The atmosphere in the Minatogawa High School baseball clubhouse was tense. The players sat around a large table littered with scouting reports, laptops, and stat sheets, their eyes fixed on the screen in front of them. The air was thick with the anticipation of the upcoming match against Nehimon Seimei High, their next major opponent in the tournament.

Coach Saito stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, watching his team intently as they studied every piece of data on their rivals. He knew the importance of preparation, but also when to reign in the nervous energy.

Shohei Minatogawa's reliable second baseman, broke the silence first. "Ryoichi won't be pitching for them," he said, glancing at the stat sheet in front of him. "But their captain, Kenji Tadeka... we've got to be careful with him. He's solid across the board. Good hitter, smart on the bases, and his leadership keeps them sharp."

Mori, the team's catcher and leaned forward. "Tadeka's dangerous, but I'm more concerned about Shinjiro Takumi. That kid's on fire—two homers in two games." He swiped through clips on his tablet, stopping at footage of Takumi smashing a ball deep into the outfield. "His batting's ridiculous for a rookie, but his fielding… that's where we can hurt them. Look at this," he pointed to a moment where Takumi fumbled a routine fly ball. "He's sloppy under pressure in the field. The last team exploited it, nearly won because of it."

The rest of the players exchanged glances. Tanaka, Minatogawa's center fielder, nodded in agreement. "Yeah, we can target him like they did. Press him into mistakes."

But before the conversation could spiral into over-analysis, Coach Saito raised a hand. His voice, though quiet, commanded attention. "Listen up," he began, scanning the room. "We're not playing someone else's game. I don't care what the last team did—we play our game."

The players straightened up, knowing that when Coach Saito spoke like this, he had a plan.

"We're not going to go after him right away," Saito continued. "Let him think he's in the clear. We'll handle him in the later innings, when the pressure's on. That's when he'll crack. But until then, we play our style—solid defense, smart at-bats. We don't change that for anyone."

Shohei shifted in his seat, absorbing the words. "But Coach...."

Coach Saito smiled slightly, the kind of smile that showed he'd already thought three steps ahead. "He's young and eager; he'll swing at something he shouldn't if we make him wait. But don't get too focused on one player. Tadeka is their heartbeat. We shut him down, and Takumi will follow."

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Hiroshi Aoki, Minatogawa's ace pitcher, cracked his knuckles, eyes glinting with focus. "So, no fancy strategies. Just pitch my game and wear them down?"

"Exactly," Coach Saito confirmed. "We'll take control of the game our way, inning by inning. Let them worry about us. Takumi might be the hot topic, but pressure does strange things, especially to rookies."

The team sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the game and their coach's confidence settling over them. Ryota looked over at Shohei, grinning.

Shohei chuckled, feeling the tension ease just slightly. "I'll be ready."

Coach Saito glanced at the clock, signaling the end of the meeting. "Alright, get some rest. Remember, we're playing for the long game."

As the players filed out of the room, the pressure remained, but there was also a new sense of determination. They were Minatogawa High. They'd play their game and force Nehimon Seimei to adapt, not the other way around.

-----

Shinjiro Takumi sat on the floor of his small room, eyes closed, tuning out the world around him. The ticking clock, the hum of the streetlights outside—all of it faded away as his mind focused solely on one thing: Hiroshi Aoki's curveball.

In his mind, Shinjiro could see it with perfect clarity. The moment Aoki would release the ball, that instant before it left his hand. His precognition was something that couldn't quite be explained, but in moments like these, it was as natural as breathing. He didn't need footage; he didn't need scouting reports. He saw the future, and in that future, Aoki's curveball hung in the air like an invitation.

Aoki's curve was deceptive to most, but not to Shinjiro. His mind raced through every possible variation of the pitch. He could feel the weight of it in his imagination—the sharp snap of the wrist as Aoki released it, the way the seams would spin in a tight, overhand rotation, designed to break sharply.

But there was a flaw. Even the best curveballs had one. Aoki's curve, like all pitches, would follow a specific path, a trajectory dictated by the laws of physics. But Shinjiro's gift let him see past the immediate break, into the subtle patterns behind it. The ball, spinning furiously as it dove toward the plate, would have a sweet spot—a moment when the drop slowed for just a fraction of a second.

"It's right there," Shinjiro thought, his mental vision slowing the pitch to a crawl. His precognition mapped out every possible path the ball could take. Aoki's curve wasn't perfect; if he released it slightly too high, it would hang just a little longer than intended. That was the key.

He saw himself in the batter's box, bat in hand, as the curve came in. In his mind, it started high—too high for a fastball, just high enough to force his opponents to misread it. But Shinjiro wouldn't be fooled. As the ball approached, his focus would lock onto the point where it began to break. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, would follow the tight rotation of the seams as they carved through the air.

In his vision, he didn't swing at the first pitch. That would come later. The key was patience, to wait for Aoki to get comfortable, to think he had Shinjiro off balance. But Shinjiro's gift saw past that. It saw the future where Aoki, confident in his command, would throw another curve—this time just a little too high, just a little too eager to end the at-bat.

"That's the moment," Shinjiro muttered. He saw the break. Aoki's arm would drop ever so slightly—an almost imperceptible difference in his delivery. But to Shinjiro, it was glaring. The curveball would hang, starting above the zone, then slowly drifting down, almost teasing him.

And that's when he would strike.

In his mind, the bat swung effortlessly, connecting with the ball at the perfect moment—just as it hung in the zone. The sound of the bat cracking against the leather echoed in his head. He didn't need to see the ball sail over the outfield fence; he already knew it would. The trajectory was clear, mapped out in his mind like a well-rehearsed play. The ball would rise, soar into the night, and disappear into the stands.

"Curveballs aren't invincible," Shinjiro whispered, opening his eyes. He could still feel the weight of the pitch, the way it would fall apart under his bat. He had seen it, lived it in his head.

The game hadn't even started yet, but for Shinjiro, it might as well have been over. All that remained was to step into the batter's box and let his vision unfold.