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Translator: Barnnn
July had been nothing short of a nightmare for Ichikawa Izumi.
It all began when she was selected for the summer district tournament team of her junior high basketball club.
As she was a second-year student, Izumi’s selection over the third-year seniors sparked resentment that quickly zeroed in on her.
Perhaps in some ways, it was simply inevitable.
At first, it was just words.
“Give your spot to a senior.”
“You’re too short to make a difference.”
“You can’t even pass far — you’re just a weakling.”
The insults were both muttered to her face and whispered behind her back.
Izumi had been chosen as a counter to their first-round opponent, a team notorious for their tall players.
Though Izumi was small for her age, her quick reflexes, low dribbling, and knack for stealing the ball from opponents’ blind spots made her formidable.
Even if it wouldn’t result in immediate points, the coach planned to capitalize on these strengths to disrupt the opponent and control the pace of the game.
Yet, the seniors weren’t about to let that happen.
When verbal assaults failed to rattle her, they turned to subtler, more insidious forms of harassment. During practice, it was all too easy to mask their aggression as accidental contact.
Every drill became a test of endurance. They practiced formations anticipating the towering adversaries they would soon face. Scrimmages between the starting lineup and those relegated to the bench turned brutal.
Izumi found herself surrounded daily, with no allies, only adversaries who knew her weaknesses and exploited them.
Arms would slam into her wrist just as she reached for the ball.
Feet would dart out to trip her at the moment she began her run.
A misstep would send her sprawling, and a shoe would stomp on her hand as she tried to push herself back up.
An elbow would block her view just as she pivoted while dribbling.
Before long, her entire body was covered in bruises.
Her second-year teammates kept their distance, fearing they might be next.
The coach turned a blind eye, unwilling to confront the ugliness festering within his team.
Her parents were no better, advising her to quit the club and concentrate on her studies instead.
Then summer break arrived, bringing with it the grueling training camp.
It happened during one of the many scrimmages. Several seniors piled onto Izumi as she crumpled to the court.
With a sickening crunch, a sharp pain shot through her body. She screamed, but the weight on top of her didn’t lift.
She clutched her left knee, consciousness slipping, and just before darkness claimed her, she could’ve sworn she heard someone laughing.
The diagnosis was brutal: a torn meniscus in her left knee.
The school nurse had rushed her to the hospital, where the injury was officially deemed an “accident” during the camp.
Her entire left leg was encased in a rigid brace, and she was handed a crutch to manage the weight.
“I’d like to discuss the treatment plan with your parents,” the doctor said. “Could you come back with them in a few days?”
“How long will it take to heal? Will I be able to play in next week’s game?”
“I’ll go over the details then, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to play. Rehab will take at least three months. I’m sorry, but you’ll need to take it slow.”
Two days later, Izumi returned to the hospital with her mother, who had taken a break from work just long enough to hear the same explanation.
Three months of rehabilitation.
Three months without basketball.
Three months that would stretch through the entire summer break.
In less than a month, the dream Izumi had nurtured since she first picked up a basketball — playing in a real game — was shattered.
Sure, she could always try again next year, but with three months out of action, and the bullying still fresh in her mind, she knew the coach wouldn’t give her another shot.
Even during the hospital visit, her mother’s thoughts were on work. She dropped Izumi off at school with little more than a perfunctory farewell, then hurried back to her job.
Izumi, struggling with her new crutch, managed to reach the faculty office and asked a nearby teacher to unlock the basketball club’s locker room.
The training camp had ended the day before, leaving the room empty.
Careful not to look at the other members’ lockers, particularly those of the seniors, she retrieved the backpack she’d left behind and slung it over her shoulder. Then, holding her breath, she bolted from the room as fast as her injured leg would allow.
A kind teacher offered her a ride to the station, and she accepted. At the rotary, she stepped out of the car.
“Thank you very much.”
“Are you sure you don’t need a ride all the way home?”
“I need to pick up my medicine, so I’ll be fine here.”
“If you say so. Just be careful of the curbs.”
“I will. Thank you.”
As the teacher’s car drove away, Izumi turned toward the pharmacy in the shopping center next to the station to pick up a week’s worth of medication. Most of it, as the doctor had explained, was for inflammation and pain relief.
Knowing that shopping would be difficult with her injured leg, she stocked up on a few days’ worth of ready-made meals, instant food, and, in a fit of bitter frustration, snacks she usually didn’t allow herself.
Her backpack, already heavy with camp gear, dug painfully into her shoulders, and her right armpit, where the crutch rubbed incessantly, throbbed with soreness.
Navigating the curbs she usually ignored became a new challenge, but she managed to make her way to the stairs leading down to the platform.
But as she stood at the top of the long descent, a sudden wave of fear washed over her.
The weight of her backpack, the persistent ache in her knee, and the awkward balance with the crutch made her question whether she could safely manage the stairs.
[I guess I’ll have to take the elevator.]
There should be an elevator near the train car she usually took. Relying on memory, she shuffled toward the back of the stairs and spotted it a few dozen meters away.
But her relief was short-lived. A group of four high school students — two boys and two girls — were sprawled in front of the elevator, their bags scattered across the floor.
Izumi doubted she could navigate her crutch around them to reach the elevator button.
Ideally, they would notice her and move, but they were deep in conversation, oblivious to her approach.
[Now this is awkward. Should I ask them to move or go back to the stairs?]
Izumi winced at the shrill laughter of one of the girls, which echoed through the station. Just as she was resigning herself to the stairs…
“Guys, could you move aside, please?”
A man’s voice cut through the noise, calm but firm.
She turned carefully, mindful of her left leg, to see a man in a suit, pulling a small suitcase behind him.
She’d been so focused on her struggle that she hadn’t noticed even the rolling of the suitcase’s wheels.
“Huh?” one of the boys responded.
“I’d like to use the elevator. Could you move your things if you’re not using it?”
One of the girls, perhaps noticing Izumi for the first time, nudged the boy’s arm.
“Hey, the little guy needs to get through,” she said, mistaking Izumi for a boy due to her short hair and androgynous frame.
“Who? …Oh.”
“Sorry, didn’t notice you there.”
“Sure, we’ll move.”
Thankfully, they weren’t as rude as Izumi had feared. They all apologized, and she felt relieved enough to respond,
“It’s all right. Thank you.”
After thanking the high schoolers, Izumi gave the man a grateful nod and pressed the elevator button. The doors opened with a soft chime.
The high schoolers, apparently headed to the platform as well, followed the man with the suitcase into the elevator.
“That backpack’s so big it looks like it’s carrying him. Pretty cute,” one of the boys quipped.
“Dude, he’s a little boy! You better not start hitting on him,” one of the girls shot back.
Izumi kept her gaze down, avoiding their eyes as the group exchanged embarrassing whispers.
The elevator began its descent with a slight tremor.
Then, without warning, a blinding light flooded the small space.
“Kyah!”
“What the–!”
Even with her eyes squeezed shut, the light pierced through Izumi’s eyelids, leaving her disoriented.
Her eyes watered from the intensity, and what should have been a short ride felt endless.
Worse, the sensation of falling faster and faster overtook her, a dizzying plummet instead of a gentle stop.
Overwhelmed, Izumi lost her balance and stumbled into someone beside her.
“You okay!?”
The voice accompanied a hand that gently steadied her left shoulder. She thought it belonged to the man in the suit.
Just as she opened her mouth to respond–
Thud.
A violent jolt sent her sprawling to the floor.
“Huh…?”
The shock rendered her speechless as she tried to make sense of her surroundings.
“What…?”
A voice of similar confusion echoed beside her, but Izumi couldn’t tear her eyes away from what lay before her.
Unlike her, the four high school students had managed to stay on their feet, clutching at one another.
What Izumi saw in her line of sight was…
A ceiling that seemed to stretch infinitely high.
Massive, glowing white pillars.
Men and women adorned with resplendent jewelry that shimmered as if lit from within.
By a distant door, soldiers in dull silver armor stood in a regimented row.
This was nothing like the cramped elevator she had stepped into just moments before.
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