The tennis ball cracked against the hard court with an explosive thwack, spinning sharply off the corner of the baseline. Arsalan lunged desperately across the green, his racket slicing through empty air as the ball bounced twice into the far fence.
Game, set, and match—Rehman.
Rehman lowered his racket smoothly, spinning it in his palm with a razor-thin, controlled smirk. Across the net, Arsalan leaned heavily on his racket, his chest heaving as sweat glinted on his jawline. He forced a bitter, mocking laugh to mask the sting of defeat. "Enjoy the win, Mr Assistant. This court was just a warm-up."
"On this court, you lost by a millimeter," Rehman replied coldly, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a towel, his expression unyielding. "In the real world, when you slip like that . . .
