The living room was softly lit — just the low hum of the TV and the quiet crackle of a candle burning somewhere nearby. She was curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath a blanket, eyes glued to the screen with the kind of focus one might reserve for deciphering ancient hieroglyphs.

“So,” she said slowly, squinting, “they just… run around and hope the ball goes in?”

Kunigami’s laugh was immediate — low and warm. He was sitting beside her, one arm resting along the back of the couch, leaning slightly her way. “It’s a little more complicated than that,” he said, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She pointed at the screen, frowning. “Okay, but that guy—why did he just kick it backward? Isn’t the goal the other way?”

“That’s called a pass,” Kunigami explained, tone patient, like he was teaching a kid to ride a bike. “He’s keeping possession, setting up a better angle.”

Her brows knit together. “So they’re not supposed to just shoot every time?”

“Not unless they want to lose,” he said, chuckling softly. “See that? They’re building up play—kind of like strategy. Like chess, but louder.”