nearby, shook his head. "Man, you don't pull punches, do you?"
"No," Zen said. "I don't."
"Good." Kagami straightened, rolling his shoulders. "Then we'll get along just fine."
He jogged off toward the water fountain, leaving Zen alone at center court.
Zen stood there for a moment, ball still tucked under his arm, staring at the spot where Kuroko had been.
Talent without trust.
The words echoed in his head, uncomfortably accurate.
He shook it off, refocused. There'd be time to process later. Right now, he had a scrimmage to prepare for, and first impressions only happened once.
Zen walked toward his water bottle, ignoring the stares from the other players, ignoring the whispered speculation.
Flawless execution means nothing without victory, he reminded himself.
And victory required a team.
Even if he didn't trust one yet.