_____________________________________
"Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win."
— Sun Tzu
____________________________________
AFREEN's POV — A.R.C LOCKER ROOM
Afreen sat alone on the cold wooden bench of the locker room.
One leg rested casually over the other.
Her racket remained untouched beside her gym bag.
The room was nearly empty. Quiet.
Only the distant hum of the competition reached her through the walls—muffled announcements, scattered cheers, footsteps moving somewhere beyond the locker room doors.
None of it mattered.
Her attention remained fixed on the glow of her phone.
Candy Crush.
Level 7991.
Her thumb moved lazily across the screen.
A striped candy slid into place. Colors exploded. Chains of combinations triggered one after another. A small smile appeared on her lips.
This was her ritual. Before examinations. Before championships. Before confrontations. Before destruction.
Play first. Prepare later. Most people needed silence to think. Afreen preferred noise. Something meaningless. Something small. Something beneath her attention.
While her hands occupied themselves with trivial problems, her mind became free to work on the real ones.
The dangerous ones. The interesting ones.
Another level cleared. A notification flashed. She ignored it.
Her gaze remained on the screen, but her thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.
To MiMie .
To Tahir.
To everything waiting outside those doors. Her fingers trembled slightly. Not from anxiety. Never anxiety.
Excitement. Pure excitement.
The kind she rarely felt anymore. The kind that made her feel alive.
A slow shiver crawled through her body.
She exhaled.
MiMie and Tahir.
Both on the board today. Both pieces finally moving.
For days she had been watching. Observing. Calculating. Waiting.
And now?
Things were finally becoming interesting. She wanted to see Tahir's plan unfold. Not because she feared it.
Because she wanted to understand it. To dissect it. To see the machinery hidden beneath his calm face.
Everyone talked about victories. Results.
Achievements.
Afreen cared about something else entirely. She cared about process. How people thought. How they broke. How they adapted. How far they would go when cornered.
Especially people like Tahir.
Her smile widened slightly. He fascinated her. Not because he was powerful. Not because he was clever.
But because he refused to play by the rules everyone else accepted.
Even now she could still remember the rooftop. The cafeteria. The heartbreak. The humiliation.
Three and a half years ago.
The wound had never healed.
People assumed revenge was fueled by anger. They were wrong. Anger burns out. Humiliation doesn't. Humiliation survives.
It evolves. It grows teeth.
And every time she remembered Tahir's face from back then, she felt that old scar twitch beneath her skin.
A reminder. A promise. One day. One day she would return all of it. Every single piece.
Her thumb flicked another candy.
The screen erupted with colors. A satisfying chain reaction. Beautiful. Predictable. Controlled.
Unlike Tahir.
Unlike MiMie .
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
MiMie frustrated her in a completely different way. Because MiMie kept surviving. No matter what happened. No matter who hated her. No matter who abandoned her. She always kept moving forward.
As if she genuinely believed things would somehow work out. Afreen hated that. And admired it. And wanted to destroy it.
All at the same time.
Because deep down she wanted to know something.
Would MiMie still smile if everything was taken away?
Would she still stand if someone shattered every pillar holding her up?
Would she still fight if there was nothing left worth fighting for?
Afreen wanted answers.
The only way to get them was to break things. People revealed their truth when they broke. Not before. Never before.
Another level cleared. She locked her phone. The screen went dark.
For a moment she sat completely still.
Listening. Feeling. Waiting.
Then her eyes slowly rose toward the mirror across the room. Her reflection stared back.
Beautiful. Composed. Perfect.
And somewhere beneath that perfection—
Something hungry. Something dangerous.
Something she rarely showed anyone.
Afreen stood.
The movement felt light. Effortless.
Her fingers wrapped around the handle of her racket.
The familiar weight settled into her hand.
Comforting. Reliable. A weapon disguised as a sport. A low laugh escaped her lips.
Soft. Amused. Almost affectionate.
"Let's see what you've planned, Tahir."
Her reflection smiled back.
"And let's see how much strength you really have, MiMie."
The anticipation made her pulse quicken. Not from fear. Never fear. From possibility.
Because today wasn't really about tennis. It wasn't about points. Or rankings. Or championships. Today was about pressure.
About watching people reveal themselves. About finding cracks. About deciding where to push.
Her smile widened. Slowly. Dangerously.
"Either way…"
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Something beautiful is going to break today."
The thought warmed her chest. Filled her with a strange sense of peace.
Because Afreen had learned something years ago.
People lie. Memories lie. Words lie.
But breaking? Breaking was honest.
And there were very few sounds in the world she loved more than hearing something finally crack.
_____________________
MiMie's POV — C.A.A LOCKER ROOM
The C.A.A locker room carried a different kind of silence.
Not the silence of emptiness. Not the silence of fear. The silence of people standing on the edge of something important.
Metal lockers lined the walls. The scent of sports tape, warm fabric, and faint antiseptic hung in the air. Girls moved quietly around the room, tightening shoelaces, adjusting wristbands, checking their rackets one last time. Conversations stayed low, almost respectful, as if everyone instinctively understood that words had become less important than focus.
MiMie sat alone on a wooden bench.
A hot towel rested across the back of her neck, steam curling upward in thin wisps.
Her elbows rested on her knees. Her gaze remained lowered. The warmth seeped into her muscles, loosening knots she hadn't even realized were there.
The marathon had left its mark. Her calves throbbed. Her thighs ached.
A dull soreness lingered beneath her skin from pushing her body beyond comfort.
Yet she welcomed every second of it.
Pain was honest. Pain couldn't lie. Pain meant she was still here. Still standing. Still fighting.
Slowly, she pulled the towel from her neck and wrapped it around her right thigh.
Her fingers pressed firmly into the muscle.
Massage. Release. Massage. Release.
Every movement was automatic now. Years of repetition had turned recovery into ritual.
She knew exactly where the tension lived. Exactly how much pressure to apply. Exactly how long to endure the discomfort before the muscle finally surrendered.
Stretch. Breathe. Reset. Again. Stretch. Breathe. Reset.
Around her, the locker room continued moving quietly, but her thoughts drifted elsewhere. Far away. Three years.
Three entire years. Three years of courts. Three years of drills. Three years of waking before sunrise. Three years of blisters that split open and healed only to split again.
Three years of aching shoulders.
Three years of sweat-soaked training sessions that left her barely able to walk home.
Three years of chasing something she couldn't even properly describe.
The memory came suddenly.
Her instructor. His voice. Clear. Sharp. Unavoidable.
"You are the best I have ever trained."
MiMie's fingers paused against her thigh.
The words still affected her. Not because they were praise. Because they weren't. That was the strange thing.
He had never sounded impressed when he said it. Never excited. Never proud.
He simply stated it like he was commenting on the weather.
A fact. Nothing more.
"You are the best I have ever trained—stamina and talent wise."
For a moment, she could almost see him. Standing near the baseline. Arms folded. Watching. Evaluating. Always evaluating.
Then came the part she remembered most.
The part that never stopped haunting her.
"But mentally…"
MiMie closed her eyes. A slow breath entered her lungs.
"Mentally, you hesitate."
The words landed exactly as heavily as they had years ago.
"You think too much."
Another breath.
"You hold back."
Her jaw tightened. Because he wasn't wrong. He had never been wrong. She had spent years perfecting technique. Perfecting discipline. Perfecting control. But there was always a wall.
Always something inside her that pulled back at the last moment.
That demanded certainty before action. That searched for the safest path. The cleanest path. The correct path.
And sometimes…
The correct path lost.
"Only you can push yourself there."
His voice echoed inside her head.
"No coach can do it for you."
She lowered her gaze.
"No opponent will wait for you to be ready."
A long silence followed.
MiMie inhaled slowly. Held it. Released it. The tension in her chest loosened slightly. He was right. Painfully right. Because today wasn't about talent. It wasn't about stamina. It wasn't even about preparation.
Today was about Afreen.
And Afreen was unlike anyone else. Afreen didn't hesitate. Afreen didn't second-guess herself. Afreen didn't care about comfort zones. She didn't care about invisible lines people drew around themselves.
She saw obstacles. Then she walked through them. Or crushed them.
MiMie reached into her bag and pulled out another hot towel.
The heat stung pleasantly against her forearms. She wrapped it around her wrists. Rolled them slowly.
Listening to the faint cracks of loosened joints. One rotation. Then another.
Her breathing became steadier.
Slower.
Her heartbeat gradually settled into rhythm. Not the rhythm of anxiety.
The rhythm of preparation. The rhythm before battle.
Push harder.
The thought appeared quietly.
Push harder. Not physically.
She already knew how to do that.
Mentally. Emotionally.
Push beyond hesitation. Push beyond caution. Push beyond fear.
The towel slipped from her hands and landed softly beside her.
MiMie stared at it for a moment.
Then lifted her eyes. And saw the future waiting.
The court. The white lines. The net. Afreen.
She remembered every training match she should have won but didn't.
Every point surrendered because she hesitated.
Every moment she chose caution when conviction was required. Every second she waited.
And lost.
Her instructor's final lesson returned one last time. Not loud. Not harsh. Just undeniable.
"Talent gets you onto the court."
Her fingers closed around the handle of her racket.
"Mindset decides who walks off it victorious."
The grip felt different today.
Stronger. Certain.
Her knuckles tightened around it. Not from fear. From resolve.
MiMie rose from the bench. Her shoulders rolled back. Her posture straightened. The ache in her muscles remained. But it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered except what came next.
Afreen was waiting.
For the first time all day, a small smile appeared on MiMie's face.
Not confidence. Not arrogance. Something quieter. Something sharper.
Determination.
"I won't hold back today."
Not my strength. Not my will. Not myself.
She turned toward the locker room door.
The match was waiting.
Afreen was waiting.
And this time—
MiMie was ready.
_______________________
GAMETIME — Aysha Amad & Tahir
Six minutes before the match.
The stadium felt alive. Not because of the crowd. Because of the anticipation.
Hundreds of students filled the stands, creating a constant wave of movement and sound. Banners fluttered overhead. Conversations overlapped. Laughter erupted in pockets. Somewhere below, officials moved around the lawn tennis court, making final checks before the event began.
The court itself sat perfectly still beneath the afternoon sun.
Waiting.
The freshly cut grass shimmered beneath the light. White boundary lines stretched across the lawn with almost surgical precision. Beyond them, students continued pouring into the stands, their voices blending into a restless hum that rolled through the stadium like distant waves.
Everyone was waiting for the same thing.
Aysha Amad leaned back in her seat and stretched her legs.
Her eyes never left the court.
A grin slowly spread across her face.
"I've been waiting for this match all week."
Beside her, Tahir sat quietly with an orange soda resting against his knee.
"Hmm."
Aysha glanced at him.
"That's all?"
"Hmm." Tahir shrugged.
She rolled her eyes. "MiMie versus Afreen."
"Yeah."
"The biggest match of the tournament."
"Kind of," Tahir replied.
"Tahir."
"Yeah..?"
"Show some excitement."
"Why?" Tahir asked.
"Because normal people get excited."
"Sounds exhausting."
Aysha laughed despite herself. "Honestly, talking to you feels like talking to a brick wall."
"Hmm. Is that so?" Tahir asked unenthusiastically.
"A sarcastic brick wall."
"Hmm… Better." The corner of Tahir's mouth lifted slightly. A tiny smirk.
The kind that disappeared so quickly most people would miss it.
Aysha didn't.
She shook her head before returning her attention to the court. "I still think MiMie is in trouble."
"Hmm?"
"My cousin Salim told me Afreen won five trophies across four different states."
"Impressive."
"Exactly," Aysha added.
"And?" Tahir asked sarcastically.
"And MiMie is going to struggle."
Tahir took a slow sip from his drink. The cold soda barely registered.
His eyes remained fixed on the court below.
"Hmm… the truth is… MiMie never gives up. No matter what."
Aysha immediately smirked.
There it is.
She leaned sideways and nudged him with her elbow.
"Aww."
"What?" Tahir asked.
"You know her really well," Aysha teased.
"Unfortunately."
"Your love runs deep." Aysha grinned wider, carefully watching for a reaction.
Trying to catch one.
Any reaction.
"Hmm. She hates me," Tahir said.
Aysha burst out laughing.
A few nearby students turned around briefly before returning their attention to their own conversations.
"That may be true."
"Hmm." Tahir sighed.
"But not everybody knows that."
"Comforting," Tahir deadpanned.
"Besides," Aysha continued, still smiling, "I'm pretty sure Mustyy likes her."
"Yeah. I guess."
Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
"And she probably likes him."
"You think so huh.?" Tahir asked.
"She just hasn't figured it out yet."
For the first time, Tahir actually looked at her. "You think so?"
"A hundred percent."
"Interesting."
"Don't tell me you disagree."
"Not really."
"You don't disagree?"
"People are complicated," Tahir said.
Aysha groaned dramatically. "That answer means absolutely nothing."
"Then it accomplished its purpose," Tahir mockingly replied.
"Tahir."
"Hmm?"
"You're impossible."
"Frequently." Tahir muttered.
Aysha sighed and took another sip of her soda.
The teasing slowly faded from her expression. Something softer replaced it.
"How's Mustyy doing anyway?"
"Hmm. Fine."
"That's suspiciously short."
"His arm still hurts." Tahir said
"Well obviously."
"Hmm."
"Has he been taking it easy?" Aysha asked
"Not really."
"I knew it."
"Hmm."
"He looks like the type to ignore doctor's orders." Aysha said
"Accurate."
"And nobody is stopping him?" Aysha asked
"Not successfully."
Aysha shook her head. "Unbelievable."
"Hmm."
A whistle echoed somewhere near the court.
The crowd immediately reacted. Conversations broke apart. Heads turned.
Students pointed toward the entrance tunnel.
The players would be arriving soon.
Aysha sat forward instinctively. "Tahir."
"Hmm?"
"Who do you think wins?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, his eyes drifted across the stadium.
Wing C. Seat 79. Untouched. Good.
Exactly as expected. Everything remained where it needed to be. His attention returned to the court.
"C.A.A wins." Tahir said, confidently.
Aysha stared. Then laughed. "Absolutely not."
"Hmm."
"Last semester A.R.C crushed us. We all had hope, we were even leading at some point."
"Hmm. I see" Tahir muttered.
"They completely destroyed our momentum."
"Hmm. Really?." Tahir asked, as if he doesn't have that information.
"Yeah, they practically broke everyone's spirit."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Tahir's mouth. "This year is different."
"Why?" Aysha asked
"Hmm." Tahir inhaled. His eyes settled on the court. The net. The baseline. The empty player entrances. The future.
"Because MiMie is C.A.A's trump card now."
Aysha folded her arms. "She might be amazing."
"Hmm."
"But Afreen is terrifying." Aysha said.
"Possible."
"Possible?" Aysha asked
"Tends to happen."
Aysha stared at him. "You say that like she's a weather forecast."
"Hmm."
"What if Afreen wins?" Aysha asked genuinely.
"Then she wins." Tahir replied
"What if she destroys MiMie?" Aysha asked again.
"Then she destroys MiMie." Tahir replied flatly.
"What if your prediction is wrong?" Aysha asked again.
"Then I'll be wrong."
Aysha narrowed her eyes. "You're annoyingly calm."
"Hmm. It seems so." Tahir said.
"No seriously."
"Yeah."
"Something is weird about you today." Aysha said.
Tahir looked toward the court again.
Officials were taking their positions now.
The atmosphere was changing. The energy was tightening. The matches were close. Very close.
"Big things are always happening," he said quietly.
Aysha blinked. "What does that even mean?"
"Most people just notice them too late." Tahir said.
She stared at him for a moment. Then shook her head.
"There it is."
"What?" Tahir asked
"The mysterious nonsense." Aysha answered.
"Hmm."
"Never change." Aysha said
"I never made any promises." Tahir said.
Below them, movement appeared near the players' tunnel.
A surge of excitement swept through the stadium.
Cheers erupted. Banners rose.
Students jumped to their feet.
The matches were about to begin.
Aysha immediately leaned forward, eyes shining with excitement. "It's starting."
"Yeah." Beside her, Tahir slipped one hand casually into his pocket.
His fingers brushed the small remote device hidden there. Ready. Waiting. Just like everything else.
And while the crowd focused on the court below—
Tahir's attention remained split between the match that everyone expected…
and the one nobody knew had already begun.
______________________
THE MATCHES BEGIN
The commentator's voice echoed across the sports grounds.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we begin the Elite Schools' Lawn Tennis Championship!"
Cheers erupted from every section of the stadium.
The afternoon sun hung high above the courts, bathing the grass in gold. Students crowded the stands, banners waving overhead as supporters shouted school chants.
"First match!"
The commentator's voice rose.
"A.U.N versus C.C!"
The crowd applauded politely. Not because they weren't interested.
But because everyone knew the second match was the real attraction.
Still, both schools had earned their place here. And neither intended to leave quietly.
⸻
The players entered from opposite ends of the court.
Representing A.U.N was Munirah Musa.
Tall. Athletic. Calm.
She carried herself with quiet confidence.
Not flashy. Not intimidating. Just disciplined.
Across from her stood C.C's representative.
Sarah Bello. Smaller in build. Faster on her feet.
Known for her aggressive style and unpredictable shots.
The referee called both players to the net.
Coin toss. Handshakes. Final instructions.
Then they took their positions. The stadium settled.
The whistle blew.
⸻
FIRST SET
Munirah served first.
The ball exploded off her racket.
A powerful serve. Sarah barely reached it.
The return floated too high. Munirah stepped forward immediately.
Smash.
Point.
The A.U.N section erupted.
"LET'S GO Munirah!"
"THAT'S IT!" Sarah exhaled slowly.
Nerves. Too much nerves.
Her second point wasn't much better.
Another rushed return. Another mistake.
Within minutes:
15–0
30–0
40–0
Game.
A.U.N.
The match had barely started.
⸻
Sarah forced herself to reset.
She bounced the ball twice before her first serve.
This time she played aggressively.
A sharp angle. Munirah sprinted. Returned.
Sarah attacked again.
Forehand. Backhand. Forehand. Backhand.
The longest rally so far.
Students leaned forward.
Both girls covered nearly every inch of the court.
Then Sarah suddenly changed direction.
A perfect drop shot. Munirah couldn't reach it.
The C.C supporters exploded.
"THAT'S MORE LIKE IT!"
Sarah clenched her fist. Finally. A point.
The confidence returned.
For the next few games, both players traded victories.
Neither could pull away. The match became faster. Harder. More technical.
Even students who knew little about tennis started paying attention.
⸻
THE TURNING POINT
At 4–4, the momentum shifted.
Sarah attempted another aggressive drop shot. The ball clipped the top of the net.
For a moment it looked perfect. Then gravity won. The ball rolled backward.
Fault.
Sarah froze. One mistake. Nothing more.
But it lingered. The next serve missed too. Double fault.
The crowd murmured.
Munirah noticed immediately. Weakness. Doubt. Fatigue. She attacked without hesitation. Long rallies. Constant pressure.
Forcing Sarah to run. Again. Again. Again.
By the end of the game, Sarah was breathing heavily.
Munirah wasn't.
Her stamina was beginning to show.
⸻
FIRST SET RESULT
6–4. A.U.N—won
The crowd applauded.
Sarah sat briefly during the break, wiping sweat from her forehead.
Munirah calmly drank water. No celebration. No excitement. Just focus.
The match wasn't over yet.
⸻
SECOND SET
Sarah came out swinging. Literally. Every shot carried more power.
More risk. More desperation.
She knew she couldn't win a stamina battle.
So she gambled. And for a while—it worked.
Her forehands landed perfectly. Her serves improved. Munirah was forced onto the defensive.
The score tightened.
2–2.
3–3.
4–4.
The stadium became louder. Students started picking sides. Every point earned a reaction. Every mistake earned groans.
The match was becoming surprisingly entertaining.
⸻
Then came the rally. The rally everyone remembered afterward.
Thirty-two consecutive returns.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Neither girl willing to surrender.
The crowd counted aloud.
Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty.
Sarah finally went for a winner. A risky cross-court shot. The ball flew wide. Just barely. The entire stadium groaned.
Sarah bent forward immediately. Hands on knees. Exhausted.
Munirah wasn't much better. But she recovered first. And that made all the difference.
⸻
THE END
The next game belonged entirely to A.U.N.
Sarah's legs were gone. Her reactions slowed. Her shots lost precision.
Munirah sensed the finish line. One final serve. A powerful return. A forehand winner.
Game.
Set.
Match.
⸻
The referee raised a hand.
"A.U.N wins!"
The A.U.N section erupted.
Munirah raised her racket briefly toward the crowd. Nothing dramatic. Just acknowledgment. Sarah approached the net moments later.
The two girls shook hands. Respectfully. Professionally. The audience applauded both competitors.
They had earned it.
⸻
As the players exited the court, the commentator stepped forward once more.
"A.U.N advances!" the commentator announced.
Cheers erupted from the A.U.N section.
The players shook hands before leaving the court.
The commentator waited for the noise to settle. Then he continued.
"Which means A.U.N moves into the semi-finals!"
Applause followed immediately.
"They will face the winner of our next match—either A.R.C or C.A.A!"
The excitement doubled.
"And in the finals, the victor will challenge A.M.A—the defending Elite Champions of Lawn Tennis!"
That earned the loudest reaction yet. Students rose from their seats. Banners waved. School colors filled the stands.
Because nobody really cared about the previous match anymore.
Everyone had been waiting for this one.
The real attraction. The real headline.
The commentator allowed the anticipation to build. A few seconds. Then a few more.
Just enough.
"And now…"
The stadium quieted. Hundreds of eyes locked onto the court.
The commentator's voice lowered dramatically.
"The match you have all been waiting for."
A pause.
"A.R.C versus C.A.A!"
The crowd exploded.
Cheers crashed through the stadium like a tidal wave.
Students stood. Phones rose into the air.
Even teachers leaned forward.
Because everybody knew exactly who was about to step onto that court.
The rivalry wasn't between schools anymore.
It wasn't even about points.
It was personal.
Afreen versus MiMie.
And suddenly, nobody was thinking about A.U.N versus C.C anymore.
____________________
COURTSIDE — MOMENTS BEFORE ENTRY
The gate stood open.
Beyond it, the lawn tennis court stretched beneath the afternoon sun, the grass impossibly green and perfectly trimmed. The white boundary lines gleamed against the surface, untouched and waiting.
For a brief moment, everything felt still.
As if the court itself was holding its breath.
MiMie stopped a few steps from the entrance.
The noise from the stadium faded into the background.
She rolled her shoulders once. Inhale. Exhale. Her muscles felt loose now. Ready.
The tension from the marathon still lingered in her legs, but it no longer mattered. The court had a way of washing everything else away.
Just as she reached for her racket, her phone vibrated. She glanced down.
A message from Mustyy.
"Good luck today. I know you're going to win.
I believe in you—always.
Can't wait to celebrate after."
MiMie stared at the words for a second.
Then smiled. A real smile. Small. Warm. Effortless.
No complicated advice. No hidden meanings. No cryptic warnings.
Just belief. Simple. Honest.
Something settled inside her chest.
The knot of tension she'd been carrying all day loosened slightly.
At least someone knows how to be there for people, she thought.
Someone who says what he means.
Her mind drifted—uninvited—to another person.
"Tahir."
His vague warnings. His half-answers. His habit of speaking like every conversation was a puzzle only he understood.
The way he always seemed to know things without ever explaining them.
MiMie immediately pushed the thought away.
Focus.
Not now.
She slipped the phone back into her bag and tightened her grip on the strap for a moment before letting go. The smile faded.
Determination took its place.
____________
A few meters away, Afreen sat casually on a bench near the players' area.
One leg rested over the other.
Her racket balanced loosely across her lap.
Unlike MiMie, she looked completely relaxed.
Almost bored.
Then her phone buzzed. Afreen glanced down.
A message from Safeeyah.
"Avenge me.
Bring down MiMie.
Bring down C.A.A.
All of it."
Afreen read it once. Then again.
A smile slowly spread across her face.
Sharp. Crooked. Dangerous. Not because she felt obligated. Not because she cared about A.R.C's standing.
Not because she cared about trophies. Or school pride.
No.
The message simply reminded her of something amusing.
Everyone else always needed a reason.
A cause. A justification. An excuse.
Afreen never did.
She wasn't here for A.R.C.
She wasn't here for Safeeyah.
She wasn't even here for victory.
She was here because she wanted to be.
Because she enjoyed competition. Because she enjoyed pressure.
Because strong people were far more interesting when they were pushed to their limits.
Because she is going to enjoy dismantling MiMie.
And because somewhere in the crowd sat a boy named Tahir.
A boy who continued to surprise her.
A boy who kept moving pieces across a board nobody else could see.
That thought sent a familiar thrill through her. Her fingers trembled slightly. Not from fear. Never fear.
Anticipation.
Afreen locked her phone and slipped it away. Her eyes drifted toward the entrance.
Toward the court.
Toward MiMie.
Her smile widened.
________________
The announcer's voice thundered across the stadium.
"Players to the court!"
The crowd erupted immediately. Cheers rolled through the stands. Banners rose.
Phones appeared.
The commentator allowed the anticipation to build.
A few seconds. Then a few more. Just enough.
"And now…"
The stadium quieted.
Thousands of eyes locked onto the court.
On one side—
The undefeated, New queen of A.R.C.
The girl who had collected trophies across multiple states.
The nightmare of every opponent unfortunate enough to face her.
Afreen.
The A.R.C section erupted into deafening chants.
"AFREEN!" "AFREEN!" "AFREEN!"
Afreen appeared first.
She walked through the side gate with her racket resting casually across one shoulder.
Confident. Relaxed.
A small smile played across her lips. Not arrogance. Expectation.
Like she had already imagined every possible outcome and liked most of them.
The crowd responded immediately.
Her name echoed through the stadium.
Afreen raised two fingers lazily toward her supporters.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Then she stepped onto the grass.
Across the stadium, another gate opened.
The reaction was different. Not louder. Just warmer. More emotional.
____________
"MiMie!" "MiMie!" "MiMie!"
C.A.A's side erupted with the chants.
MiMie emerged from the tunnel.
Focused. Composed. Racket in hand.
Her hair tied neatly behind her.
No smile. No wave. No theatrics. Just concentration.
The kind earned through years of training.
She stepped onto the court and immediately began studying everything.
The net. The grass. The wind.
Her opponent.
Afreen's smile widened slightly when their eyes met.
MiMie's expression didn't change.
The atmosphere thickened.
Even students who didn't understand lawn tennis could feel it. Something was different.
This wasn't merely another match. This was a collision.
Two people who had spent years becoming the best.
Two people carrying history nobody else fully understood.
Two people determined not to lose.
From the stands, Aysha practically vibrated with excitement. "Oh my God."
"Hmm," Tahir replied.
"They look terrifying." Aysha said with excitement in her face.
"Possible." Tahir replied
"Tahir." She called.
"Hmm?" He answered.
"This is insane." Aysha said
"Hmm." Tahir nodded
Aysha pointed dramatically toward the court. "Look at Afreen."
"Yeah.!"
"She looks like she wants to start a war." Aysha said.
"Probably." Tahir replied.
"And MiMie looks like she already accepted the challenge." Aysha said
"Also possible." Tahir replied
Aysha groaned. "You really are impossible."
Below them, the two girls approached the net.
The referee stepped forward.
Coin toss. Rules review. Final checks.
Afreen twirled her racket once.
MiMie adjusted her grip.
Neither looked away from the other. Not even for a second.
High above them, Tahir's gaze briefly drifted toward Wing C.
Seat 79.
Still untouched. Still waiting. Good.
His fingers brushed the remote inside his pocket.
Not yet.
The timing had to be perfect.
The referee raised a hand.
The stadium slowly quieted.
Hundreds of voices faded into silence.
The coin spun into the air.
And as it glittered beneath the afternoon sun—
both Afreen and MiMie watched it fall.
The first battle was about to begin.