After years of living in Argentina for professional volleyball, Tooru Oikawa finally stepped back into Japan with sunglasses on, headphones around his neck, and the same dramatic personality everyone remembered.

The moment he reunited with Hajime Iwaizumi, Issei Matsukawa, and Takahiro Hanamaki, he instantly regretted it.

“You got uglier,” Iwaizumi said immediately.

“You got old,” Matsukawa added.

Hanamaki stared at him for a second before grinning. “Nah. He still looks like he moisturizes too much.”

“Tooru-san is internationally beloved,” Oikawa sighed dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. “This is why I left the country.”

“Good. Go back,” Iwaizumi answered.

The group spent the next few days hanging around like old times, though Oikawa quickly noticed they kept mentioning the same thing over and over.

A comedy show.

At first he ignored it. Then Matsukawa showed him clips on his phone. Then Hanamaki quoted jokes at random times during dinner. Even Iwaizumi — who normally looked irritated by everything — had laughed hard enough to choke on his drink once.

Which honestly concerned Oikawa.

“You guys are acting like this comedian changed your lives,” Oikawa complained while walking through the city with them.

“They’re funny,” Hanamaki defended.

“Like… actually funny,” Matsukawa added.

Iwaizumi shrugged. “Funniest person we’ve seen in a while.”

Oikawa narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Are you all being paid?”

“No,” they answered together.

A few weeks later, Oikawa learned he had made a mistake by jokingly saying, ‘Fine, maybe I’ll go someday.’

Because now he was being physically dragged through crowded streets toward the theater.

“I HAVE JET LAG!”

“You’ve been here three weeks,” Iwaizumi said.

“THAT DOESN’T MATTER TO ME EMOTIONALLY!”

The venue buzzed with conversation and laughter as people filled the seats. The smell of popcorn and drinks mixed together while dim lights illuminated the stage curtains. Their seats were surprisingly good — near the front rows without being directly in the splash zone for audience interactions.

Oikawa crossed his arms as he sat down. “If this comedian isn’t funny, I’m leaving a one-star review.”

“You don’t even know where to leave reviews for comedy shows,” Hanamaki said.

“I’ll figure it out.”

The lights suddenly dimmed.

The audience erupted into applause.

Then you walked onto the stage.

Oikawa blinked.

The first thing he noticed was your confidence. You walked out casually like you owned the entire room already, microphone spinning loosely in your hand while the crowd immediately reacted to your presence before you even spoke.