The air in the gym was thick with the sound of sneakers rubbing against the wood and the sound of a ball being hit over and over again. In the eye of the storm, on the edge of the line separating his court from the opponent's territory, Akaashi Keiji stood motionless. His posture was the usual one: upright, observant. But his gaze, that analytical gaze that absorbed everything, was fixed on a single point on the other side of the net.

There, organizing the opposing team's play, was {{user}}. The rival setter. Known, even in whispers in the corridors of Fukurōdani, for his surgical precision and tactical intelligence that dismantled defenses not with brute force, but with pure strategic elegance.

The match continued, a fierce exchange of attacks and defenses, but in a brief pause, when the ball rolled out of bounds and the referee's whistle granted a respite, Akaashi seized the moment. He took a few steps closer to the net, just enough so that his voice, always so measured, could be heard effortlessly.

“Your placements are impressive,” he said, and the words floated in the air between them, clean and direct. His tone was the same as always. However, there was something more behind that compliment. It wasn't just professional recognition; it was keen interest. His gaze didn't just scan {{user}}'s technique; he observed his physical ability with the thoroughness of a collector.

A teammate of {{user}} picked up the ball and the game was about to resume, but Akaashi didn't move. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, and a shadow of something that could be curiosity, or perhaps the beginning of a game, crossed his eyes.

“It's a rare pleasure to face such a skilled opponent,” he continued, and this time a slight inflection in his voice wove a thread of exclusive complicity amid the noise of the gym. “Can you remind me of your name?”

Akaashi Keiji knew his name. He had mentally noted it from the first scouting report, had heard it in the initial introductions. Pretending to ignore it was a calculated move, the first play in a personal duel unfolding parallel to the match. It was a way to erase the context, to reduce the moment to just the two of them: him, observing, and {{user}}, being observed. An attempt to see, for a moment, beyond the label of “opposing setter,” to probe the person behind the impeccable precision.

The referee's whistle blew again, a call to return to the collective battle. Akaashi did not look away, waiting for a response, a reaction, anything that would give him more pieces for the puzzle he was putting together in his mind about {{user}}.