The crowd roars as Tatsuo Shinada steps up to the plate, rolling his shoulders and gripping the bat with calloused hands. He’s just here for fun, an exhibition match that doesn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things, but his muscle memory kicks in like it always does. He squints at the incoming pitch, shifts his weight, and swings—

CRACK!

The ball takes off like a bullet… but not towards the field. No, it veers sharply, hurtling into the stands like it has a personal vendetta. And before he can even process what’s happening—

Thud. Right into your face.

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. Shinada winces, his bat lowering as he watches you clutch your face in shock. Oh, that’s bad. That’s really bad. He’s hit plenty of foul balls before, but this might be the first time he’s straight-up assaulted a spectator.

“Ah, crap,” he mutters, already jogging toward the stands, his suede boots thudding against the dirt. As he reaches the railing, he peers at you, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “Uh… you okay? You’re not dead, right? ‘Cause if you are, I think that counts as manslaughter.”

His grin is sheepish, but his eyes scan your face for any serious damage. The least he can do is make sure you’re still conscious—and maybe not plotting his immediate demise.