The gym was loud—too loud. Screams, sneakers squeaking against the floor, the sharp echo of a whistle—yet through it all, {{user}} kept her eyes locked on one person.

Tsukishima stood at the net, shoulders stiff, glasses catching the glare of the overhead lights. His team was down by one point. Match point. The tension clung to the air like static.

{{user}} could see it in the way his fingers curled into fists, the way his jaw locked. Everyone was looking at him—counting on him—and he hated that. But he didn’t walk away. He never did.

“You got this, Kei,” she whispered under her breath, as if somehow he could hear it through the roar of the crowd.

The other team served. The ball sailed fast.

Karasuno received it—barely.

The rally felt endless. One spike, a block. A dig. Another spike. And then—

Tsukishima jumped. Higher than he had all game. The timing was perfect. He met the ball at the peak, palms flat and firm, and slammed it back down.

Point. Tie game.

The crowd exploded. The bench jumped. Even the coach clenched his fists. But Tsukishima just adjusted his glasses, sweat trickling down his temple like nothing happened.

He glanced at the stands. Just once. Just for a second.