tw: graphic scene of murder/death, blood, guns, violence, physical abuse

— un ; one —

"AGAIN!"

HENRI SURGED FORWARD at the snarled French command and scooped up the heavy Exy ball rolling away from him. He lifted and twisted his racquet in the same breath, heaving the ball down the length of the court and snatching up another one scattered around his feet before the first one could smack against the wall. He didn't wait for the order, slamming this one up the court too, and then the next, barely feeling the aching protest of his muscles. The ache was a relief and a reminder that he was doing this right. If it didn't hurt, he wasn't pushing hard enough.

Seconds rolled into minutes of Henri scooping up ball after ball, rebounding them all off the far plexiglass wall with enough force to send a loud ricochet through the empty court with each hit. The goal was simple; while remaining at the first-fourth line, hit the wall at the exact same spot directly above the goal each time, not allowing for even half a centimetre leeway between hits. He knew which spot to aim for because Coach Lelouche had marked it with two pieces of white tape forming a cross, stark against the thick plastic. He knew where he was aiming but didn't have time to see if he landed, having to trust Lelouche would give the appropriate feedback when he'd finished the drill.

"That's enough," Lelouche called, the loud French echoing around them. Henri dropped his racquet as the last ball he'd thrown went wide, a few inches shy of the mark, but he was too exhausted to care about the miss. His arms felt like they'd been reduced to silly string and the only thing filling the silence was Henri's laborious breathing as he struggled to catch his breath.

Henri could feel his Coach's piercing eyes on him, analysing and ready to take him apart, but he wasn't ready to face the blistering criticism of how poorly he was playing. Henri knew he was off his game and wasted time by stretching out his arms, then slowly reaching down to retrieve his racquet. It was a scuffed and scratched up thing, secondhand and fraying at the ends of its strings. It was the cheapest model his parents could get and wasn't even intended for the position he played; this was a heavier model actually made for a backliner. Henri was a dealer, but he wasn't exactly in a position to complain. Exy wasn't a choice he was allowed to make.

"Henri," Lelouche said sharply, waiting until Henri had dragged his reluctant gaze to him. "Is this good enough?"

Henri hated questions like this. The answer was obvious and Lelouche would still make him give one. "No," he muttered, barely keeping the sullenness out of his tone. "But I — "

"Did I ask for an excuse? Hm?" He waited a beat to make sure Henri voiced no more protests and shook his head. "It isn't good enough. You are a Moreau and you know what that means."

Henri knew all too well that that meant. He was a Moreau, which meant he literally and economically belonged to the Japanese yakuza Moriyama family that owned his own. If not for the fact that Henri Sebastien Moreau should not and did not exist, as far as Lord Ichirou was concerned, he would not even be allowed to live here right now. He would have been shipped off to America, regardless of what his parents might want, and would follow the same fate as his estranged older brother Jean Moreau. His life locked up in France away from anyone and everyone who could slip up was questionably freedom, but it was still freedom.

The truth was, Henri did not play Exy out of choice. Things might have been different if not for the underlying threat that shadowed every match and court he stepped on. If Exy was just another sport he could enjoy as a passing hobby, something to play when he wanted to have fun and feel the exhilarating thrill of victory, he might have grown to love it. Henri liked to think he definitely would have loved it. As it was, he knew the only reason he was forced into training was because he had to be good enough if the Moriyamas ever took him, and if they deemed him unsatisfactory he would be executed.

Exy would be the only thing standing between him and death.

Henri remained silent as Coach Lelouche chewed him out for every small mistake he'd made, the thoughtless footwork and how he didn't extend his arm far enough when he shot. He was merciless to the fact Henri hadn't stepped on a court for two months, that he was recovering from a broken arm, and that the intensity of his practices had only been upped two weeks ago. He refused to explain why Henri suddenly had to practice extra hours alone with Lelouche outside regular training practice with his team learning completely new drills he'd never heard of before, and refused to let him slow down.

"We will go again and I will allow you to miss only ten of your shots," Lelouche warned, pointing at the far court where the balls were scattered near the goal. "Start now. I will come back and review your progress."

Henri heaved a sigh, ignored the look Coach shot him and trudged across the court towards the goal. He barely heard the slam of the court door behind Lelouche as he left Henri on the court. Henri yanked his helmet off and let it dangle from straps between his fingers as he whacked stray balls back down the court to first-fourth, running fingers through his tangled sweaty hair. He almost wished he could break his other arm so he could get out of this. Sure, it hurt like hell (he'd gotten it from doing a stupid dare at a party, not one of his finest moments), but at least he wouldn't have to waste his time playing over eight hours a day of a sport that he'd probably never use in the future. He'd been relieved for the reprieve from the court with his arm out of commission.

Why would the Moriyamas learn about him? For sixteen years, he had gotten along untouched and unknown. He'd kept up with the news from the day he was old enough to understand who he was and the implications for his family, watching his brother as he rose to the Ravens ranks and adorned his cheek with the black ink #3 that labelled him as part of Riko Moriyama's perfect court. Henri had wanted to be a backliner, like his brother, but as with everything in his life he wasn't given him a choice — the position of dealer had been assigned to him by his coach, who believed it was the best fit for someone as fast and nimble as him.

Henri liked playing dealer now, the middleman who could fly across the court and tip the game depending on whether he took an offensive or defensive stance, and couldn't imagine playing anything else. He tried to hold onto that thought he was went back to first court and took up stance again, cycling through the balls as he resumed.

He lost track of how long he stood there, firing at the wall, but he knew at least an hour had to have passed by the time he'd collected the balls and returned again for the third time. He had no idea where Coach Lelouche had disappeared to. It wasn't uncommon for him to leave Henri alone on court to drills, to return phone calls or fill out paperwork, but he never stayed gone this long. Henri should have remained at his post and waited for Coach's return, but it was getting late, he was tired and his arm ached. He wanted to go home. He collected all the balls scattered across the court and dropped them into the bucket before lugging it all off court, making sure the doors were locked behind him.

He went in search of Lelouche with his racquet slung across his shoulder, dropping his outer gloves and helmet on the benches of inner court on the way out. He wasn't in his office, where Henri usually found him, and couldn't find him in the lounge room or hallways either. Henri was certain he wouldn't be there but he scoured the entirety of the locker room and bathroom. Unsurprisingly, he wasn't there. Henri hovered uncertainly in the middle of the yellow and purple locker rooms. Where could Coach have gone? He wouldn't have simply left Henri doing drills and left the stadium, and yet Henri had checked everywhere he could think of.

He went back out to the court and waited on the inner court for another half an hour. It was past midnight now, but the hell he would receive for leaving without Coach's permission wouldn't be worth returning home at a decent hour. He made himself wait another fifteen minutes, bouncing an Exy ball off the wall, before finally deciding he had no choice but to leave. Maybe Coach had been called in an emergency and hadn't had time to alert Henri before leaving. Reluctantly, he put the bucket of Exy balls away and went to shower and change out.

Ten minutes later, he was dressed in sweats and a hoodie, hair dripping wet as he shoved his things back into his locker. Henri was homeschooled, as his parents didn't trust him in the public setting of high school surrounded by other kids, but he was part of the local Exy team and had a locker to mark his place among them. He hesitated as he looked back at his racquet sitting on the bench. It was a faded yellow, peeling at the edges, and the purple bands had been pretty much completely scratched off. He usually left it at the stadium but he felt a little uneasy at Coach's sudden disappearance, and didn't want to leave it behind.

He hesitated only a second longer before grabbing the racquet and leaving.

It was pitch black outside despite the early summer days, due to the fact it was nearly one in the morning. Henri had no way to get home, as he was only sixteen and Coach usually drove him back. It meant he was stuck making the forty minute walk home alone. He didn't really mind, as the air was mildly warm and the path was a relatively simple one. He trailed his racquet along the floor behind him as he walked and tried to push down the inexplicable dread in his stomach. He would call Coach or his parents for an explanation, but his phone had died due to how long he'd been kept back at the stadium. He couldn't contact anyone.

It probably meant nothing. Henri should be more worried about how many suicide laps Coach would send him on if he returned to the stadium, only to see Henri had up and left. His legs would be a murdered mess by the end of the night.

Henri had never left France in his whole life and had spent all those years living in the same childhood home in Marseille. It wasn't particularly large but not obscenely small either; two floors, and a cellar that had been converted to a bedroom with a tiny bathroom for Henri, it was everything he needed. The dread he was trying to squish down flared to life when he walked up the driveway and saw every window was darkened. Both his parents should be home and never slept this early — their jobs kept them up into the morning.

Henri faltered a few feet away from the door, the scrape of his racquet stopping. He waited a minute, listening intently, but heard nothing out of the ordinary. That didn't stop the hairs along his arms from standing on end and he fought the ridiculous urge to run. Nothing had happened, and he knew it was the just paranoia his parents had instilled in him. They were probably working into the dark so as not to alert the neighbours and Coach had been called off on an emergency.

Despite the reassurances he repeated to himself over and over, it was another three minutes before he started moving again and he clung tight to his racquet.

He pressed a hand against the door, intending to knock lightly, and his eyes widened as the wood gave way under his hand and creaked open. The alarm bells were ringing now. His parents never left the front door unlocked. Never. He spun around, no clue where he was going to go but knowing he shouldn't be here, and his heart leapt up into his throat. Where the small garden had been empty before there now stood two figures, silhouetted and dark against the shadows. The darkness did nothing to mask the guns both of them were holding, trained right at him.

"Stand down," one of them ordered. Henri's blood ran cold at the thick Japanese accent to their words and it was instinctual self-preservation that kept his tight grip on his racquet. "Henri Moreau?"

It took Henri three times to find his voice and he heard the tremble in it. "Who are you?"

"Step inside," the man said, ignoring his question. "The Lord awaits you."

Henri didn't move, his muscles locking into fight-or-flight mode as he tried to think around the panic flooding his body, and clearly he waited too long. He recognised the distinctive click of the trigger being flicked off safety. It was sheer force of will that forced him to back away from the guns and into the house, almost tripping in his haste. The Lord awaits you. Even when he was in the dark hallway and out of sight of the guns, he knew what that meant.

Ichirou Moriyama had found him.

He briefly considered running upstairs and immediately dismissed the idea. Stepping into the house had cornered him and he couldn't leave, because men would undoubtedly be posted around the entire perimeter. The was also the fact his parents were most likely somewhere in here, at the mercy of their owner. Henri felt sick as he thought of the fury they'd be subjected to for covering up his existence. Even if he had somewhere to run and hide, he'd be leaving his parents to pain and death.

If they weren't already dead.

Henri curled trembling fingers around the racquet, forced air into his lungs, and made his feet move. He had to face whatever was waiting for him in the house. Waiting would only make it worse. Every footstep felt endless as he moved to the living room. Bright light flared to life the moment he stepped inside. He barely had time to hear the door closing behind him before seeing that he wasn't alone.

The first and easiest to identify was the man standing by the door, who had closed it behind him. Henri saw nothing beyond the fact he was Japanese before his attention was stolen by the man standing a foot away from him. He didn't appear to be much at first glance, slim and short, dressed in an expensive black silk suit that screamed money. Then Henri made the mistake of raising his gaze to meet his eyes and the breath caught in his throat. He was no taller than Henri's measly five foot five and yet his coal eyes were calm, dangerous, exuding silent and controlled power. This was a man who could tear his life apart with a flick of his finger.

Henri sank to his knees before realising what he was doing and bowed his head. He was not stupid enough to speak in French and switched to English. "My Lord."

The silence that followed was thick and deafening. Henri pressed his fists against his thighs to hide how they shook, trying to take some small comfort in the hard press of his racquet. He was going to die here. Ichirou Moriyama was standing before him, every inch of dominance and blood money he'd been warned of, and that he'd been lied to for sixteen years. Henri didn't know how he'd learnt the truth and it didn't matter. He was going to die. He wanted to see his parents one last time and his heart ached at the thought they might already be dead.

"Henri Sebastien Moreau." Ichirou spoke his name like it was a particularly nasty disease. "The first I am hearing of this name."

Henri said nothing, had nothing he could say to that.

"Look me in the eye."

Henri obediently raised his head but he wasn't braced for the blow. It caught him across the face and he was a little better prepared for the second one, but the pain was worse. He bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood to stop himself crying out and waited for a third hit. None came. Ichirou was studying him as if he held little more interest than a bug under a microscope, his gaze detached and clinical. Henri could feel a bruise burning along his cheekbone but it was nothing compared to what he was sure was coming.

Ichirou was still looking at Henri when he next spoke, but the words weren't addressed to him. "Bring them in."

Henri didn't dare turn his head as the door opened, but he saw from the corner of his eye as another guard forced his parents down to their knees. Their hands were bound behind their backs and mouths stuffed with gags. His father stared resolutely at the ground but his mother risked a glance up at him, her eyes bright with tears. Henri made the mistake of turning to look at her. Ichirou struck him again and this blow was hard enough to knock him to the floor. He tasted the metallic tang of blood on his tongue and swallowed around it.

I'm going to die, he thought, the words bleak and empty. He selfishly hoped they killed him first. He didn't want to see his parents die. They weren't the most loving or affectionate of people, but they were all he had.

"I am looking at a loose end," Ichirou said, turning slightly to address Henri's parents. "Maybe you think it would have passed under my nose if not for the investigation into Jean Moreau following his transfer to USC, but you are incorrect. You thought you could hide this from me? You will pay for your foolishness."

Ichirou held a hand out and Henri's heart stopped when one of the guard stepped forward, placing a handgun in the open palm. He was only distantly aware of the muffled sound from his mother before he felt the cold press of metal against his temple and squeezed his eyes shut. He could barely breathe over the rush of blood through his ears and waited for the trigger to pull. Ichirou made him wait and Henri was thinking it was punishment, that torture would come first, when he realised his mother was speaking. Someone must have pulled the gag away. The words came to him in fractured bits and pieces.

"...an asset," Madeline Moreau was saying, tripping over the English she was unaccustomed to with her accent. Henri only had a slight accent, as his parents made him take English lessons everyday with a tutor since he was a child. He had grown up speaking the two languages in tandem and was no less fluent in one than the other. "You hadn't heard of him, as he was useless to you, my Lord. We gave away our first born for you to shape but this one was worthless at the time."

She paused, waiting to see how her attempt at rationalising was being taken. Ichirou said nothing and Henri didn't even dare to draw a breath. The gun was still pressed against his temple, but no bullet had blown through his brains. Terror held him frozen in place.

"Your attempts at covering up for yourself are almost as fascinating as they are pathetic," Ichiriou said, with deceptive calm. "I should execute the three of you on the spot for wasting my precious time and burn this house to the ground."

No one spoke. A dropped pin could have been heard in the silence.

"However." Ichirou paused and regarded Henri with a black gaze that made his skin crawl. "The tragic suicide of my brother occurred recently, I'm sure you have heard. I did not receive condolences but nevertheless it nearly ruined an important investment for me. The Ravens rake in great profit yearly and Castle Evermore is a necessary establishment for business."

Henri shouldn't have dared speak with a gun against his head, but he found himself blurting out, "I can play."

The look his father flicked him for speaking out of turn was furious but Ichirou seemed content to humour him. "Oh?"

"I've been playing since I was born," Henri said, hearing the desperation in his voice and quelling it down with visible force. "It's what I've been trained to do, hours everyday, just so I'd be good enough for...for this. For you, my Lord."

Ichirou's voice was delicate when he said, "What are you proposing to me? Speak wisely, child, or you won't live to speak another word."

Henri swallowed and risked a glance at his mother. Her gaze was intent but she didn't dare try to speak to him. "The Ravens just lost their captain and are struggling to regroup under the scrutiny of the press," Henri said, tipping his chin up slightly to meet Ichiriou's gaze. "My own blood brother has transferred to a new team, causing an uproar. Allow me to join Edgar Allan Ravens this year, prove my worth and most importantly draw the media's attention away from Jean's transfer with my own. Any and all revenue I could make will of course be passed straight on to you."

"And who is to say you will bring any worth to the disgrace that the Ravens have been reduced to?"

"Let me prove it," Henri said, squeezing his racquet so tightly he felt his knuckles pop. "Let me show you how I play and what I can bring to the team. You won't regret it."

Ichirou said nothing as he considered the proposition and the silence stretched so taut across the room Henri thought it might snap. It felt like eternities before the gun was pulled from his temple, and Ichirou considered him through hooded eyes. "I will give you one chance to show my uncle what you have to offer," he said. "As the Ravens coach he will know whether you hold any worth to me. If he deems you unsatisfactory you will be executed immediately and if you try to run you will endure a far more painful death."

Henri bowed his head low. "Yes, my Lord."

"Stand." Ichirous stepped back as Henri rose to his feet. Relief eased the aching pain across his cheeks from being hit, but fast on its heels was the awareness he could die tonight if he wasn't good enough. He desperately wished he'd trained harder the past few months. "Leave."

Henri moved to go and the guards preceded him, pulling the door open. Ichirou paused behind and glanced back into the room as if remembering Madeleine and Patrick Moreau, still kneeling and bound in the corner of the room. "Your lies and very existence is intolerable to me," Ichirou said, raising his gun. Henri didn't understand the next words until it was too late. "Let this be a reminder what will happen to those who dare cross me."

The two gunshots fired in rapid succession drowned out Henri's shocked exclamation, one to the head each. Henri was shoved out of the room by the guards before the blood could even pool around their bodies.