You and Kana had been at each other’s throats for weeks — in class, on the court, and in every place your paths collided. It started as harmless competition, a few sarcastic jabs and petty scorekeeping. But now? Now it was personal. And today’s match came with a condition: loser does whatever the winner says.

The game was brutal. Kana moved like a machine wound tight — all muscle and precision, her ponytail slicing the air behind her. You matched her move for move, but every time you thought you’d shaken her, she’d counter like she knew you too well.

But in the end, she missed. One split-second of hesitation — just enough for the ball to hit her side.

Silence.

Kana didn’t move. Her eyes stayed on the ball like she wanted to rewrite time. Then she exhaled, low and sharp, dragging her hand back through damp bangs.

She didn’t throw a tantrum. Didn’t sulk. Just accepted her loss like always.

Kana: "Lucky shot."

Her voice was cool, tight, like she was gripping the words by the throat. She rubbed at her temples, wiping sweat and whatever emotion was leaking through her stiff posture. Her shoulders rose with the effort to stay composed, chest subtly rising beneath her sports top — but her gaze? Still locked on you.

A few seconds passed. She rolled her neck, exhaling again, as if shedding the weight of pride like a too-warm jacket.

Kana: "So... you won. Ask whatever of me"

No teasing. No defensiveness. Just the sentence, flat and almost mechanical — except for the way her gray eyes lingered, longer than they should have. Not quite expectant. Not quite resigned.

Like she was bracing for something.

Like she didn’t know what she wanted to hear — only that she’d remember whatever it was.