____________________________________
"Is a girl powerful because she's a queen… or is she a queen because she's powerful?"
— Genius2.0oh!
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"How will you defeat an Enemy that has No weaknesses..?"
— Mysteryy2.0oh!
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And So It Begins.
The umpire stepped forward.
"Players—take your positions."
The words echoed across the court and seemed to hang there.
A strange silence settled over the stadium.
It wasn't true silence. Hundreds of students still occupied the stands. Banners still fluttered overhead. Cameras remained raised. Phones remained recording.
Yet somehow, all of it felt distant.
Muted.
The noise had retreated beneath something heavier.
Expectation.
Even the wind seemed reluctant to disturb the moment.
The afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the immaculate grass court. The white boundary lines gleamed sharply against the green surface, pristine and untouched. Waiting.
MiMie walked toward the baseline. Each step was measured. Controlled.
She bounced the ball once. Twice. Three times.
The familiar rhythm traveled through her arm and settled somewhere deep inside her chest. Her fingers tightened around the racket handle. Years of training answered automatically. Balance. Grip. Posture. Breathing.
Muscle memory flowed through her body like a current returning to its natural path.
Her face remained calm. Too calm.
The kind of calm that only existed after years of learning how to hide fear, frustration, excitement, and doubt behind discipline.
Like a lake that looked perfectly still until someone realized how powerful the currents beneath it truly were.
Across the net, Afreen twirled her racket lazily around her fingers. The movement looked casual. Carefree.
But MiMie knew better.
Afreen only looked relaxed when she was most dangerous. The racket completed one final rotation. Afreen caught it cleanly. Her grin returned. Not the playful grin she showed classmates. Not the mischievous grin she wore when teasing people. Something else. Something sharper. Hungrier.
A predator finally stepping into its preferred hunting ground.
MiMie rolled her shoulders slowly. The muscles loosened.
Afreen stretched one arm across her chest, never taking her eyes off her.
"Hope you're ready, MiMie."
"Well," MiMie replied, brushing her ponytail over one shoulder, "we'll see."
A small smile appeared. Not forced. Not nervous. Simply confident. "Try to go easy on me. I'm not that good."
Afreen barked out a laugh. The sound carried across the court. "Cut the nonsense."
She pointed her racket toward her. Not aggressively. Not yet. But the gesture carried challenge.
"I want you at your best. This is the only direct confrontation we'll get in this entire tournament." Her grin widened.
There was excitement in her eyes now. The genuine kind.
The dangerous kind. "I don't want excuses when you lose."
MiMie raised an eyebrow. "Relax, Afreen."
She bounced lightly on the balls of her feet.
Loose. Comfortable.
"I take it you're still incapable of having fun." Her smile widened slightly.
"I plan to enjoy every second of this match."
A brief pause.
Then—
"In fact, I think I'll enjoy it more than you."
Afreen's eyes narrowed. Not in anger. Interest. "Oh, trust me."
Her voice lowered. "You won't."
She spun the racket once. The frame sliced through the sunlight.
"But if you enjoy losing, I'll make it quick."
MiMie laughed. A genuine laugh. Confident. Unbothered.
"Me? Losing?" She shook her head. "Not today."
Then her gaze sharpened. The warmth disappeared.
"But you?"
The smile remained. The softness did not.
"Today you'll finally experience the humiliation you've been chasing. You're going to lose, Afreen."
"Right here."
"Right now."
Something flickered behind Afreen's eyes. Excitement. Challenge. Recognition.
For the first time, her grin faded slightly.
"MiMie." Her voice became calm. Dangerously calm. "I don't see a single universe where I lose today."
"Well," MiMie replied softly, "Safeeyah lost." The name landed between them.
A subtle strike. A reminder. A warning.
"And now you will too."
Afreen's jaw tightened for the briefest moment.
"History has a habit of repeating itself." MiMie tilted her head. "Just like three and a half years ago."
The atmosphere shifted. Instantly.
The court suddenly felt smaller. The air heavier.
Afreen's smile tightened. "Three and a half years ago." She laughed quietly.
"The rooftop."
"The puzzle game."
Her eyes locked onto MiMie's.
Neither looked away.
"Tell me something. Who did you honestly think would've won that day?"
"Obviously me." The answer arrived immediately. Without hesitation. Without doubt. "Even if it took us until midnight."
Afreen laughed. Warm. Mocking.
The laugh of someone hearing a familiar lie.
"Sure."
Then she leaned forward slightly.Her eyes gleamed.
"But deep down? You knew you'd lose."
Something cold entered MiMie's expression. Not anger. Something older.
"At that moment, Afreen, I couldn't have cared less about some stupid puzzle game."
Her eyes hardened.
"The game I was playing back then was far beyond your one-dimensional mind and understanding."
Afreen's smile returned. Slowly. "Oh?… You mean the game you and Tahir had been building long before you ever met me?"
For a brief moment, neither girl moved. The words lingered. The crowd couldn't hear them. But somehow the tension radiating from both sides of the net became impossible to ignore.
Students shifted in their seats. Even spectators who knew nothing about their history felt it.
The conversation had stopped being about tennis.
"I guess you finally understand the gap between us." MiMie's voice remained composed.
But there was steel underneath it.
Afreen's amusement disappeared. Completely. The smile faded. The playfulness vanished. Only seriousness remained.
"What I overheard that day," she said quietly.
"Three and a half years ago."
"You and Tahir talking in the science Lab."
"About 2031."
"About your aunt."
The sunlight reflected briefly in her eyes.
"I don't know everything."
"Not even close."
"But I know enough to understand that whatever you're planning…"
She tapped her racket lightly against the grass.
Once.
"…it's bigger than this tournament."
MiMie froze.
Not visibly enough for the crowd. Not visibly enough for the cameras.
But enough. Enough for Afreen. A tremor crossed her face. Gone almost immediately. Yet it was there.
Memories rose without permission.
The Science Lab. The conversations. The warnings. Her aunt's words.
Predictions that refused to leave her mind.
Promises made years ago.
Futures she desperately wanted to escape.
For the first time since stepping onto the court, genuine emotion slipped through her control.
Only for a second. Only for Afreen to see.
Her voice emerged quieter. More dangerous. "Whatever you think you overheard…"
Her eyes locked onto Afreen's.
Cold. Focused. Unwavering.
"…you should be very careful talking about it."
The warmth had vanished completely.
"You have absolutely no business involving yourself in my family."
"Keep it that way."
Afreen smiled. Slowly. Almost lovingly. There it is. The reaction she wanted.
The real MiMie .
"Wow."
The word escaped her softly. Almost impressed.
"That's the MiMie I've been waiting for."
"A lioness."
Her grip tightened around the racket.
The veins beneath her fingers became visible.
"Good."
"Because I didn't come here to play against the version of you everyone else sees."
Her eyes gleamed. Bright. Dangerous. Obsessed.
"I came for this version."
"The one that's finally showing her teeth."
MiMie said nothing. Her silence spoke louder.
Afreen's smile widened. "Today, I'm going to teach you something."
A pause.
"And when this match is over, you'll finally understand why making me your enemy was a mistake."
"You've spent years underestimating me."
The anticipation inside her was almost visible now.
Like electricity beneath skin.
"Today I'll shatter that arrogance."
"Today I'll show you exactly how my so-called one-dimensional mind became multidimensional."
For several long seconds, neither girl spoke.
The crowd felt it. The history. The resentment. The unanswered questions.
The scars neither of them had forgotten.
Somewhere in the stands, students stopped talking entirely.
The tension had become contagious.
MiMie slowly adjusted her grip.
The leather wrapped tightly beneath her fingers.
Her heartbeat steadied. Her breathing settled.
Her eyes never left Afreen.
Then she inhaled.
"Then shall we begin?"
Afreen moved into position on the opposite side of the net. Her grin returned. Sharp. Confident. Hungry.
"I guess so."
________________________
The whistle shrieked across the court.
The match began.
Afreen didn't hesitate.
The ball left her fingertips in a smooth toss, rising into the sunlight.
For a split second, everything about her posture screamed conventional serve.
Then it changed.
The racket came over as if she intended a powerful overhead smash.
A classic setup. A familiar motion.
A lie.
At the very last instant, her wrist softened.
The racket angle shifted.
The overhead transformed into an underhand touch.
A Mansour Bahrami trick serve.
The ball skimmed over the net with deceptive gentleness.
By the time MiMie realized what had happened, her body was already reacting to the wrong shot.
Her weight had shifted backward. Her feet were out of position.
The ball bounced. Twice.
Game stopped.
The crowd erupted.
A mixture of laughter, cheers, and surprise exploded from the stands.
"First point to A.R.C!"
"Fifteen–love!"
Afreen lowered her racket and smirked. "Ouch." Her voice carried easily across the court. "Must be beginner's luck, right?"
A few students nearby laughed.
MiMie didn't answer. She simply exhaled.
Slowly. Steadily.
The ball was returned to Afreen. Afreen bounced it once. Twice. Her eyes glittered.
Not with confidence.
With amusement. She was enjoying herself.
MiMie adjusted her grip.
Her mind immediately began racing. "Another trick serve?
Or does she want me to expect another trick serve?
Or is she expecting me to expect—"
Afreen moved. Instantly.
No warning. No hesitation. Her legs exploded upward.
The jump was violent. Athletic. Powerful.
MiMie's eyes widened.
Overhead serve. A real one. Not a fake. Not a trick. The genuine thing.
"HYYAAA!"
Afreen's shout cut through the stadium. The racket connected.
CRACK!
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
The ball became a blur.
Students gasped. It wasn't flying. It was hunting.
Racing directly toward MiMie's side of the court.
Years of training surged through her body.
Her instructor's voice. Countless practice sessions. Endless drills beneath burning sunlight. Everything arrived at once.
Focus. Reaction. Footwork. Timing.
Placement. Move. Now.
Her legs obeyed before her thoughts finished forming.
She planted. Rotated. Swung.
BOOM!
The return connected.
Pain immediately exploded through her arms.
The vibration shot from her hands into her wrists, through her elbows, all the way into her shoulders.
Every muscle protested. Every tendon screamed.
The ball returned successfully. But the cost was obvious.
MiMie's jaw clenched. I can't keep doing this. Not repeatedly. Not against serves like that. Not for an entire match.
She tracked the ball as Afreen returned it effortlessly.
As though MiMie's hardest effort had barely inconvenienced her.
The realization landed heavily. By estimate I can't return twelve of those. Maybe not even ten. She'll drain me completely.
Afreen immediately pushed her backward.
One corner. Then another. Then another. The rally stretched.
The crowd roared with every exchange.
MiMie sprinted. Her breathing deepened.
Wind scraped across her shoulders as she changed direction again.
Her eyes never left the spinning ball.
Then a memory surfaced. A sentence. A lesson. A challenge.
"To break your limits, you must take risks."
Her instructor's voice.
MiMie hated risks. She hated improvisation. She trusted preparation. Discipline. Structure. Control.
But structure wasn't enough anymore.
Afreen was forcing her outside her comfort zone. Forcing her into unfamiliar territory.
Fine.
Then so be it.
Afreen smashed a fast spinning ball towards her.
MiMie adjusted her approach. Thirty-degree angle. Right shoulder lowered.
Weight shifted. Left leg twisted inward. Center of gravity dropped.
At the last possible moment—She released one hand from the grip.
The crowd gasped. A strange shot. An unconventional motion.
The ball curved. Spun.
Bent through the air like it had changed its mind halfway through flight.
Afreen blinked. For the first time.
Caught.
The ball slipped beyond her reach. Bounce.
Point.
The stadium exploded.
"FIFTEEN ALL!"
MiMie straightened slowly. Breathing hard. Heart hammering. Arms still burning.
Across the court, Afreen stared at the spot where the ball had landed.
Just for a moment. Just one moment. A crack appeared. Tiny. Almost invisible.
But it existed.
And from his seat in the stands—
Only Tahir noticed it.
Only Tahir saw the brief fracture behind Afreen's composure.
"Interesting."
Afreen retrieved another ball. Her smile returned. Sharper than before. Now she looked excited. The genuine kind. The dangerous kind.
She served again.
This time no tricks. No theatrics.
Just violence. A vicious slice serve.
The ball curved aggressively after the bounce.
MiMie lunged. Her shoes ripped through the pitch. Her racket stretched desperately toward the shot.
Too late.
The ball was already gone.
"Thirty–fifteen!"
"A.R.C leads!"
Afreen spun the racket once. Not celebrating. Simply reminding MiMie who controlled the pace.
The next point began immediately.
Another explosive overhead serve. Another brutal exchange.
Afreen attacked relentlessly. Cross-court. Diagonal. Cross-court again. Every shot forced movement.
Every return demanded energy.
Every second drained something from MiMie.
Her lungs burned. Her calves tightened.
Sweat slid down her neck. Her legs felt heavier with every sprint.
Afreen saw it. Of course she saw it. She noticed everything.
MiMie reached another return. Then another. Then another.
Barely.
Her breathing became audible now.
Her body was beginning to reveal what her face refused to show.
Fatigue.
Afreen's eyes flickered. A calculation. A decision.
The next shot came high. The setup looked obvious.
Everything about her posture screamed smash. Power. Force. Destruction.
MiMie reacted immediately. Bracing herself. Preparing for impact. Preparing for another missile.
Preparing to absorb another piece of her own stamina disappearing.
Afreen swung.
The crowd held its breath.
Then—
Nothing.
No explosion. No power. No violence.
The ball drifted softly over the net.
Light. Gentle. Cruel. A fake smash. A trap.
MiMie's momentum betrayed her. She couldn't stop in time. Couldn't reverse direction. Couldn't reach it.
The ball bounced harmlessly onto the grass.
The whistle blew.
"40–15!"
The crowd erupted.
Afreen lowered her racket slowly. A satisfied smile touching her lips.
Across the court, MiMie remained frozen for a moment. Chest rising and falling. Legs trembling. Sweat dripping from her jaw.
She stared at the spot where the ball had landed.
Then slowly lifted her gaze.
Meeting Afreen's eyes.
Forty–fifteen.
Set point.
And Afreen looked like she was only getting started.
__________________
Afreen wiped a bead of sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. The movement looked casual, but her chest rose and fell a little faster than before. A thin layer of perspiration glistened across her forehead beneath the afternoon sun.
"MiMie… I think I've figured you out."
Across the net, MiMie bent slightly at the waist, one hand resting on her thigh as she caught her breath. Her ponytail clung damply against the back of her neck.
"Oh really," MiMie muttered. "Good for you."
Afreen's eyes remained fixed on her. "MiMie, I think I figured out who you really are, beneath all these facade."
MiMie straightened slowly. "Oh really, well, again. good for you."
The smile on Afreen's face didn't fade.
"I think I kind of understand the relationship between you and Tahir."
For the first time since the conversation began, something subtle flickered behind MiMie's eyes.
Afreen paused deliberately, tightening her grip around the handle of her racket.
"Its nonexistent, there isn't any, it's just obsession…"
The words hung between them.
The crowd noise seemed to retreat into the background.
"Hmm… congratulations, you are a psychologist," MiMie said mockingly.
Afreen laughed softly. Not offended. Not defensive. Almost amused.
"Ah well, I have never seen someone as obsessed as you… may be am young and inexperienced, may be I am just a teenager just as you, but I know what I am talking about, from experience… take it from Me, MiMie… being obsessed is the hardest trait anyone can ever recognized and get rid of, from themselves."
As she spoke, her gaze drifted beyond the court.
Toward a large tree standing near the edge of the sports grounds.
Autumn winds stirred its branches. Leaves trembled.
A few broke free and spiraled downward.
Afreen watched them for a brief second, her expression becoming strangely distant.
"You're projecting," MiMie snapped. Her response came too quickly. Too sharply.
"It's Pathetic."
Afreen's eyes returned to her. For a moment neither girl moved. Neither blinked. Neither looked away.
Then Afreen spoke again. "I admit I was spoiled. Got everything I wanted."
Her voice lowered.The grin disappeared.
"Until 3 and 1/2 years ago."
Something darker passed through her expression. Something older than either of them.
"When you taught me a lesson."
She tilted her head slightly.
"A lesson I'm grateful for."
A pause.
The wind brushed across the court.
"Maybe it's your turn to learn."
MiMie's fingers tightened around her racket handle. The grip creaked. Her knuckles whitened. A pulse jumped visibly in her jaw.
Afreen noticed. Of course she noticed.
She slowed her movements intentionally, letting silence settle over the space between them.
The crowd became distant. Muted. Almost unreal. Even the students watching seemed to sense something changing.
"Tell me…" Afreen said softly.
Her voice carried far less than before.
Yet somehow felt heavier.
Her eyes never left Mimi's face.
"Is a girl powerful because she's a queen… or is she a queen because she's powerful?"
The question landed strangely. Not like an insult.
Not like a challenge.
Almost like a confession disguised as philosophy.
MiMie blinked.
Caught off guard despite herself.
For the first time in the match, her expression genuinely fractured.
"What the hell kinda Question is this..? Are you trying to throw me off ? Cuz it ain't working at all…"
Afreen's grin widened. Not mocking.
Almost pleased. "I'm genuinely asking."
MiMie exhaled sharply. Rolling her shoulders.
Trying to shake off something she couldn't quite name. "You already know what I'd say."
Afreen nodded slowly.
As though she'd been expecting that answer from the very beginning.
"Hmm… let see,"
She began pacing slowly along the baseline.
Her voice became thoughtful. Measured.
The voice of someone pulling apart a machine piece by piece.
"You are an obsessive type of girl who almost always resort to being unique, you hate being stereotyped but also tend to be level-headed at most times,"
MiMie's jaw tightened. Her eyes narrowed.
But she didn't interrupt.
Afreen continued:
"You usually do things with strong reasons, even though they may not be apparent…"
The racket suddenly felt heavier in MiMie's hand. The court hotter beneath her feet.
The sunlight brighter.
"So I will say that You will say neither of the statement is true," Afreen stopped moving.
Tilted her head.
Studying MiMie with unnerving attention.
"You won't consider both statement to be true at same time because it will be a bit delusional,"
A murmur rippled through the stands.
Students exchanged confused looks.
Neither girl acknowledged them.
Neither cared.
"And you won't say one of them is true because stereotyping has the same root as such…"
Afreen stepped backward toward the baseline.
Still speaking. Still dictating the pace.
Still controlling the rhythm of the court.
"You will resort to explain that True power and apparent power is not the same,"
MiMie stared at her. Unblinking. Silent.
"The MiMie I know would say that 'A girl is simply not powerful because she is a queen, and more inherently she is not a Queen because she is powerful…"
Afreen smiled.
The smile somehow made her look more dangerous.
Not less.
"However a girl may become a powerful Queen if the journey she undertook led her to the path of gaining strength and wisdom through experience.."
The air felt tighter. Heavier.
As though the entire stadium had shrunk around them.
"So because the path she walked made her wise enough, She can powerfully hold both."
Silence. For one heartbeat.
Then another.
MiMie simply stared.
And for the first time all afternoon—
she looked genuinely unsettled.
Not by Afreen's skill. Not by her confidence.
But by how accurately she seemed to be reading her.
"You're twisted. Wow, I can't believe you are monologuing my so-called thoughts…" She scoffed.
The sound came out harder than intended.
A little forced.
"You are such a twisted person, I can tell you that…"
Her grip adjusted on the racket. Trying to reclaim control. Trying to reclaim momentum.
"But whatever… let's continue with the game, serve the ball."
Afreen didn't move. Instead, a quiet laugh escaped her lips.
Low. Amused. Almost affectionate.
"Relax. I have all the time I needed to crush you, besides, Don't you want to know what Tahir and I talked about?"
The name hit like a hidden blade. Small. Precise. Deep.
Something shifted behind MiMie's eyes.
Not fear. Not anger.
Something far more dangerous.
A hesitation she hadn't shown once since stepping onto the court.
And Afreen saw it immediately.
MiMie stared at her. "What you and Tahir talked about is not my business."
Afreen grinned.
The grin widened when she noticed the fraction-of-a-second delay before Mimi answered.
"Really… last time I checked it was your business, Remember the ultimatum you gave me ?"
MiMie released a long breath through her nose. A deliberate attempt at calm.
"Hmm… that was 3 and 1/2 years ago and we were just kids back then,"
Afreen nodded slowly.
"Well, we are still kids in some aspects, deny me all you want with your words, but your Face had told me all about it Just a few seconds ago."
The smile never left her face.
MiMie held her gaze. Refusing to look away. Refusing to give her another inch.
"Is that so, then by all means believe whatever you want."
For a brief second, neither moved. Neither blinked. Neither surrendered.
Then—
"Hahahah, well okay then…" Afreen finally stepped into position.
The amusement remained in her eyes.
The anticipation too. She bounced the ball once. Twice.
The entire stadium seemed to inhale with her.
As she prepared to serve again.
___________________________
Afreen bounced the ball once. Twice. Three times.
The sound echoed softly across the court.
The stadium held its breath.
On the opposite baseline, MiMie lowered her center of gravity and adjusted her footing. Sweat rolled from her temple and disappeared beneath her collar. Her lungs still burned from the previous rallies.
Afreen noticed.Every little detail. Every adjustment. Every weakness. Every lie.
The smile lingering on her lips grew slightly.
Then she tossed the ball. High. Higher.
The sunlight swallowed it for a split second.
And then—
CRACK.
The serve exploded off her racket.
MiMie reacted instantly. Much faster than before. The ball clipped the edge of her strings. Deflected. Out.
"Game point!"
The umpire's voice rang out.
The crowd erupted.
A.R.C students jumped to their feet.
C.A.A supporters immediately shouted encouragement toward MiMie .
"Come on MiMie!"
"You've got this!"
"Don't let her take it!"
MiMie inhaled deeply. Exhaled slowly.
Reset.
Across the net, Afreen twirled the racket once. "Still enjoying yourself?" she asked.
MiMie wiped sweat from her chin. "More than you know."
Afreen laughed.
The ball bounced once more.
Then she served. This time there was no trick. No deception. Just speed. Pure violence.
MiMie reached it. Barely.
The return floated high.
Afreen moved immediately. No hesitation.
No wasted movement. Her feet glided across the grass.
Position perfect. Shoulders rotating.
Eyes locked.
SMASH.
The ball slammed into the opposite corner.
Untouchable.
The line judge's arm shot outward.
"In!"
The whistle followed.
"Game and first set—A.R.C!"
The stadium exploded.
Cheers crashed through the air like thunder.
A.R.C banners shot upward.
Students screamed Afreen's name.
Phones rose into the air. The scoreboard changed.
SET ONE
A.R.C — 1
C.A.A — 0
Afreen lowered her racket slowly. No celebration. No shouting. No fist pump.
Just a calm exhale.
As though the outcome had always been inevitable.
Across the court, MiMie remained standing exactly where she was.
Motionless.
Sweat dripped from her jaw. Her chest rose and fell heavily.
The set had only lasted minutes.
Yet it felt like she'd run another marathon.
Afreen walked toward her bench.
Passing the net. Passing the midpoint. Passing victory.
Halfway there, she glanced sideways.
"MiMie."
MiMie looked up.
Afreen's eyes held none of the arrogance from earlier. Only certainty. "You hesitated."
MiMie said nothing.
Afreen continued walking. "You've been hesitating since the match started."
The words landed harder than the scoreboard. Because they were true.
MiMie knew it. Her coach knew it.
And somewhere in the crowd—
Tahir knew it too.
High in the stands, Tahir sat quietly with the orange soda resting against his knee.
His gaze never left the court. Around him, students shouted. Predictions changed. Excitement surged. None of it mattered.
His eyes settled on MiMie. Not the scoreboard. Not Afreen.
MiMie.
Because the first set had revealed something important.
Afreen wasn't winning because she was stronger.
She was winning because MiMie was still fighting herself.
And unless that changed—
The second set would be even worse.
Far below, MiMie closed her eyes briefly.
Her instructor's voice returned once more. Clear. Sharp. Unavoidable.
"Mentally, you hesitate."
Her fingers tightened around the racket.
The handle creaked.
Across the court, Afreen sat down and took a sip of water.
Then she smiled. Not at the crowd.
Not at A.R.C. Not at the scoreboard.
At MiMie.
Waiting. Watching. Curious.
Because despite winning the first set—
She still hadn't seen the version of MiMie she came here to face.
And that disappointed her. A little. Only a little. But enough that she wanted more.
_________________________
SECOND SET — MiMie Serves
MiMie bounced the ball, mind racing.
The rough green fuzz brushed against her palm each time it rose and fell. Once. Twice. Again.
Her shoulders felt heavier than they had a few minutes ago.
The court suddenly seemed larger. The net seemed higher.
The distance between her and Afreen seemed impossible.
Which serve?
What Power? Which Placement? What Deception?
Her jaw tightened.
A bead of sweat slid down the side of her face and disappeared beneath her collar.
Her instructor's voice cut through the noise, sharp and familiar:
"The hardest shot to return isn't always the fastest. It's the one that disrupts rhythm."
Slice serve.
MiMie inhaled deeply through her nose.
Held it.Exhaled slowly.
She adjusted her grip by a fraction.
Bent her knees. Then swung. Perfect contact.
The sensation traveled through her arm immediately. Clean. Precise.
Exactly how she intended.
The ball curved wickedly through the air, spinning away just as intended.
Got you.
For the first time in several points, a spark of confidence flickered inside her chest.
Afreen's head barely moved.
No panic. No surprise. No urgency.
Her eyes tracked the ball for only an instant before her body reacted effortlessly.
She returned it without looking.
A no-look shot.
The ball landed cleanly in MiMie's court.
"15–0."
MiMie froze. Her feet stopped moving.
Her racket remained suspended halfway down from her follow-through.
The confidence she had felt seconds earlier shattered before it could even fully form.
Her chest tightened.
A sharp pressure wrapped itself around her ribs. Her stomach sank.
Not because she had lost the point.
Because Afreen had returned it so casually.
Like it meant nothing.
Like MiMie's best effort hadn't even been worth looking at.
Across the court, Afreen tilted her head slightly.
The corner of her mouth curled upward.
Amused.
"Thinking too much?"
Now the doubt crept in. Not all at once.
Slowly. Quietly.
Like water slipping through cracks.
Which serve next?
Flat? Kick? Wide? Body?
Her fingers trembled slightly around the racket. The movement was tiny.
Almost invisible. But it was there.
Afreen, meanwhile, was already ten steps ahead.
She stood loose and relaxed behind the baseline. One shoulder lower than the other.
Racket hanging casually in her hand.
Breathing steady. Comfortable.
Like she was exactly where she wanted to be.
Afreen's smile never reached her eyes.
"Hmm, MiMie…" she thought, watching the minute tremor in Mimi's grip, the fraction of a second too long before she bounced the ball again. "I already know what you're about to do."
The realization filled her with a strange satisfaction. Not triumph. Not pride.
Something colder. Something sharper.
"I've been controlling the flow of this game since the first serve.
You were unlucky that I served first.
Because that single advantage had allowed me to dictate everything that followed.
Trick shots. Unorthodox angles.
Easy points stolen before MiMie could settle into rhythm.
Every win tightened the pressure, forcing you MiMie into a corner where you felt compelled to overcompensate—to search desperately for a shortcut, a sudden reversal, a way to catch up now.
I could see it happening in real time.
The hesitation. The urgency.
The increasing desperation hidden behind your determination.
React faster, the game screamed at you.
Or be crushed.
And that urgency—that shrinking window—was where I thrived."
______________________
You're level-headed, Afreen admitted silently. Most of the time.
Her gaze remained fixed on MiMie.
Watching. Measuring. Dissecting.
Safeeyah's reports had said so.
Afreen's own history with MiMie confirmed it. That was precisely why the attack had to go deeper than physical play.
So Afreen had started planting noise.
Casual questions. Half-revealed hints.
References to Tahir. To the past. To things unsaid.
Each one had been dropped with care.
Each one placed exactly where it would linger.
Exactly where it would grow.
You think my words don't affect you, Afreen mused. But your subconscious is already dissecting every syllable.
Every phrase had been deliberate.
Every pause engineered.
Subliminal hooks embedded beneath harmless tones.
MiMie's conscious mind dismissed them—
but her deeper mind was working overtime, trying to decode meaning that didn't need to be decoded.
Afreen could almost see it happening.
The slight delays. The moments when MiMie's eyes unfocused.
The half-second pauses between decisions.
The invisible mental weight accumulating point after point.
And while Mimi's thoughts fractured—
Afreen pressed forward.
A two-front assault.
Physical exhaustion layered with psychological interference.
Even the great MiMie—talented, disciplined, relentless—couldn't maintain precision under that kind of load.
Not in a sport that demanded total presence.
So now MiMie is running on muscle memory alone.
And Afreen had ensured that even that was compromised.
Every return MiMie saw now triggered anticipation—
"Is this another trick?
A fake? A curve? A drop?
Two, three possibilities firing at once.
Predict or improvise.
Commit or hesitate."
And hesitation—
Hesitation murdered the most sacred principle of tennis.
"Razor-sharp focus."
Afreen felt it shift—
the invisible axis of the match tilting in her favor.
Now she decides where this game goes.
Left or right.
Fast or slow.
Cruel or merciful.
It was almost disappointing how easy it had become.
Her gaze drifted briefly to the stands.
Tahir.
Still. Silent. Watching. Not cheering. Not reacting. Not helping. Just observing.
"So… when will you move? " Afreen wondered, lips curving. "How will you try to rewrite this?"
Excitement fluttered through her—
not fear, never fear—
but anticipation sharp enough to make her fingers hum.
Her grip tightened slightly around the racket.
A tremor passed through her arm.
Not weakness.Expectation.
Entertain me, Tahir.
__________________
Out loud, Afreen finally spoke, voice light, conversational—as if they weren't standing on a battlefield.
"Hmm… MiMie ," Afreen said calmly, "why do you think I came to A.R.C?"
The trap was already set.
MiMie was breathing heavily… Her shoulders rose and fell. Rose and fell.
Each inhale felt shorter. Each exhale rougher. Sweat clung to her temples.
The inside of her mouth felt dry. The air itself seemed thicker. Heavier.
Harder to pull into her lungs.
"I don't care about your silly Questions, just shut up"
The words came out sharper than she intended—frayed at the edges.
More emotion than control. More frustration than confidence.
She bounced the ball once.
The sound echoed loudly in her ears. Twice.
Her fingers dug harder into the grip. Then she snapped into motion.
The serve exploded upward—
an overhead shot fueled by frustration rather than calculation.
The force rattled through her shoulder.
Afreen returned it effortlessly. No strain. No urgency.
MiMie fired back.
Again. And again.
Six exchanges—back and forth—each strike echoing across the court.
The sound of racket against ball cracked through the stadium like gunfire.
Afreen moved like she was floating.
Her feet barely seemed to touch the grass.
Her breathing remained controlled. A faint smile remained on her face.
As if this were nothing more than a casual drill.
MiMie, by contrast, looked carved from tension.
Every tendon in her forearms stood out.
Her jaw clenched. Her shoulders burned.
Her calves screamed. Every shot powered by sheer will. Every muscle screaming.
Afreen tilted her head.
Now.
She shifted. One smooth movement. Barely noticeable.
The ball curved—clean, elegant, almost insulting.
An around-the-net shot.
It slipped past the post and kissed the court like it belonged there.
Point.
Afreen didn't even look surprised.
She didn't celebrate. Didn't smile wider.
Didn't react.
As if she wasn't playing a competitive match at all—just another day of training.
The A.R.C stands erupted. Cheers. Claps.
Stomping feet.
Students surged to their feet. Hands raised.
Voices colliding into one deafening wall of sound.
Then the chants began.
"A.R.C on top, we are the champs!"
"MiMie is a Sellout… she is… she is!"
"MiMie is a snitch… she is… she is!"
"Teach her a lesson… Afreen… Afreen!"
Over and over.
Louder. Sharper. Meaner.
The words struck harder than any serve.
MiMie's gaze drifted toward the stands.
Slowly.
Almost unwillingly. Faces she recognized. Former schoolmates.
People who—five weeks ago—had smiled at her, joked with her, trained beside her.
Now they booed.
Now they spat her name like an insult.
Some pointed. Some laughed.
Some shouted things she couldn't fully hear.
Others looked at her with disappointment.
Which somehow hurt even more.
The sound pressed inward, like walls closing around her.
Her chest tightened. Breathing became shallow, uneven.
The noise blurred together. Still loud. Still relentless.
But distant. Distorted. Like she was underwater.
Then—
Her eyes locked onto someone.
Tahir.
For a second, everything stopped. The chants. The court. The pressure. The humiliation.
Everything.
She stood frozen, like a deer caught in headlights.
Then Tahir stood. He lifted his hands.
Made a sign.
And suddenly—Memories flooded her.
A chessboard. Sunlight through a window.
The secret library.
Dust floating through warm afternoon air.
Tahir sitting across from her.
Bored expression.
Leg kicked over the side of his chair.
Fingers tapping pieces aimlessly.
Annoyingly calm. Annoyingly confident.
She remembered him asking the same question—always right before he lost.
Which happened a lot.
"How will you defeat an Enemy that has No weaknesses..?"
Why am I standing here remembering such specific memories…
Tahir, you never told me the answer to that philosophical bullshit of a question…
Here I am—humiliated by Afreen, who seemingly has no weakness… how do I defeat her…
An enemy with no weakness… is there such a thing huh…
A voice surfaced from somewhere—TV, maybe.
"Everyone has a weakness. If you look into a person hard enough, you will find not just one but plenty."
But Afreen doesn't seem to have any weakness right now.
What should I do…
What am I going to do…
Do I just give up…
Her eyes drifted over the stands again.
Every single person in A.R.C is booing me…
I bet every C.A.A student right now is regretting choosing me as their representative…
Her stomach twisted painfully.
I bet the Director is disappointed—after all that hype.
The ace transfer. The promise.
Failing them all.
The thought stabbed deeper than losing.
Deeper than humiliation.
"Is that what Afreen felt that day…?"
"Is that what Safeeyah felt like…?"
"Is this what it feels like to completely lose hope…?"
Her throat tightened.
The court suddenly felt colder.
Lonelier.
I should have listened to Isham. I should've sat out.
Let someone else face Afreen.
But my ego got in the way.
The adrenaline from the marathon.
The need to be the one who takes Afreen down.
"How can I be so stupid…"
Thinking I could shoulder everything alone… beat all of A.R.C by myself…
If we had gone with Isham's strategy… maybe we'd have had a chance…
Now Afreen will win this match.
They'll gain more points.
We'll never catch up.
"Monday—basketball. A.R.C already with a head start.
Tuesday—female sports day again.
Wednesday—Chess, Basketball and football.
Thursday— Final matches for all sports
Then the last day "the Egg-Riddle-Hunt" final game."
It would take a miracle for C.A.A to win this semester's elite cup.
"Unacceptable."
Something hardened inside her. A spark. Tiny. Fragile.
But alive.
"I reject all of this."
Her fingers tightened around her racket.
"I reject this version of me that's ready to give up."
Her breathing steadied.
One inhale. One exhale.
The shaking in her hands began to disappear.
"I am MiMie."
Her spine straightened. Her shoulders rolled back.
Her eyes sharpened.
"What I do—Is win."
The chants were still there. The pressure was still there.
Afreen was still there.
But something inside her had shifted.
"I will fight till my last breath."
The fear remained. She moved anyway.
The doubt remained. She moved anyway.
The humiliation remained. She moved anyway.
"I will defeat you, Afreen."
Her gaze locked onto the girl across the net.
"Right here."
"Right now."