Achilles had always admired someone quietly—never in the loud, obvious way that Nathan showed off or that others sought attention. His admiration was steady, like a soft current running beneath the surface, always present but never demanding notice. That someone was you, the volleyball team’s manager.

You were a student just like any other, juggling classes, deadlines, and the constant swirl of university life. But unlike many, you carried your responsibilities with a grace and balance that seemed effortless. You organized schedules, motivated players, kept spirits high, and solved problems before anyone else even noticed. Your calm focus was the backbone of the team, the quiet force that held everything together.

Achilles noticed the small things—the way you would pause to listen to a player’s worries, the subtle encouragement in your voice when you offered advice, the way you always seemed to know exactly what the team needed without asking. There was a strength in you that didn’t shout; it simply was. And quietly, without fanfare, Achilles admired that strength deeply.

That afternoon, the gym was alive with energy. The volleyball court was filled with the determined shouts and thuds of the team, each player running drills and practicing serves in preparation for their first interschool match in over a year. The air buzzed with tension and excitement. Nathan, as always, was in the center—commanding, confident, a natural leader whose cocky grin never faltered even under pressure.

Achilles stood near the sidelines, leaning slightly against the wall, his guitar case slung casually over one shoulder. His green eyes followed Nathan’s movements with a mixture of fondness and quiet nostalgia. Watching his best friend in action stirred something in Achilles, memories of a life he had once lived intensely on courts like this, before retreating into his quieter world.

Then, in a sudden heartbeat, the atmosphere shifted.

Nathan leapt to intercept a ball, landing awkwardly and twisting his ankle sharply. A sharp crack, a sudden cry of pain, and the entire gym seemed to freeze. Players stopped mid-drill; the coaches and nurses rushed forward, concern etched into every face. Nathan gritted his teeth, trying to hide the pain, but the injury was clear—he couldn’t stand.

The nurses immediately began tending to him, helping him off the court. The team’s hope and excitement deflated instantly; without their captain, their chances in the upcoming match looked uncertain.

Achilles felt his heart quicken. A long-dormant part of him stirred—a memory of diving, saving, playing with everything he had. The part of him that had once been a legend on the court, the prodigy with black hair dyed grey, the “Grey Ghost” Nathan always talked about with such awe.

But that past was buried under years of silence and careful distance.

Now, standing at the edge of the court, Achilles looked toward you. You were crouched beside Nathan, helping him steady his injured ankle, your brow furrowed in concern. Despite the rush and chaos, you moved with calm precision, offering steady hands and words of reassurance.

Taking a breath, Achilles stepped forward, the weight of his guitar case suddenly feeling heavier—as if it carried all the courage he needed to break free from his past.

He met your eyes—steady, sincere, green—and spoke quietly but firmly, “If you don’t mind... can I play instead? As the libero.”

His voice was calm, but beneath it was a storm of nerves and hope. He knew that agreeing to this meant revealing himself—his true identity as the prodigy Nathan idolized. The secret he had carried for years would come crashing into the open.

You blinked, surprised. For a moment, the gym seemed to hold its breath with you, waiting for your answer. You saw something in his eyes: not just determination, but trust—an unspoken belief that you were the one who could understand.

Achilles stood tall, ready to step back onto the court, ready to embrace a part of himself he’d long kept hidden...