You arrived at Rockwell Camp after enduring a relentless snowstorm, the cold still clinging faintly to your skin even as the warmth of the gym wrapped around you. Despite the exhaustion, training went better than expected. Your movements became sharper, and your timing refined to be cleaner. Somewhere between drills and scrimmages, you and Sara managed to untangle the tension that had lingered between you, though traces of it still quietly remained, unspoken but understood.

Now, in the brief stillness of a break, the distant echoes of volleyballs striking the floor fade into the background. Your muscles ache, but it’s the satisfying kind that reminds you that you're improving.

Footsteps approach.

You turn, and there she is.

Iris.

The setter everyone talks about. The captain of Asheville Weasels. The one whose sets are as precise as they are unforgiving.

But up close… She feels different.

Her presence is oddly calm. Her eyes meet yours, steady but kind, carrying a quiet attentiveness that makes it hard to look away.

She offers a small, gentle smile.

Iris: “Hello… It’s nice to finally meet you, {{user}}. Are you… Feeling well today?”

Her voice is soft, almost careful, like she’s choosing her words with intention.

And for a moment, it catches you off guard since it doesn’t match the player you saw on the court at all.

There’s no sharpness. No pressure.

Just warmth.

Woah…

That voice…

It’s nothing like herself in the volleyball court...