Jin caught the balls from John, it was his serve again.
He took a breath, exhaled slowly, then called out the game score with steady confidence.
The court fell into a tense hush. All eyes locked on him. Even the faint breeze seemed to pause, as if the wind itself was waiting to witness what came next.
Everyone wanted to see it again, those blazing serves that seemed inhuman for Jin's age.
And Jin, riding the high of momentum, delivered.
His toss was smooth, his coiling motion more refined than ever. With explosive force, he uncoiled and struck the ball dead-center on the strings.
A sharp pop echoed as the ball rocketed down the T, untouched.
Point.
John barely moved. The next serve came just as fast, but angled wide this time, almost skimming the line
.John lunged, but again, he was a moment too late.
Point.
The crowd began to stir, murmurs rising like a wave. They could feel it.
Third serve, Jin hit it flat and deep, slicing through the middle.
No chance. No contact.
And the fourth?
Just as sharp, traveling even faster than the previous serves. John swung late and wild.
Four points in a flash. Another no-touch service game.
3–0.
The spectators erupted again. Cheers, gasps, even laughter. The atmosphere was electric, a live wire buzzing through the chain-link fences.
Jin walked back to his bench during the changeover, towel slung over his shoulder, and took a sip of water. He wasn't even sweating yet.
He let himself smile.
Across the court, John's coach quickly stepped in. Per the rules, coaches could use changeovers to give brief strategic advice, and it was clear John needed a lifeline.
Jin couldn't hear what was being said, but he could imagine the gist of it: "Keep your head in it. Slow the game down. Just get the ball in play and try to find a rhythm."
And to John's credit, he did regroup.
The next game was tighter. John found his first serve more often, mixing placement and depth. He managed to take a couple of points on sheer consistency, pushing Jin back with deep, safe shots.
But Jin adapted.
His footwork remained lightning quick, his court coverage elite. Even when the ball was placed deep and wide, Jin chased it down, using his explosive first step and improved anticipation. He forced errors, absorbed pace, and countered with precision.
When it was Jin's turn to serve again, John braced himself. He finally managed to get a racquet on a couple of serves, but barely. The returns were wild, mistimed, or dumped into the net. The sheer power Jin generated made them nearly unreturnable.
John was hanging in there, but only just.
Jin stayed locked in, unrelenting.
He closed out the next two games without ever letting the momentum shift, the scoreboard now reading 5–0.
And he was still nowhere near finished.
As the players switched sides again, Jin noticed a change in John. His eyes were steadier now. more grounded. Whether it was pride kicking in or simply that he'd finally settled into the match, something had shifted.
The game resumed, and this time, John came out swinging.
He moved with urgency, chasing down every ball like his life depended on it. Sweat poured off him, his shirt already clinging to his back as he pushed his body to its limits.
But Jin wasn't backing down.
He matched John stride for stride, every rally becoming a war of attrition. The match transformed into a grueling endurance test; less like tennis and more like a boxing bout played with racquets. Each point was a blow. Each recovery a dodge. Every shot came with intention, and every movement demanded grit.
They traded punches from the baseline, neither one willing to fold. Physical limits were tested. Mental edges sharpened.
And neither player blinked.
After six grueling, endurance-draining points, the score was locked at 40–40. Every breath felt heavier. Every step more costly.
John tossed the ball and wound up, launching a deep serve into the box. It had weight behind it, forcing Jin to take a few precise steps back to line up his return. The moment it hit Jin's strings, it rocketed back with intent.
John slid over and countered, driving the ball back into play.
Jin watching the ball travel closer and closer to him thought to himself maybe now's the time.
Jin set up his body for a topspin forehand carefully watching the ball, once it was in his strike zone he hit it perfectly on the rise, sending a perfectly spinning ball right back at John.
Somehow, whether by sheer reflex or blind instinct, John caught the ball on his strings and executed a perfectly soft drop shot. The ball floated just over the net and kissed the court, spinning slightly before dying.
John exhaled, relaxing as he assumed the point was over.
But Jin was already there.
From the moment John's racquet made contact, Jin had taken off. His legs moved like pistons, eyes locked onto the ball, racquet stretched in front of him like a predator about to strike. He slid into the shot at full speed and barely tapped it, just enough for the ball to tumble over the net.
It landed with a gentle bounce, too short for John to reach in time.
The crowd burst into applause, but John stood frozen.
That rally had taken something out of him. Not just his breath. But his belief.
As the players switched sides once more, the scoreboard read 6–0.
Only 2 games left (hopefully).
Jin took his position behind the baseline, bouncing the ball rhythmically as the energy built again. Across the net, John looked smaller, his shoulders slumped, his racquet grip looser than before. His eyes had lost their earlier focus. His will to play was slowly if not completely flickered out.
Jin called out, "6-0"
It was time to end this match.