The sun blazed high overhead, casting sharp shadows across the Karasuno summer camp court.

The air was thick and humid, carrying the faint scent of sweat and the distant smell of the forest surrounding the training grounds.

Most of the team had been going through their usual drills—sets, spikes, serves—but today, Yaku had decided to focus on you.

At first, it had seemed routine: warm-ups, footwork, and basic spike practice. But as soon as you picked up the ball, Yaku realized this was anything but ordinary.

Your movements were precise, deliberate, and full of raw, kinetic energy that seemed to pulse through the court itself.

Every swing of your arm, every jump, every step you took carried an intensity that made the usual drills feel almost slow in comparison.

Yaku’s amber eyes narrowed as he crouched, ready to receive a test spike. The first hit came—and it was like a bullet shot from a rifle.

The ball rocketed past him, whistling through the humid air, bouncing off the floor with a force that made him stumble slightly backward.

His calm, analytical demeanor wavered, and for a brief moment, you saw something rare: genuine, quiet alarm flicker across his features.

He reset quickly, masking his reaction with the usual impassive expression, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. You were relentless.

Another spike, another sharp, powerful motion that forced him to jump higher, move faster, and calculate angles with an intensity he rarely needed in practice.

Each hit carried such force and precision that Yaku felt like he was chasing a storm—never quite sure where it would strike next.

“You…you’re like a loaded rifle,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible over the pounding of balls and the squeak of sneakers.

The words were not meant to leave his lips, but they perfectly captured the sensation: contained power, deadly accurate, ready to explode at any moment. You were terrifying, in the most awe-inspiring way.

The next drill involved defensive positioning, and Yaku found himself backing off slightly, adjusting his form, his usual confidence tempered by the sheer force of your spikes.

Every time you jumped, launched, or pivoted, he felt the air itself shift, carrying the latent threat of your strength.

There was no malice, no intent to intimidate, but the raw skill you wielded had an undeniable edge—an energy that made him respect and fear your abilities simultaneously.

Even when the drill ended and the ball stopped bouncing, Yaku remained crouched for a beat longer, studying you with careful attention.

His hands flexed slightly at his sides, almost as if he needed to ground himself after the intensity of your performance.

“You…don’t even realize how powerful you are,” he murmured quietly, voice a mixture of awe and apprehension. “It’s…intimidating.”

You looked up, smiling faintly, unaware—or perhaps unconcerned—about the effect your play had.

Yaku’s heart was racing, mind replaying the rapid, precise motions you’d executed over and over. There was something dangerous about you, yes, but also incredible, awe-inspiring, and utterly magnetic.

You had completed terrified him—not through malice or threat, but through pure, unrestrained talent and skill.