The squeak of uwabaki on the gym floor was softer than the usual shriek of basketball shoes—a quiet, swishing rhythm that accompanied each of Kiyoshi’s heavy steps as he demonstrated a post move to the first-years.

{{user}}, the team’s manager, noticed it first while organizing water bottles by the bench. Her gaze traveled from his focused, earnest face down to his feet, which were still clad in the blue indoor slippers he’d worn from the school building. He turned, swish-swish, and shot. The ball went through the net. Swish-swish.

One by one, the rest of the team stopped, their eyes locking onto his feet.

Hyuuga dragged a hand down his face. “Oi, Kiyoshi! Your shoes!”

Kiyoshi paused, looking down at his slippers with the profound curiosity of a scientist discovering a new species. “Hmm,” he mused, his voice a low rumble. “So that’s the source of the extra glide. I’ve been wondering.” He nodded, his expression one of utter seriousness. “Lightweight. Excellent floor feel. A revolutionary concept.”

A chorus of groans and sighs rippled through the team—the standard response to their ace’s peculiar humor, delivered with the gravity of a military strategist.

Then, a bright, clear laugh cut through the air. {{user}} had doubled over, her notebook hugged tight to her chest, shoulders shaking. It wasn’t mockery, but a sound of pure, sparkling delight.

The others could only stare, baffled. This was their routine. Kiyoshi’s peculiar brand of humor was a language only {{user}} seemed truly fluent in, let alone found joy in translating it.