CROSS ZERO
Chapter 1: The Shot That Broke Everything
The gymnasium echoed with the thunder of sneakers on hardwood and the desperate roar of a crowd that wanted blood.
Akira Tenma sat on the bench, hands clenched between his knees, watching his team fall apart in real time.
67–69.
Two points down. Three minutes left.
His chest felt tight. His fingers twitched against his shorts. He'd been sitting here for forty-three minutes, watching from the sidelines as players better than him fought, bled, and carved their way through this game like it was life or death.
And maybe it was.
For them, anyway.
For Akira, it had always been something else—something bigger. Something that started a long time ago.
Flashback: Age 8
A small TV in a cramped living room. The screen flickered with the image of a man in a white jersey, rising above the defense like gravity didn't exist.
LeBron James.
The ball left his hands in a perfect arc. The buzzer sounded. The crowd exploded.
And eight-year-old Akira Tenma, sitting cross-legged on the floor with wide, burning eyes, whispered to himself:
"I want to do that."
Not for fame. Not for glory.
Because in that moment, LeBron looked free.
Present
"TIMEOUT!"
The whistle screamed. Akira blinked back to reality as his teammates trudged toward the bench, drenched in sweat and frustration. Their opponent—Seimei High—was suffocating them. Every possession felt like drowning.
Coach Harada stood with his arms crossed, face carved from stone. He didn't look at Akira.
He never did.
"We're running out of time," the coach barked. "Stick to the zone. Force them outside. Don't let Zeke touch the paint."
Zeke Arakawa.
The name alone carried weight. Seimei's star forward—a prodigy with the kind of presence that made defenders second-guess their existence. He'd already dropped twenty-eight points, and the game wasn't over yet.
Akira's jaw tightened. His fingers curled into fists.
Just one chance.
That's all he needed. One chance to prove he wasn't just a bench warmer. One chance to show he belonged here.
"Tenma."
Akira's head snapped up.
Coach Harada's eyes were cold, unreadable. "Get in."
For a moment, Akira forgot how to breathe.
"Don't screw this up," the coach added flatly, then turned away.
Akira stood. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else. The roar of the crowd faded into static as he stepped onto the court, pulling off his warmup jacket.
This is it.
This is my chance.
Two Minutes Left
The game resumed.
Akira moved cautiously at first, shadowing his man on defense, staying out of the way on offense. His teammates barely acknowledged him. The ball never came his way.
67–71.
Seimei scored again. Zeke carved through the paint like a knife through paper, finishing with a smooth layup that made it look effortless.
Akira's team pushed back. A quick inbound. A scramble up the court.
And then—
The ball was in Akira's hands.
Time seemed to slow.
He saw everything: the defender lunging toward him, the open lane ahead, the two teammates on either side calling for the pass.
"Left!"
"Right!"
Both were positioned inside the two-point area. A pass meant a tie at best.
But Akira had the three.
He could win this.
His heart hammered in his chest. His vision tunneled. And then—
A voice.
Not from the court. Not from his teammates.
From inside him.
"Take the shot."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command.
Akira's body moved before his mind could catch up. He planted his feet. Bent his knees. Released.
The ball arced through the air.
For one perfect, suspended moment, Akira thought he'd done it.
Then the ball struck the rim.
CLANG.
It bounced away.
The crowd gasped.
Seimei grabbed the rebound.
And Zeke Arakawa took off like a bullet.
Akira's legs wouldn't move. He stood frozen as Zeke blazed past him, crossed half-court in three strides, and rose for a layup so clean it looked choreographed.
67–73.
The buzzer sounded.
Game over.
Akira's teammates stared at him. Not with disappointment. Not with sympathy.
With disgust.
"What the hell was that?!" one of them snarled.
"We had the pass! We could've tied it!"
"Why did you even shoot?!"
Akira couldn't answer. His throat felt like it was full of glass.
Coach Harada's voice cut through the noise like a blade.
"Tenma."
Akira turned.
The coach's face was twisted with something worse than anger. It was contempt.
"You were picked by luck," Harada said slowly, deliberately. "You're not special. You're not talented. You're not even useful. You're a liability."
The words hit harder than any punch.
"You don't belong on this court," the coach continued. "And if you keep dragging this team down, you never will."
Akira's vision blurred. He felt something hot and shameful sting the corners of his eyes.
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't—
Flashback Montage
Age 8. A youth academy. "Sorry, we're looking for kids with more… natural ability."
Age 9. Another tryout. "You're too small."
Age 10. "We don't have space."
Age 11. "You need private coaching. Do you have the money for that?"
Age 12. "You're just not special enough."
Age 13. Another rejection letter.
Age 14. Another closed door.
Age 15. "Maybe basketball isn't for you."
Age 16. A different coach—Coach Harada—looking at a list of names. "Fine. We'll take him. We need to fill the roster."
Present
Akira stood in the locker room, alone. His teammates had already left. The coach was gone.
He bowed slowly, even though no one was there to see it.
"Thank you for the opportunity," he whispered.
Then he walked out.
The Pier
The sun was setting over the water, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. Akira sat on the edge of the pier, staring at the horizon.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Messages from old friends. Texts he didn't want to read.
Why did I take that shot?
He'd had the pass. He'd had the safe play. But something inside him—something selfish, desperate, hungry—had screamed at him to shoot.
And now he'd lost everything.
"Basketball was supposed to be my dream," Akira muttered to himself. "But maybe… it's just a fantasy."
The words tasted bitter.
He stood, ready to leave. Ready to go home and sleep and wake up and pretend none of this mattered.
But then—
That voice again.
"One more day."
Akira froze.
"One more day," he whispered. "If nothing changes… I'm done."
He turned and walked toward the train station, shoulders slumped, eyes down.
He didn't see the black car parked across the street.
He didn't see the woman with sharp eyes watching him through tinted windows.
And he didn't see the masked figure sitting beside her, fingers steepled, head tilted in quiet curiosity.
Home
Akira's apartment was small but warm. His parents were waiting for him at the dinner table, concern written all over their faces.
"Akira," his mother said softly. "You're quiet tonight."
He forced a smile. "Just tired."
His father studied him for a long moment, then reached across the table and squeezed his shoulder.
"We're here for you," he said. "Whatever you need."
Akira's throat tightened. "Thanks."
He ate in silence, excused himself, and went to his room.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and wondered if dreams were supposed to hurt this much.
Japan Basketball Federation HQ
The conference room was cold, sterile, and filled with the kind of tension that came from watching a nation's pride crumble in real time.
Mika Kuronami stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, eyes sharp as broken glass. Behind her, a presentation screen displayed a graph trending steadily downward.
"Gentlemen," she said coolly, "Japan's basketball program is dying."
The board members shifted uncomfortably.
"Last month, we lost to India," Mika continued. "Two months before that, we were humiliated by teams we used to dominate. Our players aren't evolving. Our systems are outdated. And unless something changes—radically—we're going to be irrelevant within five years."
Buki Yamada, the federation's grizzled director, leaned back in his chair and scowled. "And what do you suggest, Miss Kuronami? Another training camp? More funding for the same failing programs?"
"No."
The voice came from the shadows at the back of the room.
Every head turned.
A figure stepped forward into the light—tall, composed, wearing a pristine white suit and a smooth, featureless mask shaped like a V.
"I suggest," the figure said calmly, "that you let me fix it."
Buki's eyes narrowed. "And who the hell are you?"
The masked man tilted his head slightly, as if amused.
"My name is Vox," he said. "And I don't want your money. I don't want your titles. I only want one thing."
He stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back.
"I want to save Japanese basketball."
Mika's gaze was steady, unreadable.
Buki scoffed. "You expect us to trust a man in a mask?"
Vox's voice didn't change—still calm, still cold.
"I expect you to trust results," he said. "Give me three months. Give me full autonomy. And I will deliver players who will make the world remember why they should fear Japan."
"How?" Buki demanded.
Vox smiled behind the mask.
"By crossing the boundaries of Zero."
Silence.
Mika's eyes flickered with something—curiosity, perhaps. Or recognition.
Buki stood, slamming his palms on the table. "You're insane."
"No," Vox said softly. "I'm necessary."
He turned and walked toward the door, pausing just before he left.
"The program begins in two weeks," he said. "I'll send you the list."
The door closed behind him.
Mika stared after him, her expression unreadable.
"What have we just agreed to?" Buki muttered.
Mika didn't answer.
But somewhere deep in her gut, she knew:
Everything was about to change.
END OF CHAPTER 1