CROSS ZERO
Chapter 2: What the Hell Did I Get Myself Into?
Akira woke to the sound of his alarm at 5:47 AM.
His body ached. His mind felt like static. But he sat up anyway, staring at the wall of his bedroom where an old poster of LeBron James hung, corners peeling with age.
One more day.
That's what he'd promised himself.
One more day to try. One more day to fight. One more day before he admitted the truth:
That maybe he wasn't meant for this.
He got dressed in silence, grabbed his gym bag, and left before his parents woke up.
Training Camp #1: 7:15 AM
The facility was sleek, expensive, and filled with players who moved like they were born on the court. Akira walked in with his head down, clutching a printed flyer he'd found online.
"Elite Summer Basketball Program — Open Tryouts"
He waited in line for twenty minutes. When his turn came, the coach—a middle-aged man with sharp eyes and a clipboard—looked him up and down.
"Name?"
"Akira Tenma."
"Previous team?"
"Uh… Kitahara High."
The coach's expression didn't change. "Any awards? Rankings? Tournament MVP?"
Akira hesitated. "No, but I—"
"Next."
Akira blinked. "Wait, I didn't even—"
"We're looking for players with proven results," the coach said flatly. "Come back when you have something to show."
Akira stood there for a moment, frozen, then turned and walked out.
Training Camp #2: 9:43 AM
Rejected.
"You're too slow."
Training Camp #3: 11:28 AM
Rejected.
"We need players who can contribute immediately."
Training Camp #4: 1:15 PM
Rejected.
"Your form is inconsistent."
Training Camp #5: 3:02 PM
Rejected.
"We're full."
Training Camp #6: 4:50 PM
Rejected.
"Maybe try a recreational league instead."
Training Camp #7: 6:37 PM
Rejected.
"Sorry, kid. This just isn't for you."
Going Home
Akira walked through the streets as the sun began to set, his gym bag slung over one shoulder, his legs heavy as concrete.
Seven camps.
Seven rejections.
He'd tried. He'd really tried.
And it hadn't mattered.
His vision blurred. His throat tightened. He felt something hot and shameful sting the corners of his eyes, and this time, he didn't fight it.
Tears slid down his cheeks.
"That was it," Akira whispered to himself, voice cracking. "My chance… and it's… it's over."
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, shoulders shaking.
He didn't want to go home. He didn't want to face his parents. He didn't want to see the hope in their eyes and have to tell them he'd failed.
Again.
So he kept walking.
The Signboard
Akira wasn't sure how long he'd been walking when he saw it.
A massive digital billboard towered over the intersection, glowing against the darkening sky. The screen flickered, then displayed a single image:
A sleek, black logo shaped like an X crossed with a 0.
And beneath it, bold white text:
PROJECT CROSS ZERO
THE FUTURE OF JAPANESE BASKETBALL
APPLICATIONS OPEN — TODAY ONLY
An address flashed at the bottom of the screen.
Akira stopped.
His chest felt tight. His hands clenched at his sides.
"No," he muttered. "It's over. I'm done."
He turned to leave.
And then—
He felt it.
A presence.
Not physical. Not real.
But there.
Akira froze.
The air around him seemed to shift, growing heavier, denser. His breath caught. And then, slowly, he turned his head.
Standing beside him—no, inside him—was a figure.
It looked like Akira.
Same height. Same face. Same body.
But it was carved entirely from purple aura, flickering and shifting like flames made of light. Its eyes burned with an intensity Akira had never seen in a mirror.
It stared at him.
And then it spoke.
"Will you just quit without trying this one?"
Akira's heart hammered. His mouth went dry.
"Shut up," he hissed, stumbling back. "You're not real. You're just… just a stupid thought."
The figure didn't move.
"I'm the part of you that wanted to take the shot."
Akira flinched. His hands curled into fists.
"Yeah?" he snapped. "And look how that turned out! I lost because of you! I ruined everything because I listened to you!"
The figure tilted its head.
"Take the shot."
"Stop saying that!"
But the figure was already fading, dissolving into the air like smoke.
Akira stood there, breathing hard, staring at the empty space where it had been.
His hands were shaking.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He counted the bills inside.
Just enough for a train ticket there.
And back.
If he got rejected.
Akira stared at the billboard for a long moment.
Then he started walking.
The Complex
The facility was massive.
Akira stood outside the gates, staring up at the towering structure of glass and steel that stretched into the sky like something out of a sci-fi movie. The entire complex was surrounded by high walls, security cameras, and a single guarded entrance.
A sign above the gate read:
PROJECT CROSS ZERO — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Akira swallowed hard.
He approached the gate slowly, heart pounding, palms sweating.
A security guard stepped out from the booth—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a flat expression and a clipboard.
"Stop," the guard said. "State your business."
Akira opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"I… I want to join the project."
The guard's eyes flicked over him, unimpressed. "What makes you special?"
Akira's stomach dropped.
"I…"
He thought about the seven camps. The seven rejections. The missed shot. The coach's words.
You're a liability.
"I… I don't have anything," Akira said quietly, looking down. "I'm sorry."
The guard's expression hardened. "Then leave. We're not running a charity here."
Akira's chest tightened. His vision blurred again.
He turned and started walking away.
Of course.
Of course this would happen.
Why did I even—
"Hey."
Akira stopped.
Behind him, the guard had pulled out a phone, listening to someone on the other end. His expression shifted from annoyed to confused.
"Yeah?" the guard said into the phone. "What? Now? But—" He paused. "Fine. Fine. I got it."
He hung up, muttering something under his breath, then looked at Akira.
"You."
Akira turned, confused.
The guard waved him over, irritation clear on his face. "Get back here."
Akira blinked. "What?"
"You want in or not?"
Akira's heart leapt. He ran back to the gate.
The guard scanned him with a handheld device, then opened the gate with a heavy clunk.
"Go straight through," the guard said flatly. "Don't wander."
Akira nodded quickly, barely believing what was happening, and stepped inside.
Inside the Complex
The interior was even more surreal.
Massive hallways stretched in every direction, lit by cold white lights. Everything was clean, sterile, and eerily quiet. Akira followed the signs pointing toward "ASSEMBLY HALL — CANDIDATES ONLY".
He pulled out his phone and quickly sent a message to his parents:
I'm at a basketball program. Don't wait up. I'll explain later.
Then he put the phone away and kept walking.
The hallway opened into a vast, open space—a hall large enough to fit a stadium. And standing in the center of it, arranged in perfect rows, were 299 people.
Akira froze.
They were all his age, maybe a little older. Some looked calm. Others looked eager. A few looked dangerous.
He could feel it in the air—the tension, the hunger, the weight of 299 egos all crammed into one space.
Akira stepped into the hall, taking his place at the back of the crowd.
No one looked at him.
No one cared.
He was just another face. Another body. Another nobody.
And then—
The lights dimmed.
A spotlight snapped on, illuminating a raised platform at the front of the hall.
And onto that platform stepped Vox.
Vox's Speech
He was tall, dressed in a pristine white suit, hands clasped behind his back. The mask on his face was smooth, featureless, shaped like a perfect V.
The room fell silent.
Vox stood there for a long moment, letting the weight of his presence settle over the crowd.
Then he spoke.
"Welcome," he said, voice calm, cold, and razor-sharp. "To Project Cross Zero."
His words echoed through the hall.
"You are here because Japanese basketball is dying," Vox continued. "And you—all of you—are the reason why."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"You've been taught to pass. To share. To sacrifice for the team." Vox's voice dripped with disdain. "You've been raised to believe that camaraderie is the path to victory."
He paused.
"It's not."
The murmurs grew louder.
"Camaraderie is a lie," Vox said. "A comforting fantasy sold to you by coaches who've never felt the weight of true greatness. Do you know what wins games? What builds legends?"
He leaned forward slightly.
"Ego."
The word hung in the air like a blade.
"Ego is hunger," Vox said. "Ego is will. Ego is the refusal to bow, to break, to settle for anything less than absolute dominance. And if you want to survive in this program, you will learn to embrace your ego—or you will be crushed by someone who already has."
Akira's pulse quickened.
"This is not a team-building exercise," Vox continued. "This is not a camp. This is a crucible. You are here to evolve. To surpass. To become something more than human."
He gestured toward the massive doors at the far end of the hall.
"Behind those doors is the unknown," Vox said. "A world where only the strong survive. Where your limits will be tested, your weaknesses exposed, and your ego forged into a weapon."
He paused.
"Those who are ready to embrace the unknown—step forward."
Silence.
No one moved.
Akira stood at the back, heart hammering in his chest.
His mind flashed with images—bodies lying on a court, dreams shattered, basketballs rolling across bloodstained floors.
Does becoming something… mean crushing everyone?
He thought about the missed shot. The coach's words. The seven rejections.
He thought about the voice inside him.
Take the shot.
And then—
His body moved.
Before his mind could catch up, Akira's legs were running.
He sprinted toward the doors, breath ragged, heart pounding, eyes wide.
"I'll embrace this unknown!" he shouted.
And the floodgates opened.
Others surged forward—dozens, then hundreds, all running toward the doors, toward whatever hell waited on the other side.
Vox watched from the platform, arms crossed.
And behind his mask, he smiled.
END OF CHAPTER 2