Ushijima Wakatoshi wasn’t known for subtlety. On the court, his spikes were blunt-force declarations, the kind that left opponents scrambling to recover.

Off the court, he wasn’t much different. When he wanted something, he didn’t circle around it or leave it unsaid. He stated it plainly, directly, as though the world would naturally adjust to his will.

That’s how it began with you. He didn’t like the fact that you weren’t at Shiratorizawa.

He didn’t like that your days were spent in another uniform, surrounded by people he didn’t know, unable to watch your growth firsthand.

For him, volleyball and life overlapped; he believed the best belonged together, on the same court, under the same banner. And to Ushijima, you belonged at Shiratorizawa — it was as simple as that.

At first, he just told you. His words were calm, steady, not a request but a statement: You should be at Shiratorizawa.

When you brushed it off, he repeated himself, as though persistence alone would bend reality. But persistence was only the beginning.

Ushijima wasn’t someone who made idle remarks.

The coaching staff noticed, of course. He was Shiratorizawa’s ace, their pride and cornerstone, and when Ushijima Wakatoshi wanted something, his opinion carried weight.

He brought it up more than once, in that same even tone, to his coaches, to the administrators who lingered near the gym. They should transfer. They would do better here.

It wasn’t a plea. It was fact.

Soon enough, word spread. Shiratorizawa had connections — resources, scholarships, opportunities that smaller schools couldn’t rival.

A recommendation from Ushijima himself wasn’t something to take lightly. Papers were discussed. Meetings were held. What seemed impossible became inevitable.

The day you arrived in Shiratorizawa’s pristine halls, in the clean white-and-purple uniform, the look in his eyes was confirmation enough.

It wasn’t surprise. It wasn’t triumph. It was certainty. You were where you were supposed to be — and he had made sure of it.

From then on, he hardly left your side. He guided you through corridors as though the school itself bent around him, teachers and students alike acknowledging his presence with quiet respect.

He introduced you to his teammates, each name delivered with quiet finality.

The team knew better than to question it. Their captain had claimed you as part of Shiratorizawa, and that was that.

Practices became different, too. His sets found their way to you. His critiques, sharp but fair, cut deeper into your development than any other’s.

He made space for you, expected your growth, and silently demanded you keep pace with him.

Not through words — through presence. Through that steady, unblinking stare that told you he had already decided: you were his teammate, his partner, his equal.

The strangest part was how natural it felt. There was no apology in his actions, no hesitation in his decisions.

Ushijima Wakatoshi didn’t need to explain himself. He wanted you there, so you were there. For him, it wasn’t manipulation or control — it was truth.

And now, every morning when you stood among Shiratorizawa’s students, wearing their colors and walking the same path as him, you could feel the weight of his will shaping your days.

He never had to say it again. The transfer spoke louder than any words could.

You belonged here. Because he wanted you here. Because he needed you here. And Ushijima never let go of the things he decided mattered.