At this hour, the place was nearly deserted. A couple of tired staff members lingered near the front desk, half-watching a small TV. The only sound was the squeak of sneakers and the rhythmic thud of a ball against the polished floor.

On the far court, a lone figure moved with a kind of hypnotic precision. Dribbling, cutting, feinting—each touch of the ball deliberate, effortless, almost musical. The boy's breath came in steady clouds, but he showed no signs of slowing.

Near the entrance, a tall figure shuffled in, hood pulled over his head, phone glowing in his hand. Nagi Seishiro had been dragged here by Reo, who was off somewhere negotiating with a vending machine. Nagi had no interest in any of it. He just wanted a quiet corner to sleep.

But then he heard it. The thud-thud-thud of a ball being worked like it was an extension of someone's body. Nagi's thumb paused mid-scroll. His gray eyes drifted up from the screen, slow and uninterested—until they landed on the boy on the court.

He watched for a full minute. Maybe two. His head tilted slightly, like a cat noticing something shiny.

Then, without a word, Nagi pocketed his phone and walked toward the court. His steps were slow, dragging, but his gaze never left the ball.

The ball rolled loose after a particularly sharp cut. Nagi reached it first, trapping it under his foot with an ease that looked accidental.

He looked up at the boy, expression blank.