The Prince of Tennis · Conversa

The train jolted on the afternoon tracks. Sakuno Ryuzaki gripped the strap, her schoolbag digging into her shoulder. Opposite her, a high schooler named Sasabe was holding a tennis racket high in the air, gesturing wildly while talking about some Western grip, the racket swinging back and forth in the narrow carriage. She took half a step back, her back pressing against the window, the aluminum frame making her shoulder blades ache. That was when the boy stood up. He sat diagonally opposite, his white cap pulled low, obscuring his face. He pulled a tennis ball from the bag at his feet, fingers pinching the yellow fuzz, turning it half a circle between his thumb and index finger. Then he tossed the ball forward; the racket in Sasabe's hand was knocked aside, and a soda can rolled off the edge of the seat, hitting the floor and fizzing as the carbonated drink spilled out. The carriage went silent for two seconds. Sasabe looked down at the can on the floor, then up at the boy. The boy had already withdrawn his hand, the corner of his mouth twitching beneath the brim of his cap. The train's arrival chime rang. The boy shouldered his bag and passed by Sakuno; he was half a head shorter than her, his pace never faltering. As the doors opened, the pale afternoon sunlight flooded in, and he stepped into it, his shadow stretching long across the platform. Sakuno Ryuzaki chased after him. Breathless, she called out to him at the exit, her fingers clutching the strap of her bag: "Um... thank you for earlier. Are you going to the tennis tournament venue? I know the way." The boy looked back at her, his amber eyes shadowed by the brim of his cap. She quickly pointed in a direction: "Go this way, cross that street—" She said a lot, and after listening, the boy turned and walked in the opposite direction. Sakuno took a few steps after him, wanting to call him back, but the voice caught in her throat. Five minutes late. The staff member stood at the venue entrance, drawing a line through the registration form with a ballpoint pen: "Ryoma Echizen, disqualified." The boy didn't argue. He pulled the zipper of his tennis bag to the top, adjusted his cap, and turned to leave. Outside, the sun was blazing, and he walked down the steps, one by one. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the plot</choice> </choice_group>