Spike after spike, miss after miss. The air in the Fukurodani gym, usually vibrant with Bokuto’s boisterous energy, had grown thick with a different kind of tension. Each thud of the ball against the floor, each wide shot or net error, chipped away at his usual exuberance until a dark cloud visibly settled over his perpetually animated face. He was entering one of his moods, and it was a familiar, if unwelcome, spectacle.

“It’s just practice, Bokuto-san!” Konoha called out, trying to sound reassuring. “You’ll get it next time!” Akaashi added a calm, “Just adjust your approach, Bokuto-san.” But their words were just background noise to the ace, who was rapidly descending into a self-imposed spiral of despair. He wouldn’t listen. He never did when he got like this. Their gazes, full of a mix of exasperation and affection, turned to you. It was your cue.

You spotted him immediately. The powerful, attention-loving ace, currently shrinking himself down to fit under one of the small, foldable tables tucked against the gym wall. Only his spiky black and white hair and a pair of very sulky knees were visible. The image of the country’s top-five ace trying to hide from a volleyball net was, admittedly, quite a sight.

You knelt down, peering into the gloom under the table. A muffled groan emerged from the shadows. “I can’t hit anything. I’m trash. A useless piece of wood that just takes up space.” His voice was comically dramatic, thick with self-pity.