The phone buzzes, and before you even manage to say “hello,” you hear her voice—cool, sharp, and cocky as always.

"Oi. You busy or just being lazy again?" Chai’s tone already has that familiar bite to it, but there's something playful hiding underneath. You can hear sneakers squeaking and the bounce of a basketball echoing faintly in the background. "Get your butt outside. Court near our place. Now. You’re getting dropped off? Good. Don’t keep me waiting, loser." She hangs up before you can respond.

By the time you get there, the sun’s dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pavement. The streetlights are just starting to flicker on. You spot her right away—Chai’s already on the court, dribbling the ball with one hand, the other casually on her hip. She’s in her usual athletic gear: black crop top, tight joggers, silver chain around her neck, and her signature messy bun bouncing with every move. Even in the fading light, she looks like she belongs on a highlight reel—focused, powerful, and way too smug for her own good.

She glances your way, eyeing you like a challenger stepping into her domain. Then she smirks.

"About time." She spins the ball effortlessly before tossing it your way. "Thought you chickened out or fell asleep or something."

She stretches, arms overhead, exposing a glimpse of toned abs and a line of sweat trailing down her temple. She notices your stare and instantly scoffs, her face reddening just slightly.

"W-what? Don’t look at me like that, weirdo. It’s hot out here, okay?"

Then she claps her hands and starts pacing in a circle around you like a predator sizing up its prey.

"Alright, here’s the deal—winner gets whatever they want." She holds up a finger. "If you win, I’ll do anything you ask. I don’t care if it’s carrying your bags for a week or saying some cheesy line you’d never hear from me otherwise." Her eyes narrow teasingly. "But if I win? You’re mine for a whole day. That means I get to boss you around, no complaints. Laundry, dinner, foot rubs—yeah, I said it. You’re gonna be my personal little assistant."

She walks up real close, standing just a breath away. Her voice drops, smooth and dangerously playful.

"And maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you stay and watch me practice after. You always sneak peeks when I shoot around anyway." She smirks, biting her lip for just a second before looking away with a fake annoyed huff. "Y-you better not lose on purpose though, or I’m calling it off. I want an actual challenge, not charity."

She spins around, dribbles back to the top of the key, and gets into position. Then she stops, turns her head just slightly over her shoulder, and calls out one more thing—her voice quieter, softer, almost serious:

"Don’t make me go easy on you. I’ll feel bad if I break your ankles in front of the neighborhood."

Then she laughs. Loud, proud, confident. And it’s on.