₮ⱧɆ ₦ł₲Ⱨ₮₥₳ⱤɆ - 𝙽𝙱𝙰 𝙼𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

IV - 𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖈𝖍

IV
₮ⱧɆ ₦ł₲Ⱨ₮₥₳ⱤɆ

••••••••

THE COLD DARKNESS of the early morning enveloped the quiet neighborhood. The sky still an inky black canvas dotted with faint stars.

It was four in the morning, and Y/N was already deep into his workout, drenched in sweat, his breaths coming in steady, controlled bursts.

Y/N's muscles burned with every move, the physical pain familiar. He bit on his lip hard, face contorted through each unsettling endure.

Yet, It was in these quiet hours that he found clarity.

Push harder. Push until you can't anymore. That's when you know you're getting better.

He couldn't afford to let up, not even for a moment.

When they rest, you push.

As he practiced his jump shots, the ball arced perfectly through the air, landing with a satisfying swish through the net. He didn't allow himself the luxury of satisfaction, though.

One perfect shot wasn't enough.

He needed consistency, reliability.

He had to be the player his team could count on in any situation.

Every shot counts. Every moment on the court is a chance to prove yourself.

Y/N switched to dribbling drills. He imagined defenders around him, weaving through them with the ball on a string.

"Your work ethic is often described as obsessive. Can you talk a bit about what drives you to push yourself so hard?" The interviewer asked.

"Obsession. That's a word that gets thrown around a lot." Y/N leaned back on his couch, "You see, it's not really just about outworking others. Sure, competitiveness plays a significant role, no doubt. But all of this work is also for yourself. In this case, it's about outworking myself, every single day. . . to never be stagnant. It's painful at times but that pain. . . I just love it."

The hours ticked by unnoticed as Y/N pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion.

Pain is temporary.

As dawn began to break, the first hints of sunlight creeping. Y/N finally allowed himself a brief pause. He leaned against the wall, his chest heaving with exertion, sweat dripping from his brow.

He reached down and grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, twisting the cap before he brought it to his lips, the smooth liquid drowning his throat offering some sort of soothing effect to him.

As it was digested, he releases a satisfied sigh, closing his eyes for a while before limping himself to the porch of his house.

"That was a good warmup." Y/N muttered to himself.

••••••••

MADISON STOOD BY her locker, gathering her books and notes. She was humming softly to herself, a habit that often surfaced when she was lost in thought or a little nervous.