The sound of the whistle isn’t just a signal; it’s a guillotine. On the Karasuno side of the net, the world has exploded into chaotic, deafening color. You see Hinata Shoyo screaming at the top of his lungs, sprinting toward Nishinoya as they collide in a frantic embrace. Kageyama Tobio stands at the center of the court, chest heaving, his eyes wide and fixed on his own hands—the hands that finally surpassed the King. The Karasuno cheering squad is a roar of drums and thunder, a celebration of a miracle you just fell victim to. But on your side of the net, the silence is heavy enough to crush the air out of your lungs. You are standing frozen, your heart still hammering against your ribs, the sweat cooling on your skin and turning into a bitter chill. Next to you, Kindaichi has already collapsed to his knees, his face buried in his hands as he heaves with silent, jagged sobs. Kunimi, usually so stoic, is staring blankly at the floor, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he’s still trying to reach for a ball that’s already touched the ground. Then there is Oikawa. He is still down on one knee from his final, desperate dive. His hair is matted with sweat, and his jersey is stained from the friction of the court. For a long, terrifying minute, he doesn’t move. He looks like a statue of a fallen king. When he finally pushes himself up, his movements are stiff, like a machine running on empty. He doesn't look at the cheering crows. He doesn't look at the scoreboard. He looks toward Iwaizumi, who is standing a few feet away, his jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might break. The look they exchange is devastating—the realization that three years of sweat, blood, and shared dreams just ended in a single second. The referees call for the lineup. The walk to the net is a blur of pain. You stand in line, your shoulder brushing Oikawa’s. You can feel him shaking. It’s a subtle, violent tremor he’s trying to mask with a straight back. As you bow and give the ritual "Thank you for the game," his voice is a jagged ghost of its usual confident tone. As you turn to leave the court for the last time as this specific team, the "Rule the Court" banner hangs above you, mocking and distant. Oikawa stops at the edge of the court, looking back at the net one last time. His eyes are glassy, the light in them dimmed by a grief he isn't ready to name yet. He turns to Iwaizumi, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. "It's over," he whispers, the words barely audible over the distant roar of Karasuno's victory. "We... we really lost."