The second game did not slow down.
If anything, it became quieter.
Not in sound—the crowd was still there, the shuffling of shoes still sharp against the court, the umpire's voice still clear—but in feel. The noise no longer reached Felix the way it had earlier. It passed him instead, like wind around a closed window.
The score read 6-10.
Blue Heritage was ahead.
Felix stood near the backcourt, racket resting lightly in his hand as he prepared to serve. Sweat slid down his temple, warm and persistent. His breathing was steady, but deeper now, each inhale measured, each exhale controlled.
He wasn't tired.
Not yet.
But the effort was beginning to cost more.
The serve came fast and flat. Aditya returned it deep. The rally stretched—clear, drop, lift, drive. Aditya moved with the same calm economy he had shown since the first point of the match. No wasted steps. No unnecessary force.
Felix chased a tight cross-court return and managed to lift just in time.
Aditya waited.
Then placed the shuttle precisely where Felix wasn't.
Point.
9–15.
Felix turned, walking back into position without looking at the scoreboard again. He already knew.
This was slipping.
Not dramatically. Not violently.
Gradually.
That was what made it dangerous.
Another rally followed. This one longer. Felix pushed harder, adding pace to his returns, stepping in earlier at the net. For a moment—just a moment—it felt like he might seize control.
Then his drop shot clipped the tape.
The shuttle fell back on his side.
A murmur passed through the crowd.
Felix closed his eyes briefly as he retrieved the shuttle. Not in frustration. In recalibration.
Still reacting, he thought.
Aditya served again.
Felix returned flatter this time, trying to rush the exchange. Aditya absorbed it easily, guiding the shuttle back into deep space. Felix moved, adjusted, swung—
The shuttle went wide.
9–16.
Felix walked toward the sideline during the brief pause, a towel pressed against the back of his neck. His chest rose and fell more noticeably now. His arm felt heavier—not weak, just aware of its own use.
Across the net, Aditya stood with less strain, clearly he has good endurance.
Calm. Distant. Respectful.
Untouched by the momentum shift.
Felix sat down during the short break, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. The sounds around him blurred into something distant.
He didn't think about losing.
He thought about why this was happening.
He replayed the rallies—not emotionally, but structurally. Where he had moved. When he had committed. How Aditya had responded.
That was when he noticed it.
Not a flaw.
A preference.
Aditya recovered fastest when the rally stayed vertical—front to back, clear to drop, drop to lift. His positioning there was flawless. But when Felix had forced lateral movement—side to side—the recovery wasn't immediate.
Not slow.
Just… fractionally delayed.
Felix looked up again, eyes sharper now.
The match resumed.
9–16.
Aditya served.
Felix returned safely, resisting the urge to attack. He waited one extra beat, letting Aditya commit first. When the return came, Felix didn't push deep.
He angled it.
The shuttle pulled Aditya sideways instead of backward.
Aditya adjusted, returning it cleanly—but Felix was already moving.
He stepped in early and placed the shuttle just past the net.
Point.
No cheer.
No reaction.
Just a quiet adjustment.
10–16.
The next rally followed a similar pattern. Felix didn't increase power. He changed direction. He stopped chasing the backcourt dominance Aditya had been controlling and began breaking the rhythm instead.
Aditya returned everything—but now he was moving more.
Side steps instead of straight lines.
Felix won the point after a forced lift went slightly long.
11–16.
The crowd noticed the tightening score.
Not loudly.
Attentively.
Aditya paused for half a second longer before serving this time. His expression didn't change, but his eyes stayed on Felix a fraction longer than before.
Felix met his gaze without expression.
The rally began.
This one was long. The longest of the game so far.
Drop. Clear. Drive. Block.
Felix's legs burned faintly now, a steady heat that reminded him he was human. He pushed through it—not by speeding up, but by positioning earlier. By thinking one shot ahead instead of reacting one shot late.
When the shuttle finally dropped on Aditya's side after a tight net exchange, Felix exhaled slowly.
12–16.
Aditya nodded once before retrieving the shuttle.
No irritation.
No surprise.
Just acknowledgment.
The match shifted—not in score yet, but in balance.
Felix lost the next point on a rushed return. Won the one after that with a well-placed cross-court drop.
13–17.
Still behind.
Still pressured.
But no longer suffocating.
Felix wiped sweat from his jawline, grip tightening briefly before he relaxed it again. His breathing remained controlled, though his chest now rose higher with each inhale.
This was the edge.
Not defeat.
Decision.
Aditya served again.
Felix returned wide, forcing lateral movement immediately. The rally shortened—not because Felix rushed it, but because Aditya was now playing Felix's angles instead of his own.
Felix took the point.
14–17.
A small ripple moved through the stands.
Felix didn't look.
He stayed where he was, eyes fixed on the shuttle in his hand as he prepared to serve. His fingers adjusted minutely around the grip, pressure even, deliberate.
He wasn't thinking about the scoreboard anymore.
He was thinking about space.
The serve went low and tight.
Aditya returned safely.
Felix stepped in early, redirecting the shuttle wide again.
Aditya recovered—but not cleanly this time.
The shuttle sat up.
Felix resisted the smash.
Instead, he placed it.
Point.
15–17.
The umpire announced the score.
Felix heard it clearly.
He stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping slowly from his chin to the court below. His arm felt heavy now, his legs alive with strain.
Across the net, Aditya adjusted his grip.
It was subtle.
But it was there.
Felix noticed.
The next rally began—and ended quickly, Felix misjudging a tight return.
15–18.
Pressure surged again.
But it no longer felt overwhelming.
It felt earned.
Felix walked back into position, shoulders rolling once as he loosened them deliberately. His breathing steadied—not because he forced it to, but because he allowed it to.
He glanced briefly toward the stands.
His parents were still there.
Radha leaned forward now, hands clasped again—not with fear, but focus. Krishna sat upright, eyes sharp, tracking the court with quiet attention.
They weren't looking at the score.
They were looking at him.
Felix turned back to the court.
Aditya served.
The rally stretched.
Side to side. Front to back. Then side again.
Felix's legs protested now, a dull ache building with every push-off. He ignored it—not by denying it, but by working around it. Shorter steps. Earlier movement. Cleaner positioning.
He won the point.
16–18.
The crowd's hum deepened.
Aditya took a breath before the next serve.
Felix wiped sweat from his face with the back of his wrist and reset his stance.
He was still behind.
The game was still slipping.
But now—
He was present.
Fully.
The next rally began.
And as Felix prepared to receive, eyes steady on the shuttle, the scoreboard loomed quietly in his peripheral vision.
Blue Heritage still led.
The pressure remained.
But Felix no longer felt buried beneath it.
He lifted his racket.
Ready.