The dorm light buzzed faintly above, flickering in that tired way that made rooms feel older than they were. Outside, the Tokyo skyline shimmered faintly through the grime-smudged windows, neon signs pulsing in rhythm with a distant city heartbeat. But inside the room, it was quiet—except for the subtle creak of Sōta shifting in his bunk above Haruto.
"That was insane," Sōta whispered, almost to himself.
Haruto was lying flat on his futon, eyes open, staring at the wooden slats of the bunk above. His fingers rested lightly against his own pitching hand, feeling for something. Warmth. Stillness. A lingering ghost of the System. It had stayed quiet since that last pitch against Mizuno—like a breath held beneath the surface.
"You're really not gonna say anything?" Sōta rolled over. "You challenged a third-year. Then you struck him out like it was nothing. Like… boom. Snap. Who are you?"
Haruto didn't answer immediately. His mind was replaying the pitch again and again in his head, but not the mechanics—the silence that came just before the throw. That hum inside him, like time had slowed, like he knew how to beat Mizuno before the ball even left his fingers.
"I'm not used to this place yet," Haruto finally said.
"Well, no one is. But you're already in their heads, man. Coach. Seniors. Even that scary catcher guy—Naoki Endō—he kept staring at you."
Yusuke Mori chuckled from his desk, legs crossed, scribbling notes into a thick spiral notebook. "Endō only stares at two types of people. Threats… and idiots."
Sōta leaned down from the top bunk, whisper-shouting, "You think Haruto's a threat?"
Yusuke didn't look up. "You don't throw a dead-zone curve like that and not get noticed. Mizuno didn't swing at the first two because he thought it was a joke. But that third pitch? That thing dropped like gravity panicked."
Haruto blinked. "It wasn't just the ball."
Yusuke's pen froze. "What do you mean?"
Haruto sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know… for a second, it was like—everything made sense. His stance, his grip, the weight in his swing. It's like I could see the result before it happened."
Yusuke finally looked up. His eyes, usually half-lidded and lazy, were now sharp. "...That's not normal."
"Maybe," Haruto said quietly. "Maybe not."
The room settled into a new silence, this time thicker. Sōta lay back with a long sigh. "Well, however you did it… you just bought us some serious attention."
Attention. That word clung to Haruto's ears as he lay down again.
The next morning, Minazuki High felt different.
Freshmen walked the halls with stiffer shoulders, careful not to bump into upperclassmen. The field was wet from an early rain, and the earthy smell of wet chalk and pine tar filled the air. A few puddles dotted the outfield like puddles of memory from some forgotten match.
Haruto arrived to find the practice board already filled out. Teams had been set for the official Red vs Blue practice game. His name was written clean across the Red roster.
Position: Pitcher (2nd Rotation).
First on the mound was the Hokkaido freshman.
Riku Hoshino.
Haruto read the name twice.
He'd seen the boy once—silent, hooded, eyes like ice. Not the kind of player who blended in. Riku had missed the initial trials and came late, not because he lacked the will, but because he hadn't known the schedule. Word was, he passed the written exams without missing a single question and walked in during a bullpen session, threw three fastballs above 140 km/h, and left.
Now he was starting in the game that decided squad placement.
"Who's the new guy?" Haruto asked quietly.
Yusuke handed him a rice ball. "Hoshino. Transfer. Comes from the cold and throws like it."
"He's quiet," Sōta added. "Like, really quiet. Doesn't talk to anyone except his glove, I think."
On the field, Riku Hoshino walked to the mound like a shadow under floodlights. His stride was clean, deliberate. His uniform looked freshly ironed—almost unnaturally so—and his fingers curled around the ball with surgical care.
The first batter stepped in. A second-year with a loud bat and louder mouth.
"Let's see what the Hokkaido kid's got!" he shouted, grinning.
First pitch.
Thud.
140 km/h.
Second pitch.
Thud.
142 km/h.
Third pitch—inside and rising—painted the upper corner with military precision.
The batter struck out without swinging once.
Silence fell around the dugouts.
Sōta blinked. "He throws hard."
Yusuke scribbled something in his notebook. "Not just hard. Controlled chaos. That's a Koshien-level arm."
Haruto stared at Riku for a long moment. The way he moved, like his body was built only for throwing. Like the rest of life didn't concern him.
He didn't smile. Didn't celebrate. Just walked off the mound like the pitch meant nothing.
After three innings, Riku had nine strikeouts.
Haruto was next.
He jogged to the mound slowly, letting his fingers feel the uneven dirt underfoot. The wind had picked up slightly, carrying the scent of clay and distant cherry blossoms. He could hear his own heartbeat, steady but curious. The System stayed quiet.
But his mind wasn't.
He glanced toward Riku, sitting on the bench, towel over his neck. Their eyes met for a moment. No words. No recognition.
Only pressure.
The duel had begun.
As Haruto stepped onto the mound, Sōta settled into his crouch behind the plate, flashing signs. The third-year batter waiting for him was tall, with a scar under his chin and wrists wrapped like a boxer.
First pitch.
Snap.
A cutter, low and inside.
The batter swung. Foul tip.
Second pitch.
A circle change, late movement.
Whiff.
Third pitch.
Haruto exhaled. Closed his eyes just for a moment.
When he opened them, he saw it—the batter's weight just a shade too forward, his grip a hair tight.
He wound up.
And threw.
The batter didn't swing. Couldn't.
Strike three.
Haruto stood still.
From the dugout, Riku watched.
For the first time since arriving, he blinked.
---
End of Chapter 52 – Dorm Lights and Shadows