Sakuragi Hanamichi, head drooping like a wilted sunflower, leaned listlessly against the windowsill in the hallway outside Class 1-10.
The April wind carried a crisp chill, gently tousling his signature fiery red pompadour—the kind of hair that defied gravity and common sense alike.
He squinted, his gaze fixed vacantly on the scenery below.
Shohoku High's courtyard bloomed with cherry trees, their pale pink petals drifting down like confetti in slow motion. It was the kind of idyllic spring day that belonged in a coming-of-age film.
But inside Sakuragi's mind, only one word echoed: Disappointment.
Bad news. The worst kind.
He—once hailed as the "Chinese Magician," point guard for the Brooklyn Nets, fresh off an NBA Finals victory over David Robinson's Spurs—had transmigrated.
Gone were the roaring crowds, the blinding arena lights, the satisfying thwip of a perfect no-look pass. In their place: a stiff 1990s Japanese school uniform, an empty wallet that seemed to mock him with its hollow jingle, and the fragmented memories of a sixteen-year-old delinquent named Sakuragi Hanamichi—fifty failed confessions, street fights, and zero direction.
Slam Dunk? The protagonist?
Please. Compared to the global stage of the NBA, this felt like playing pickup ball in a rain puddle.
"Sigh…" He exhaled, long and heavy. This life was unbearable.
Just as he contemplated whether to throw in the towel or at least fake enthusiasm for another week, a few heads popped out from the classroom window behind him.
"Hey, look at Hanamichi…" Takamiya Nozomi whispered, eyes wide.
"He must've been rejected again," Noma Tadashi mused, stroking his nonexistent mustache with mock gravitas.
"Even his back looks defeated," Oonan Yuji added.
"Poor guy…" Mito Yohei said—but the grin on his face betrayed his sympathy.
Sakuragi caught their antics in his peripheral vision but didn't bother reacting. He was too drained—mentally, spiritually, existentially—to deal with his so-called "gang."
Then—
A soft, hesitant voice cut through his gloom.
"Um… excuse me. Do you like basketball?"
Whoosh!
It was like getting smacked awake by a wet gym towel.
Here it comes! The iconic scene! Haruko Akagi—the heroine destined to change his life—had arrived!
According to the script, he should turn, lock eyes with her pure, earnest gaze, feel his heart skip, and instantly fall head over heels… launching his legendary basketball journey.
Bracing himself, he whipped around—
—and froze.
The girl before him was undeniably cute: long chestnut hair, wide doe eyes, fair skin, and a neatly pressed uniform that somehow made the standard Shohoku outfit look elegant. She radiated innocence and quiet hope.
But…
She doesn't look like Izumi Sakai at all.
In his past life, he'd had a thing for the late Showa-era idol—soft features, gentle smile, that melancholic charm. This girl? She reminded him more of Shizuka Kudo—sharp-eyed, poised, almost regal.
Not unattractive, sure… but not his type.
And worse—he knew she had a crush on Rukawa Kaede. He wasn't about to play the lovesick fool in someone else's romance subplot.
The gap between expectation and reality hit like a cold bucket of gym water. The tiny spark of excitement flickered and died.
So, under Haruko's hopeful stare, Sakuragi—exhausted, disillusioned, and utterly done—muttered flatly:
"Uh… no. I don't like basketball."
Without waiting for her reaction, he turned back to the window, leaving her stunned in the hallway. The cherry blossoms outside suddenly seemed less poetic and more… suffocating.
At the window, the Sakuragi Gang stood frozen.
"Did… did he just reject Haruko Akagi?" Nozomi gasped.
"A beautiful girl asks him about basketball, and he says no?!" Oonan cried.
"And with that attitude?!" Noma added, clutching his chest.
Yohei narrowed his eyes. "This is weirder than him confessing fifty times and getting shot down every time."
Haruko blinked, confusion giving way to quiet hurt. No boy had ever brushed her off so bluntly. She bit her lip, glanced once more at the red-haired giant by the window—so tall, so built for the sport—and walked away, shoulders slightly slumped.
Sakuragi Hanamichi: master of misdirection, destroyer of tropes, single by philosophical choice.
RING RING—
The bell shattered the silence.
Back in class, the gang swarmed him before he could even sit down.
"Hanamichi! What was that?!" Nozomi demanded, nose nearly touching his. "Are you possessed?!"
"Where's the real Sakuragi?" Oonan wailed.
Noma adjusted imaginary glasses. "This behavior deviates significantly from baseline post-rejection protocols."
Yohei just smirked. "Since when do you say no to pretty girls? Did the sun rise in the west?"
"Shut up, you idiots!" Sakuragi shoved Nozomi away, scowling. "I just… my taste has evolved! Is that a crime?"
(Truth was, he missed Urachi Sachiko's elegant grace—not this Kudo-esque vibe.)
Thankfully, the teacher entered, silencing the chaos. The gang retreated—but their suspicious stares lingered like security cameras.
Alone again in his back-row throne by the window, Sakuragi stared not at cherry blossoms, but at the distant sky.
What now?
Become another salaryman drone? Bowing, scraping, drowning in overtime and mortgage debt?
That fate chilled him more than any hard foul in the paint.
His eyes drifted downward—toward the gymnasium.
…Basketball.
Even in this body, the raw potential was undeniable. Sakuragi's leaping ability, speed, stamina—it was freakish. And his mind? Trained in NBA-level strategy, footwork, court vision.
This was the golden age: Jordan's Bulls just crowned champions, Shaq about to storm the league, Penny Hardaway rising, and in a few years—Kobe, AI, the whole new guard.
No hand-checking bans. No load management. Just grit, defense, and glory.
What if… I actually played?
Not for Haruko. Not for Rukawa.
For himself.
To reclaim that hardwood kingdom. To hear the crowd roar his name—not as a joke, but as a force.
A cherry blossom tapped against the glass.
Sakuragi straightened.
No. His destiny wasn't a cubicle.
It was center court.
And maybe—just maybe—being reborn as Sakuragi Hanamichi wasn't a curse…
but the ultimate second chance.