ame 3 — Ryota Serves
Ryota bounced the ball.
Once.
Twice.
No third bounce. Never three. Three meant superstition. And superstition was chaos. And Ryota Tanaka did not play with chaos.
He tossed the ball high—clean, vertical, like a compass needle pointing to victory.
Crack.
The serve sliced the air and Ayumi—who had been adjusting her hair tie and humming the intro to some anime—froze as the ball zipped past her.
"…Wait. Was that the serve?!" she yelped.
Kenji didn't even blink. "You're two seconds too late for that realization."
"Unfair! I wasn't emotionally ready!"
0–15.
Ryota smirked. That was step one: destabilize the gremlin.
Serve two.
This one had top-spin, angled deep to Kenji's left. Kenji darted forward, precise as clockwork, his racquet catching it low and returning a sharp shot down the line.
Hana met it with an eerie calm and clipped a reply cross-court.
Ayumi skidded into the frame with zero warning and zero grip on reality, leapt like a cartoon protagonist mid-battle cry, and lobbed the ball sky-high.
Ryota watched the arc.
Too high.
Too—
No. Wait.
It dipped.
Barely. Touched the backline.
15–15.
Ayumi gave a triumphant fist-pump. "Precision!"
"You lobbed it like a confused butterfly," Kenji muttered.
"A butterfly that believes in itself is the most dangerous kind."
Ryota didn't like this.
Serve three: a body serve aimed at Kenji to box him in.
Kenji absorbed it, slicing it just wide enough to create an opening. Hana attacked—low, fast, spinning.
Kenji lunged.
Too slow.
Except Ayumi—how was she already there?!—sprinted past him, yelling something about "instincts and jazz hands," and hit a shot with the grace of a banana peel on ice.
It dropped. Right over the net.
Wobble. Spin. Drop.
30–15.
Kenji blinked.
She was chaos.
But she was chaos with strangely good footwork.
Ayumi looked over her shoulder and grinned. "Trust the gut, Kenji."
"My gut says that shouldn't have worked."
"And yet," she winked, "magic."
Serve four.
Ryota was annoyed now. No more cute mind games.
Boom.
Straight power. Right at Kenji.
He was ready.
A crisp return. Deep corner.
Hana stepped in. Quick pivot. A slicing shot that looked textbook perfect.
Kenji braced to intercept—but again, Ayumi was already moving, as if she could hear the ball thinking.
Her racquet swung on pure momentum.
Kenji saw the ball clip the net cord.
Bounce once.
Die quietly.
40–15.
"Okay," he said, walking over. "How did you know that would drop over?"
Ayumi shrugged. "I didn't. I was just trying to stop it from hitting me."
Kenji stared.
"…We're still alive," she added. "So clearly it worked."
Last serve.
Ryota went surgical—short, sharp, meant to bait a lazy return.
Ayumi stepped up.
No drama.
Just—
A low, underhand flick.
Disrespectful. Absurd.
It dropped barely over the net, spun like a gremlin's cackle, and Hana missed by a shoe's length.
Game, Arakawa and Ishikawa. 3–0.
As they swapped sides, Ayumi leaned over to Kenji.
"I don't know how I'm doing this."
"You're not supposed to tell me that," he muttered.
She grinned. "But isn't it more fun this way?"
He didn't reply. But the twitch at the corner of his mouth wasn't disapproval.
It was curiosity.
And something warmer.
From across the net, Ryota stared.
His jaw clenched.
This wasn't how chaos worked. It didn't cohere. It didn't improvise successfully. And yet—
It was working.
And worse?
It was winning.