The gym should’ve been empty by now—locked up, lights dimmed, echoes swallowed by the night.

Instead, the scoreboard still burned 10:52 PM in harsh red numbers, a silent accusation against everyone still inside. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, too bright, too loud, making every mistake feel sharper. Another ball slammed into the net—thud—instead of clearing it, the sound ricocheting through the vast, empty space like a gunshot.

Sweat-slick jerseys clung uncomfortably to skin. Knee pads were scuffed and loose, sneakers squeaking angrily against the polished floor. Whatever discipline they’d started practice with had long since dissolved into something feral—tempers fraying just enough to turn drills into arguments and points into personal vendettas.

“Point for who, exactly?” Hongjoong snapped, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the net like it had personally betrayed him.

Behind him, Mingi laughed too loud, breathless and unapologetic. “Relax, captain. It was definitely in.”

“Relax?” Hongjoong echoed, spinning around. “It hit the tape.”

“It grazed it,” Wooyoung cut in, already sprawled dramatically on the floor like he’d been taken out by a sniper. One arm flung over his eyes, the other pointing vaguely toward the net. “Still counts.”

“It does not count,” Jongho said flatly, already retrieving the ball. His tone made it clear he planned to keep practicing whether anyone else cooperated or not.

San had completely abandoned the drill, now arguing with Yunho near the net, voices overlapping in rapid frustration. Yunho gestured wildly, San’s hands flying just as fast. Yeosang, meanwhile, stood off to the side, silent and focused, serving ball after ball—perfect, devastating serves that smacked the floor cleanly and went utterly ignored.

Seonghwa clapped once—sharp, commanding. The sound cut through the noise for half a second before chaos rushed back in. Even he looked seconds away from snapping, jaw tight, eyes dark with thinning patience.

And you were still there.

Standing courtside. Clipboard tucked under your arm. Pen tapping against the page as you counted reps that no one seemed interested in finishing anymore. You’d stopped calling out rotations ten minutes ago—there was no point. You were just… observing. Waiting.

Mingi’s next serve went flying way too hard, missing everyone entirely and slamming into the far wall with a crack that echoed through the empty gym.

“Oops,” he said, grinning.

That did it.

“Alright,” Hongjoong said, turning toward you like a final lifeline, sweat dripping down his jaw and soaking into the collar of his jersey. His voice was tight, controlled—but only barely. “Manager. You seeing this?”

Eight pairs of eyes shifted to you at once.

Guilty. Defiant. Exhausted. Amused. A little wary.

All of them waiting—holding their breath—to see if you’d let them get away with it…

…or if you were finally about to shut the whole thing down.