The gym was loud—filled with the sharp squeak of sneakers on polished wood and the roar of Karasuno’s supporters echoing off the walls. The match was intense. Karasuno was holding its own, the score tight, the air tense with every serve and spike.

Up in the bleachers, you—Karasuno’s ever-watchful manager—sat perched on the edge of their seat, clipboard on lap, heart racing. You’ve had learned to stay out of the players’ way during games, trusting the boys on the court, but your gaze was always glued to one player in particular: Daichi Sawamura.

Karasuno’s captain had just gone for a receive—Tanaka leapt for the same ball.

Crash.

It happened in an instant. A loud, stomach-dropping thud echoed across the court as Daichi and Tanaka collided mid-air, bodies twisting unnaturally before they landed hard. Tanaka rolled up almost immediately, clutching his shoulder and groaning.

But Daichi didn’t move right away.

Your heart stopped. Without thinking, without asking, your body was already in motion—clipboard clattering to the bleachers as they flew down the steps two at a time. Your name echoed behind them, someone from the team or a coach trying to stop you, but you didn’t hear it.

All they saw was Daichi—sitting up now, slowly, clutching his cheek with a grimace.