The academy woke before the city did.
At six-thirty the lights in Hall B came on in sequence, white bars flickering into clarity above the courts. Joe arrived at six twenty-eight, as he always did, bag over one shoulder, racket case held carefully so it didn't knock his hip. He signed in without looking at the sheet, changed his shoes on the same bench, tied the laces with the same double knot. The smell of polished wood and disinfectant settled into him the way it always had, familiar enough to feel earned.
Warm-up began at six thirty-five sharp. Footwork ladders laid out with mathematical neatness. No music. Just shoes squeaking, breath measured, coaches' voices cutting cleanly through the air.
Joe moved easily. His body knew the order before his mind did—left, right, cross, pivot, lunge. He was tall for his age and carried it well, long limbs controlled rather than loose. When he accelerated, it looked deliberate, as though he were choosing speed instead of reaching for it. His calves burned in the expected places. His shoulders loosened on the third set, exactly on time.
"Good tempo," Coach Mercer said as Joe passed him.
Joe nodded once and kept moving.
That was how praise worked here. Brief. Earned. Never lingering.
By seven fifteen they were hitting. Shuttles fed in clean arcs, one after another, rhythm uninterrupted. Joe's clears landed deep, brushing the back line with consistency that bordered on boredom. Drops fell tight to the net tape, just low enough to force lift without flirting with error. Smash drills came last. He didn't grunt. He didn't shout. His power was efficient, compact, the product of years refining angle rather than force.
"Again," the feeder said.
Joe went again.
When the shuttle clipped the line, no one reacted. When it landed a fraction long, the feeder raised a finger. Joe adjusted. That was the exchange. Correction without comment.
Between sets, he checked his phone out of habit more than need. No messages. A missed call notification from earlier in the morning—his mother, timestamped at 5:12 a.m. He frowned briefly, then slipped the phone back into his bag. She called early sometimes. Time zones for business trips. Meetings that ran long. Nothing that required decoding.
The rest of the session passed cleanly.
At eight forty-five, they lined up for feedback. Coach Mercer walked the line, stopping occasionally, offering a sentence or two. Joe's came as expected.
"Court coverage is excellent. Decision-making still strong. You're controlling rallies rather than reacting. That's where you should be."
"Yes, Coach," Joe said.
"Nationals are in five weeks. Stay sharp."
Joe nodded again. Five weeks felt comfortably distant. Time enough to polish. Time enough to win.
He showered, changed, and headed to the common area where the younger players were already crowded around the vending machines. Someone slapped him lightly on the shoulder as he passed.
"Easy for you this morning," one of them said.
Joe smiled without slowing. "It's supposed to be."
That confidence wasn't arrogance. It was alignment. His effort matched his results. His results matched expectation. There was nothing to prove beyond repeating what already worked.
Classes began at ten. Academic tutors rotated through small rooms overlooking the courts, glass walls keeping the sport in view even when they weren't on it. Joe sat near the window, worked through calculus problems with steady attention, finished early. When the tutor glanced at his page and nodded, Joe closed his notebook and waited.
He checked his phone again. Still nothing new.
At lunch, he ate the same thing he always did—chicken, rice, greens. Macronutrients weighed and tracked, fuel rather than indulgence. Across the table, two of the doubles specialists were arguing about foot positioning.
"You're late on the second split step," one said.
"Because you're crowding the net."
Joe listened without joining in. He didn't play doubles anymore. Singles suited him. Clear responsibility. Clear outcomes.
The afternoon session focused on match play. Joe drew an opponent two years older, ranked slightly lower. They rallied for forty minutes under observation. Joe won in straight games without drama. He didn't celebrate points. He reset after each one, breathing steady, eyes neutral. When it ended, they shook hands, sweat-darkened grips slipping slightly in their palms.
"Solid," the assistant coach said. "Very solid."
Joe accepted the word the way he accepted everything else here—as confirmation, not encouragement.
He left the academy at six. Outside, the sky was already dimming, clouds thick and low. His driver was late. Joe waited by the entrance, bag at his feet, scrolling through headlines without reading them. When the car finally pulled up, the driver apologized. Traffic. Roadworks.
Joe nodded and got in.
"Everything okay at home?" the driver asked casually, pulling into the flow of cars.
"Yeah," Joe said. "Why?"
"Your mum called earlier. Asked if you'd left yet."
"Oh." Joe considered that. "She didn't mention it."
The driver shrugged. "Probably nothing."
Probably.
At home, the house felt quieter than usual. Lights were on in fewer rooms. His father's study door was closed. Joe dropped his bag by the stairs and went to the kitchen. Dinner was laid out but not warm, covered loosely with foil. A note sat beside it, written quickly.
Running late. Eat when you're hungry.
Joe ate alone. Halfway through, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, expecting a message from his mother.
It was a calendar notification: Private tuition payment due tomorrow.
He dismissed it without thinking. That system handled itself.
Later, in his room, he stretched and iced his shoulder. The routine soothed him. Ice pack timed. Compression sleeve adjusted just so. He opened his laptop to review match footage but stopped when another missed call appeared—his father this time, from an hour earlier.
Joe frowned again, deeper this time. He typed a brief message.
Training ran late. Everything okay?
No reply came.
The next morning followed the same pattern, with small deviations that felt insignificant until they didn't.
Warm-up was normal. Hitting was sharp. During feedback, Coach Mercer paused longer than usual before moving on.
"Maintain discipline," he said, not unkindly.
Joe wasn't sure what prompted it.
During classes, the tutor asked him to stay back.
"Your attendance record is excellent," she said. "Just make sure your admin is up to date. There's been a system change."
"Admin?" Joe asked.
"Billing confirmations. Parental forms. That sort of thing."
Joe nodded. "Okay."
At lunch, one of the juniors asked if Joe was still flying to Copenhagen for the invitational next month.
"Of course," Joe said automatically.
"Cool," the kid said, impressed. "My coach says that's where the real scouts are."
Joe smiled faintly and returned to his food.
That evening, the driver didn't show. Joe waited twenty minutes before calling the service desk. They told him his account was temporarily suspended pending verification. He used public transport for the first time in years, standing awkwardly with his racket case between his knees, watching his reflection ripple in the darkened window.
At home, voices carried from the kitchen. His parents were arguing quietly, words clipped and urgent. Joe paused in the hallway, listening without intention.
"…said they'd give us until the end of the month—"
"That's not enough time."
"We can move funds—"
"Not like before."
Joe stepped back, deliberately loud, and the voices stopped. When he entered, his parents looked composed, faces smoothed into something neutral.
"Dinner's in the oven," his mother said.
"Okay," Joe replied.
No one mentioned the argument. No one mentioned anything.
At the academy the following week, the signs accumulated.
His name was missing from one of the training groups, replaced by a junior who looked startled to be there. When Joe pointed it out, the assistant coach frowned and told him to warm up independently until it was sorted.
Sorted took longer than expected.
The head administrator asked him to wait in her office after practice. The room was small, tidy, walls lined with certificates and framed photos of alumni in national colours.
"There seems to be a delay with your tuition payment," she said, hands folded neatly on the desk. "I'm sure it's a simple oversight."
Joe nodded. "I'll tell my parents."
"That would be best."
She smiled professionally. The meeting ended.
Training continued, but something had shifted. Coaches spoke to him less. Not coldly. Just less. His court assignments moved later in the day. Equipment access required sign-out where it hadn't before.
Joe adjusted without complaint. He trained harder, sharpened details. If something was off, effort would correct it. That was how things worked.
At home, his parents kept different hours. His mother left early, returned late. His father spent more time in his study, door closed, voice low when he was on the phone. Joe caught fragments as he passed.
"…liquid assets—"
"…no, we can't sell that yet—"
"…Joe doesn't need to know—"
Joe didn't linger. He focused on his body, his game. The rest was background noise.
Until one afternoon, when his access card failed.
He stood at the turnstile, swiped again. Red light. The security guard glanced over.
"Try again," the guard said.
Joe did. Same result.
The guard checked the screen, frowned, then picked up the phone. He spoke quietly, eyes flicking toward Joe with something like discomfort.
"Yeah. Uh-huh. Okay."
He hung up. "I need you to wait here a moment."
Joe waited. Five minutes passed. Ten. Players streamed past, some nodding at him, some avoiding eye contact. Coach Mercer walked by, slowed, then continued without stopping.
Finally, the administrator appeared.
"There's been a temporary suspension on your account," she said, voice even. "Until the outstanding balance is resolved."
Joe stared at her. "I have training."
"I understand," she said. "But this is policy."
He nodded once. "How long?"
"That depends."
She didn't elaborate.
Joe left without argument. He walked the perimeter of the building, bag heavy on his shoulder, steps measured. The courts inside echoed faintly through the walls—shuttles snapping, shoes squeaking. He stood outside until the sounds blurred into background noise.
At home, he found his mother in the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, expression tight. She covered the receiver when she saw him.
"Give me a minute," she said.
Joe waited. When she hung up, she didn't meet his eyes immediately.
"There was a mix-up at the academy," Joe said. "They said something about payment."
His mother exhaled slowly. "We're handling it."
"When?"
"Soon."
Joe nodded. "Okay."
That night, he packed his bag anyway. Habit. The next morning, he went to the academy and stood by the court doors until someone noticed him.
Coach Mercer approached, hands in his pockets.
"Joe," he said. "You shouldn't be here."
"I'm scheduled for court three at six thirty," Joe replied.
"That's been reassigned."
"Why?"
Mercer hesitated. Just a fraction.
"These things happen," he said. "Focus on resolving it. We'll talk later."
Later never came.
By the end of the week, his locker was empty. His nameplate removed. His equipment relocated to storage.
He wasn't told to leave. He simply found there was nowhere left for him to stand.
On Friday evening, long after the last session ended, Joe returned.
The building was quiet, lights dimmed, only emergency strips glowing along the floor. He slipped through a side door he knew still opened without a card. No one stopped him.
Court five was empty.
The net hung slack in the middle, posts casting long shadows across the polished wood. The shuttle bins were stacked neatly against the wall, lids closed. Scoreboards dark. Silence settled heavy and complete.
Joe walked to the baseline and stood there, bag at his feet.
The court looked the same. The lines were still crisp. The floor still shone.
But the structure that once filled the space—voices, schedules, expectation—was gone.
Joe remained where he was, alone on the court after hours, surrounded by absence.