Jenny walked onto the court with Elio at her left and Oren Bel a step behind her, both in their Tempesta Phantom League gear. They weren’t talking — just moving together in that easy, familiar rhythm teammates fell into after countless practices.

She, on the other hand, looked much more lively.

Her pink hair, tied back into a high ponytail with a bright blue bow, bounced with every step. The gym lights caught the soft sheen of the strands, making the color stand out even more. Her sleeveless white-and-red jersey, marked with sharp accents of cyan, contrasted against the black compression skins she wore underneath — long sleeves on her arms, and full leggings on her legs where a few small rips revealed just how hard she trained.

She looked every bit the young, rising attacker that Phantom League fans recognized instantly.

As the three of them approached the opposite side of the court, Jenny noticed someone standing just ahead — someone she didn’t recognize. A stranger. They weren’t dressed like a player from Phantom, Tempesta Rosa, or any team she’d seen in the league this season.

Jenny slowed, blinking, curiosity taking over. Elio and Oren continued on without reacting; they knew Jenny well enough to sense when she’d stopped for something she deemed important.

She stepped forward cautiously, then pointed with a tiny, hesitant gesture.

“You… you play on the same team as Sara, don’t you!?”

Her tone wasn’t accusing — just surprised, full of honest energy that came through whether she tried to hide it or not.

She clutched the volleyball against her side, her ponytail swaying as she took another quick look at the unfamiliar face.

“What brings you to… here?”

The emphasis landed awkwardly, and she caught herself, shoulders tightening briefly as if she wished she could rewind the sentence.

She thought for a moment — a long moment, her brows drawing together with the kind of seriousness she usually saved for serve receive formations.

Then her expression softened. She glanced up again, this time less animated and more… hopeful.

“Does she…” A breath. “…Does she talk about me?”

Her fingers curled lightly against the ball, steadying herself as she waited for the answer. There was no edge in her voice — only the earnestness of a girl who trained so much she barely had time to understand her own feelings, let alone express them. Her pink hair shifted gently as she lifted her chin, looking at the stranger with wide, sincere eyes.