Chiaki Murakami's lungs burned with every breath he forced out. His jersey clung to him, heavy and damp with sweat, and each step dragged as if his legs had turned into dead weight.
He tensed his jaw, the faint tremor in his teeth meeting the muted roar of the crowd—cheers spilling through the gym but fading into a washed-out hum under the pressure tightening his chest.
Chiaki let out a shaky breath, his fingers brushing sweat from his brow as his shoulders dipped.
"Damn… seriously," he murmured, the words slipping out low as his gaze tightened on the court. "These guys… they're really strong."
The opposing team moved with sharp speed and clean coordination, their rhythm steady and unbroken.
Every time Chiaki looked for a passing lane, a defender slid in with the scrape of sneakers, sealing it off before the ball could even leave his hands. Any hesitation, any misstep, and they struck immediately.
His own team pushed hard, breath mixing with the steady thump of the court, but gaps kept opening in their defense, and their offense lagged just a step behind, unable to match the pace.
On the next possession, the opposing team slipped the ball to their center in the paint.
The ball struck the floor with a heavy, rhythmic thud as he backed down Leiji, each dribble sending a faint vibration through the court.
Leiji tightened his stance, sneakers squeaking as he held his ground, but the center suddenly spun off him and rose with explosive force.
The dunk slammed through the rim with a sharp crack, the impact throwing Leiji backward until his shoulders hit the floor.
The crowd erupted, their cheers surging through the gym in a shaking wave.
Masashi hurried over, his shoes scraping lightly as he crouched and reached for Leiji's arm.
Leiji pushed himself halfway up, breath unsteady, and gave a faint nod. "Mm… thanks, bro…" he murmured, his voice low as he tightened his grip and let Masashi help him to his feet.
"This is pointless…" Chiaki's breath hitched, his body stiffening as his feet rooted to the floor for a moment.
A sharp voice cut through the haze.
"Chiaki! Catch!"
Syouta Watanabe's shout echoed across the court, jolting Chiaki's focus back as the ball spun through the air toward him.
Chiaki twisted around just in time, his palms absorbing the soft thud of the ball as it dropped into his hands.
The leather pressed against his fingertips, familiar and steady, and he pushed off into a sprint down the court. Each dribble echoed in quick, sharp beats against the floor.
He slid into a sidestep, his shoes scraping lightly, then feinted to the right—his shoulder dipping, the defender shifting just enough.
Chiaki slipped past, breath steadying as he rose near the rim and guided the ball off the glass. It hit the backboard and dropped cleanly through the hoop.
"Nice one, Murakami!" Akari's voice lifted from the sidelines, her hands coming together in a quick, energetic clap above her head. The light in her tone carried a small spark of hope.
But even as her cheer reached him, Chiaki's chest stayed tight, a dull weight settling deeper with each breath.
I know she's cheering for us… but we're down by twenty-three points. Sixty to eighty-three. And there are only five minutes left. There's no way we can win like this.
As Chiaki and Syouta sprinted back on defense, Syouta angled closer, breath puffing out in short bursts.
"Nice shot, Chiaki!" he called, his voice lifting with stubborn energy. "Come on—we just need ten more!"
Chiaki wanted to believe him.
He wanted to match that stubborn optimism, to feel even a hint of it.
But the truth pressed low in his stomach, heavy and unmoving—like a weight he couldn't shake loose.
Their opponents weren't easing up.
Jun Fuchizawa shot forward the moment a loose pass left someone's fingertips.
His hand snapped into the lane, the steal clean and effortless. The ball struck his palm with a sharp pop before he pushed off into a sprint.
Each dribble hammered against the hardwood in steady, thunderous beats, echoing through the gym as he crossed into the other half of the court.
A sharp, cocky voice carried from the opposing bench, cutting through the noise of the gym.
"Your team is trash. Just give up already."
Jun didn't even glance over.
His focus stayed fixed on the floor as he slid the ball between his legs, the quick tap-tap of the dribble brushing against the court.
He rotated his shoulders, spun past the defender's reach, then eased into a smooth step-back.
His form rose fluidly, the release clean.
The ball lifted high, tracing a long arc across the bright lights.
It dropped straight through the net.
Swoosh.
The scoreboard flickered, the digits sliding from 60–83 to 63–83, the glow stretching across the court as Kaisei High managed to close the gap—if only slightly—against Kurohane Technical High under the bright gym lights.
Akari's voice rose from the sideline again, brighter and more urgent this time.
"Nice one! You guys are doing good—keep it up!"
Her words carried a tremble of excitement, and she leaned forward from her seat, gripping the edge of the bench as if willing the team to move faster.
But Kurohane's answer came almost instantly.
One of their forwards burst into the paint with a sudden surge of speed, the sharp scrape of his sneakers cutting through the air.
He slipped past Jun and sent a clean layup off the glass, the ball falling through with barely any contact.
Chiaki's shoulders softened and drooped, a slow breath escaping him as the weight of the game sank deeper.
I know this gap isn't something we can close. We're going to lose… no matter how hard we push.
But even so… I gave everything I had. My breath, my focus, my whole heart—left right here on this court.
At the very least… I didn't hold anything back.
Chiaki caught another pass and planted his foot, his body turning sharply as he rose into his shooting form.
The ball rolled off his fingertips in a clean release, the sound of his breath steady as it cut through the quiet pocket of space around him.
Swish.
The buzzer tore through the gym, a long, piercing blast that settled into the walls and faded slowly.
The game was over.
Final score: 90 to 70.
The crowd offered a soft wave of applause, polite and restrained.
On the other side of the court, the Kurohane players exchanged high-fives and pulled each other into quick embraces, their coach's smile stretching wide with satisfaction.
Near the Kaisei bench, Chiaki's teammates gathered in a loose huddle, shoulders dropped, chests rising and falling with tired breaths.
Musashi wiped at his face, tears slipping past his fingers as his voice cracked.
Chiaki stepped beside him, giving his back a gentle pat, his own lips lifting in a small, forced smile that barely hid the sting behind his eyes.
Across the bench, Akari watched them with her hands pressed tightly against her chest, her eyes shimmering.
So this is the end of our three-year journey…
The thought tightened her throat until she could only swallow it down.
Their coach—Daichi Moro, stern but steady—stepped forward with his arms folded, his gaze moving slowly across the exhausted team.
"We were unlucky this year," he said, his tone firm but warm as the words settled over them. "Only three of you reached the level we needed… but even then, you kept fighting. Chiaki carried us farther than anyone expected. I'm proud of every effort he put out there."
Later that evening, Chiaki sat at the edge of the school rooftop, his legs dangling over the concrete lip.
The city spread out beneath him in soft layers of blue and fading gold, windows flickering one by one as dusk settled.
A light breeze brushed through his hair, cool against the lingering heat on his skin.
The noise from the courts below was long gone, replaced by the distant hum of cars along the main road.
"So we lost… Ninety to seventy, huh…" The words slipped out quietly, barely more than breath.
Fourth round… and we still couldn't push past it.
This is where my high school career ends.
The thought pressed against his chest, slow and heavy.
Behind him, a pair of footsteps tapped gently across the rooftop floor, the sound echoing in the quiet evening air.
Syouta stepped into view, the metal of two drink cans clicking lightly together in his hands.
He held one out toward Chiaki, his arm stretching forward with a small, easy grin.
"Here. It's cold—just how you like it."
Chiaki accepted the can, the chill against his palm easing some of the tightness in his chest.
"Thanks, bro."
Syouta lowered himself beside him, the rooftop gravel shifting quietly under his weight.
He let his shoulders relax as he looked out over the city.
"This is it, huh. The end of our high school season."
"Yes."
"We really put in the effort. One win away from the Inter-High prelims… that's not bad at all."
Chiaki gave a single nod.
"Yes."
Another set of steps approached.
Jun walked over, a drink dangling from his fingers, and settled near them with a soft exhale.
"You two are forgetting something. It's also our last year. Exams are coming up."
Syouta instantly slumped, his head dropping forward.
"You always ruin the vibe, Jun."
Jun blinked at him.
"What?"
"Why bring up exams right now? I haven't even started studying."
A faint smirk pulled at Jun's mouth.
"Sounds like a you problem."
Syouta reacted instantly, swinging an arm around Jun's neck and locking him into a loose chokehold.
"Keep rubbing it in and I'll actually make you pass out."
Jun's arms flailed wildly.
"Oi—relax! You're gonna choke me for real!"
Chiaki pushed himself to his feet, brushing dust from his palms.
"I'm heading home."
Syouta's arm immediately loosened around Jun's neck, his posture easing as he glanced up at Chiaki.
"Alright. See you at school tomorrow, dude."
Jun sucked in a sharp breath the moment Syouta's grip lightened.
"Can you let me go, please?"
Syouta tightened his arm again just enough to make Jun tense.
"Only if you agree to help me study."
Jun's eyes widened, and he shook his head rapidly.
"Okay, okay!"
Chiaki left them behind and stepped into the stairwell, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
His footsteps echoed softly down the concrete steps, the faint rhythm bouncing along the empty hallways.
He reached halfway toward the entrance doors when a voice rose behind him, carrying through the quiet corridor.
"Murakami!!"
Chiaki turned toward the voice.
Akari stood a few meters down the hallway, slightly out of breath, her manager's jacket shifting with each rise and fall of her chest.
A faint flush colored her cheeks from rushing.
"Huh? Oh… it's you, Akari."
Chiaki's voice came out calm, his eyes softening as he faced her.
"You did well," she began, her tone steady and sincere. "Stand proud. You guys fought until the very end."
She drew in a small breath, her expression warming as her eyes curved gently.
"And… I'm really happy I got to be the manager of this team. I had so much fun—the bus rides, the group meals, all of it… those memories mean a lot to me."
Her voice wavered.
She pressed her lips together, but the emotion pushed through anyway.
Moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes, spilling despite her effort to hold it back.
"So… don't let this loss pull you down," she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Behind her, Lara strolled up with a slow, casual gait, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
"Why are you getting so emotional? He always has next season."
Akari shot her a sharp glare, her shoulders lifting slightly in irritation.
"Shush. You're not helping at all."
Chiaki let out a faint breath through his nose, a tired smile forming as he met Akari's gaze.
"Thank you… for being our manager this year. It meant a lot—to me and to the team."
He gave a small nod, then turned away, his steps steady but weighted as he continued down the hallway.
The heaviness in his chest pulsed with every footfall.
Lara watched him leave, her head tilting.
"Chiaki looks really bummed out."
Akari's stare flattened instantly.
"You think?!"
Outside, Chiaki slipped through the doors into the cool evening air.
The faint breeze brushed against his cheeks as he looked toward the school's basketball court—now completely empty under the pale, fading sky.
The rims stood still, the lines on the court barely visible in the dim light, as if the entire place had exhaled its last breath.
This is the end for me.
Without basketball…
An ache spread through his chest, slow and hollow.
I feel so empty. Like there's nothing pushing me forward anymore.
In that moment, with the court silent and the sky growing darker, it felt as though his entire world… had simply stopped moving.