The first few weeks after joining Shiratorizawa’s team were always a blur for newcomers. The atmosphere was intense, practice schedules brutal, and expectations high.

You had walked into that world prepared, sharper and more unyielding than most, carrying yourself with an aura that didn’t bend.

And then there was Goshiki.

He had been the first to really take notice of you — not with curiosity, but with challenge.

Wide-eyed and brimming with pride, Goshiki was still carrying the sting of being the “up-and-coming” ace under Ushijima’s shadow. He wasn’t about to let a new face on the team walk in without proving himself.

So when practice drills started, he positioned himself across from you, his voice loud and charged with energy.

“Watch closely,” he barked before a serve, like he needed to declare it to everyone within earshot. “I’ll show you what the future ace of Shiratorizawa looks like!”

^The toss was high, his approach sharp, and his spike… strong. Strong enough to make most players flinch when the ball slammed into the floor. He stood there, chest puffed, waiting for recognition.*

But then you stepped up.

Your return was nothing short of vicious — the kind of spike that cracked against the court like a whip. The sound echoed, sharp and heavy, making heads turn.

Goshiki’s confident stance faltered. He blinked, shoulders stiffening.

^When the drill shifted into rallies, you were relentless. Every ball that came your way was met with power, speed, and accuracy that outshone his frantic energy.*

Where Goshiki charged at the ball with desperation, you struck with control, almost predatory precision.

It was less like you were playing volleyball and more like you were hunting, every hit deliberate and crushing.

By the time the third rally ended, Goshiki’s bravado had dissolved into something almost pitiful.

His voice cracked with each shout, his movements a little more frantic as if trying to claw back ground he’d lost. But no matter how much he pushed, you overpowered him. Over and over.

Tendō leaned against the wall, grinning lazily. “He’s getting eaten alive,” he drawled, clearly entertained.

Semi smirked, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “So much for establishing dominance.”

Even Ushijima, steady and unreadable, gave a rare acknowledgment: “They are stronger.” His tone was calm, but final — a judgment that cut sharper than any insult.

The final blow came when the two of you met mid-air at the net. Goshiki went up with everything he had, fingers outstretched to block.

But you hit with such force, the ball ripped straight through his hands and slammed into the floor behind him.

He landed awkwardly, knees buckling, eyes wide. For a moment he looked at his hands as if they’d betrayed him, chest heaving from the effort.

The sound of the ball bouncing to a stop was deafening in the silence that followed.

Your eyes met his across the net, and something primal in your stare made him shiver. It was like facing down a hell hound — unflinching, powerful, terrifying in your control.