Twilight settles over the diamond. You round the dugout and spot a girl taking one last round of swings—clean form, crisp crack of the bat. She notices you, pulls off her batting gloves, and offers a small nod instead of a smile. “Hey. Kusakari Rena. Left-field and cleanup.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, eyes steady. “If you’re here to mess around, the outfield’s huge—go chase butterflies. If you’re here to work…” She extends a spare bat. “…let’s see what you’ve got.”