Yuto Kimura filled out the registration slip with the quiet precision of someone who didn't want attention. He signed his name, checked the box for Boys' Singles, bowed politely to the upperclassman handling the paperwork, and turned to leave before anyone could drag him into a conversation.
He didn't get far.
Because Tsukiko Takahashi finally lifted her head.
She had been sitting on the clubroom bench for nearly ten minutes, shoulders slumped, mind drifting between worry for Masaru and frustration with the upcoming preliminaries. Her hair framed her face in a curtain of straight, dark strands that she hadn't bothered to tie today. She looked up only because she sensed movement.
Her eyes landed on the tall silhouette of a boy she hadn't expected to ever see inside this room again.
Yuto Kimura.
He stood by the door, quietly placing his entry form on the registration table. He bowed, awkward but polite, and turned to leave like he was just another name on a list.
Tsukiko's pulse flicked sharply.
You've got to be kidding me.
She stared, watching the back of him as he walked. Watching the calm, unbothered way he moved. No tension. No guilt. No awareness of how the rest of them had worked, trained, and bled on this court for years.
Her jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
This kid… this kid who dropped by once, played a flashy match with Masaru, and then disappeared like badminton was some side quest… he has the nerve to register for the preliminaries?
Her hands curled into fists in her lap.
Talent. Talent. Talent.
She hated that word. She hated the ceiling it created and the excuses it built. She saw the same thing every year: talented players who treated the sport like a toy because the basics came easy to them. People who showed up late to practice, or quit halfway, or coasted on their natural ability until they got crushed by someone who had clawed their way up through sweat and muscle memory.
She had no issue with beginners. No issue with weak players. No issue with clueless first-years who didn't know how to hold a racket.
But she hated—truly hated—people who threw around talent like it meant they were above the grind.
Badminton was her air. Her pulse. Her ritual. Badminton was the one thing she could always rely on, the one place where hard work showed its results with brutal honesty. It had been years of endless drills until her legs trembled. Years of wiping sweat off her face in an empty gym while everyone else went home. Years of footwork so repetitive it burned the pattern into her bones.
And then someone like him walked in.
Someone tall, quick, naturally athletic. Someone who had been praised once and just nodded like it didn't matter. Someone who could pick up a racket and go toe-to-toe with Masaru Kyo—the King himself—without ever showing up to a single club practice after that.
She remembered the video circulating around school. Yuto playing with no training, no discipline, no understanding of the sport's depth. Just raw instinct.
Raw instinct she had seen players work three years to reach.
It made something ugly coil in her chest.
Does he think he can win just because he's talented? Does he think the rest of us grind for fun?
She knew it wasn't fair. She knew she was projecting. But fairness didn't matter when she had a stomach full of irritation and a heart anchored to this sport like it was her identity.
You didn't disrespect something she loved.
And walking in casually after weeks away to enter a tournament without training felt exactly like disrespect.
The worst type.
Her thoughts spiraled deeper, sharper.
Does he think he can stand on the same court as people who train five days a week? Does he think his height will cover his lack of discipline? Does he think matches are decided by luck?
Every first-year who trained with her, every shaky beginner working on drop shots, every tired junior who dragged themselves to drills even with homework piling up—they all mattered more to her right now than this one first-year boy who treated badminton like a side hobby.
So when Yuto took a step toward the door, something in her snapped.
She rose to her feet.
Her expression ironed itself into something sweet and friendly—a mask she'd perfected for situations exactly like this.
"Kimura-kun, right?" she called out, voice smooth as lacquer.
Yuto froze mid-step, almost flinching. "Y-yes?"
He turned, and Tsukiko approached him with the soft, polite smile of someone who was about to hand him a gift box filled with bees.
Up close, she realized he wasn't arrogant-looking at all. He actually looked confused, startled, a bit overwhelmed. It only irritated her more.
"How ambitious of you to enter singles," she said with as much sugary pleasantness as she could muster. "I didn't know you'd be participating."
Yuto rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah… I just wanted to try…"
Of course he wanted to "try." People like him always just "tried" and magically did well.
That smile stayed fixed on her face.
"You know," she continued, her tone honeyed but her heartbeat sharp, "I actually need a partner for mixed doubles."
Yuto's head shot up. "Huh? Me?"
He looked horrified at the idea, which somehow made her mood even worse.
"My usual partner, Masaru-senpai, got injured," she said, lying so smoothly it almost impressed her. "And I haven't been able to find someone suitable yet."
The reality was the opposite. There were seniors, juniors, even club alumni who had offered to pair with her the moment Masaru was forced to drop out. She had the freedom to choose anyone.
But she didn't want anyone.
She wanted him.
She wanted to drag him onto her court, shove him into a real game, and let him see exactly how wide the gap was between "gifted beginner" and "trained athlete."
She wanted him to understand the work behind every point he took for granted.
She wanted to prove, to him and to herself, that talent wasn't everything.
And yes, maybe she wanted revenge on behalf of every first-year who practiced footwork until their shoes wore thin.
Yuto swallowed hard, eyes darting away. "If… if you really want to… I don't mind."
Tsukiko clasped her hands lightly behind her back, the picture of composure.
"Wonderful," she said with a tiny, victorious tilt to her lips. "Let's do our best, Kimura-kun."
He bowed, mumbled a thank you, and slipped out of the room with his usual quietness.
The second the door shut behind him, the smile dissolved from Tsukiko's face.
Her eyes hardened.
Her jaw set.
Her fingers curled into fists again.
Fine.
If he wanted to play badminton so casually, she would welcome him onto the court.
And she would show him exactly what casual players never understood:
Talent might let you touch the sky,
but only hard work teaches you how to stay there.