The first thing he noticed was how quiet it was.
No roaring crowd. No echo of sneakers. No panicked voices calling his name. Just… the soft rustle of bedsheets, the distant hum of a fan, and birdsong beyond a half-open window.
His eyelids fluttered open slowly.
The ceiling above him was not the domed rafters of a stadium but plain, off-white, with faint glow-in-the-dark stars peeling at the corners.
Where…?
He tried to sit up—but his limbs didn't respond the way they used to. Everything felt smaller. Softer. His arms were thin, fragile. His skin lacked the scars he remembered—no calluses, no burn of endless hours at the net. He looked down at his hands.
They weren't his.
He gasped—and even that sound came out wrong.
It wasn't a gasp. It wasn't even a whisper. It was… nothing. Just the motion. The intent to speak. But no sound followed.
Panic flared, sharp and wild, but his body wouldn't scream. Wouldn't cry. Wouldn't do anything.
He staggered out of bed, nearly tumbling onto the wooden floor. His feet were clumsy. He reached the mirror in the corner of the room and froze.
Staring back at him was a boy—no older than five—with wide, dark eyes, messy black hair, and a round face that still held baby fat.
It wasn't his face.
But the terror in those eyes?
That was him.
---
The door burst open.
A woman—early thirties, soft features, hair tied back—rushed in, eyes wide. She dropped to her knees beside him.
"Kouki! What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
Kouki…? he thought, mind blank.
She pulled him into her arms. He froze in the hug, unable to process the warmth, the familiar rhythm of a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
Another voice entered, deeper—likely the father. "What happened?"
"He was on the floor. He looked like he couldn't breathe."
The man knelt beside them, placing a large hand on his—on Kouki's—shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe."
They looked at him, expectant. Waiting for him to say something. To cry. To whimper.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
He opened his mouth and tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
---
Days passed in confusion.
Kouki—he—was brought to a doctor. Then another. Then a specialist in the city.
Each time, they prodded gently, shining lights into his eyes, testing his hearing, offering toys, asking questions.
His mind could understand them. He wanted to answer. He even tried to shout once, just to see if he still could.
But the silence was total.
Finally, the word came. A term scribbled on a clipboard and whispered in the corner of the room:
"Aphonia."
Complete loss of voice. No trauma to the vocal cords.
Likely congenital. Possibly neurological.
The diagnosis rolled over him like static. He was five. Mute. Reborn into a body that didn't move the way he remembered, a voice that didn't work, a world that was still unfamiliar.
In the weeks that followed, he learned his new name: Kouki Tachibana.
He learned his parents were kind—gentle even when confused. His mother cried the day they were told he would likely never speak.
His father didn't cry. But Kouki caught him punching the wall that night after a doctor's visit, knuckles red and eyes distant.
They tried sign language. Therapists. Sound therapy.
Nothing changed.
Kouki didn't cry through any of it.
He didn't know how.
---
At night, he would lie in bed and stare at his ceiling.
Somewhere deep inside, he was still there. The outside hitter. The fallen ace. The man who once spiked under Olympic lights.
He remembered the feeling of a perfect jump. The snap of the wrist. The thrill of turning a rally. The unity of motion between teammates. All of it burned behind his eyes like a phantom limb.
He'd died.
No one had said it aloud, but he knew.
He'd died. And come back.
But not as himself.
As Kouki. A mute child with no voice, no legacy, and no net to rise over.
---
Kindergarten was a lonely battlefield.
Other kids stared when he didn't speak. They whispered. They poked at him. Some got bored and moved on. Others grew meaner.
"Why don't you talk?"
"Are you dumb?"
"He's like a ghost."
Kouki would only watch. He never reacted. But his eyes never missed anything.
One boy tried to trip him once during lunch. Kouki sidestepped without looking, so fluidly that the teacher gasped. When they asked him how he knew it was coming, he just tilted his head.
They didn't see the way the boy had leaned forward, toes tightening, breath catching.
Kouki had.
He always saw everything.
---
One afternoon, a substitute brought in a soft foam ball to play catch. The kids tossed it clumsily, laughing and shouting.
It flew toward Kouki.
Without thinking, he caught it with both hands—clean, perfect form.
The sub blinked. "Nice grab!"
Kouki tossed it back. It sailed across the room with unexpected speed and precision, right into the teacher's hands.
The other kids stared.
Some started tossing to him again. More throws. Faster.
He caught every one. Moved effortlessly. Predicted every bad angle.
By the end of recess, they weren't teasing him anymore.
They were calling him "Hawk Eyes."
Kouki smiled—for the first time.
---
That night, he stood in front of the mirror again.
Same small frame. Same soft face.
But his eyes were sharper now.
Inside this fragile shell, he still existed. The court still lived in his mind.
He couldn't speak.
But maybe—
he didn't need to.
Not yet.
He raised his hand and mimed a toss.
Then a spike.
Then a block.
His reflection stared back, silent—but certain.
---
"Just one more game," he had thought before falling.
Maybe this was it.
Maybe this was the second chance.
---